RUNNING BACK

Chapter 14: The Moon and Other Stalkers

It was embarrassing.

We have a subdued ride back on yellow bus number 3009 to the parking lot of the school. The players are sullen and sulking.

I was right. Total blowout. The score was thirty-five to seven.

We started out all wrong, losing the coin toss. They opted to receive the ball first. Rafa made a solid kick, low and long, but unfortunately, he kicked it straight to the star running back, Jamal Dawes. Dawes is the perfect back—compact, low to the ground, shifty, great balance, and excellent vision. It didn't help that our kickoff team gave him a wide berth. He was able to evade them all and juked his way right into the end zone. It was six to zero, after only twenty seconds off the clock.

I groaned, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach because in my gut I knew the game was already over.

Turnovers were the real killer. Carson threw two interceptions, one of which was a pick-six. After that, we started running the ball exclusively. We turned it over on downs several times because Nolan couldn't seem to contain their middle linebacker, who would pancake Jack every single time, sometimes for a loss of yards. The only reason it wasn't a complete and total shut-out was the hefty wall of our defense.

New Caney's quarterback was having a great game. His offensive line held off our defense for the most part. Their quarterback, Lance Millstone, fired off some amazing passes. He was avoiding Geno Jackson's side of the field, concentrating on the side Louie Diaz was covering, reading our weaknesses like an open book. Diaz is quick, but not tall, and not a great vertical leaper. Their receiver, Michael Taylor, is a huge guy. He plucked those passes out of the air like peaches off a tree. It was a thing of beauty to behold. Seriously. But then their O-line started getting tired near the end of the third quarter. They weren't as vigilant.

Marshall Payne capitalized on it. They had marched the ball down to the twenty-yard line. All they had to do was complete a short pass or run for touchdown. But then Payne sacked Millstone twice, and after the second time, the QB got gun shy. He threw up a cherry bomb of a pass in Geno Jackson's general direction. My heart was in my mouth as Jackson easily picked it out of the air. Once he was gone, he was gone because nobody on their offense was ready for him.

He ran for a ninety-two-yard touchdown on a pick-six. It was a bright spot in an otherwise dark Texas sky.

*****

I look to my right at Jack Chaplin.

He hasn't said a word the entire ride home. His head is thrown back against the top of the bench seat, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. He appears to be sleeping. He has about two days' worth of dark stubble growing on his jaw line that makes him look older than eighteen, but his long dark lashes lay on his cheeks as softly as a little boy's. His perfectly straight nose matches his perfectly straight teeth. The only thing not symmetrical on his face is his mouth. His top lip is satirical, always curved in a perpetual derisive expression, while the bottom lip is full. Almost pouty.

"What you looking at, Thomas?" he whispers.

I startle. Dammit. Not sleeping. "Nothing."

He studies me under the lids of his half-closed eyes. "Sorry we didn't play better."

"It's okay. You did the best you could," I say, turning to the window.

"That's pretty depressing."

I continue gazing out at the night. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

"I'm being realistic. I'm not the best running back. I'm not quick enough... or shifty enough."