Chapter 9

George strapped on his helmet, leading the defense to Horace's aid. Horace favored his leg, not even attempting to mask his pain. He massaged it as he listened to Coach Chubb's call. Coach Duncan had named this moment appropriate to consult Will's condition. He beckoned the nearest trainer and requested a bag of ice. Ten seconds passed…twenty…thirty, the pain intensified with every throb. Off in the distance, he heard Horace break the huddle and make their way up to the line of scrimmage. Despite the lack of Will's attention, Coach Duncan followed through with his intentions. He found his grip just above Will's knee, squeezing ever so tighter.

"Does this hurt?" he asked. Will regained his attention and shook his head. He made a gesture indicating for the coach to pursue further south. His hand slid downwards a couple inches and squeezed as if he trying to crush an apple. Will winched; the pain was deafening and mind numbing. All thoughts in his head had been erased; his only focus was the searing pain erupting from his knee. Sadly, this was not the worst area. Will beckoned the coach further. His hand slipped another few inches and clamped his fingers between the joints in Will's knee. That was the breaking point of his silence. Will's mouth refused to stay shut; his agonized screams rang throughout the stadium. Coach Duncan snatched his hand away out of fear that Will would break it. His other hand extended hesitantly, clutching the bag of ice at the tips of his fingers. He lifted Will's pants leg and nervously placed the ice where the pain was most concentrated. Cold, soothing numbness engulfed his leg, banishing away his discomfort. Coach Duncan stood up and rubbed his hands, desperate for warmth. Will winced as he exerted great effort to adjust his leg.

"Th-thanks!" he faltered. His hand fell onto the ice pack to keep it established.

"You're welcome," Coach Duncan acknowledged. "Be sure to adjust it every couple of minutes." Will nodded as he watched the coach sink away into conversation Coach Chubbs. He looked up to see Miller's offensive line hunched over, exchanging murderous glares with the defensive line. Horace had altered his stance slightly; he wasn't squatting as low as he normally did. His weight positioned itself more on Horace's left leg than on his right. Miller's quarterback placed his hands beneath the center; his head revolved his attention from side to side to make sure his offensive line was positioned correctly. Will distinguished the movement of the quarterback's leg, gesturing for some sort of movement for the running back, who ran to the quarterback's opposite side.

"Crosser!" Horace called. The two outside linebackers swapped positions with one another and scooted a yard closer, as if to get a better observation.

"Down! Wide 80…wide 80, set go!" the quarterback roared, taking the snap. The running back shot through the gap to engage one of the outside linebackers. His intentions were not a complete failure. Within a few seconds he found himself on his back, but his target's advance had been delayed. Will switched his attention to the fleeing quarterback who was desperate to keep out of reach of Horace and the rest of his defense. He exchanged his glance down the field at George who was practically dancing with a receiver, praying that he could keep this pace until Horace was able to clasp the quarterback. Out of the corner of Will's eye, he saw the ball escape the fingers of the quarterback. It soared through the air like a bird. George's eyes widened to the size of gumballs as his gaze fell upon the pass. He leapt into the air as if he were standing on springs, his outstretched to steal the ball out of the air. Success is something that never happens consistently. The ball ricocheted off of the tips of George's fingers and spun tauntingly out of reach. The receiver pulled the ball into his grasp and fled to the end zone. Will's heart sank in despair; Miller had taken the place that they felt they so rightfully deserved.

"TOUCHDOWN MILLER!" the commentator screamed. The offense rejoiced with one another and made their way as a free spirited mob towards the sideline. Horace whipped off his helmet, fuming. Will could feel the steam blowing out of Horace's ears as he watched his friend snatch the water bottle out of its container, gripping it as if he were trying to suffocate it. Water issued from the nozzle into Horace's mouth. There was no sedation in Horace, no silencing contribution to the beast's rage. George trudged to the water cooler, his head hanging in shame. He made no effort to look up into the stands, to face the Ashley after his failure to stop the touchdown. The roar of the visiting spectators was the only thing that was louder than the stinging sight of the scoreboard. They faked a field goal, sprinting the ball back into the end zone, adding an extra two points their score. "The two point attempt is good!" Beneath the word 'Visitors', the score increased to 31. 44

"Kick return!" Coach Arald bellowed, clear displeasure in his tone. Will pulled the bag of ice out from his pants leg, retrieved his helmet and followed Malcolm onto the field. Before his foot crossed the edge of the sideline, Coach Duncan's hand slapped Will's chest, halting him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded. Will remained silent. Instead, he pointed at Malcolm, indicating his spot on the kick return unit. Coach Duncan shook his head. He waved a player behind him, number 34, Peter Berrigan, an arrogant, self-absorbed backup running back. Peter had made it his point to whine, complain that Will had gained his position and that it should be his instead. Will disliked him greatly, but not just for his smug conceit. Peter words were as false as the devil's; he swayed the hearts of sweet girls who only wanted someone to love and cherish. He defiled them, took what he wanted and abandoned them in beds of misery and lost in darkness. Horace had offered on several occasions to 'show' Peter his contaminations in so many people, but Will said that he didn't know how to lie to police. Peter replaced the empty position next to Malcolm. Will could see the smirk beneath his helmet. He limped back to the bench and replaced the ice bag underneath his knee pad. He groaned in distress and stretched his leg out. Another presence slid next to him on the bench, one whose aura was still boiling from aggravation. Will turned his head nervously to face Horace who stared barbarically in Peter's direction. Will sighed; he felt that he needed to apologize for his actions earlier.

"Horace, I'm sorry," Will apologized. Horace's eyes widened in surprise and he shifted his attention onto Will. A nervous weight fell onto Will's shoulders. He wanted to get away from Horace just in case he might enrage him. But Horace nodded and patted him on the back.

"No need to be sorry, Halt provoked you." He turned to catch glimpse of Halt, who stared intently down at Miller's kicking unit. He showed no remorseful sign.

"Do you think he's still furious with me?" Will asked. Horace took another glance at Halt and shook his head.

"Perhaps, but more at the middle linebacker because of the safety," Horace answered. A wave of guilt washed over Will. Halt was right, the only reason that he still pressed forward was because of Alyss. Her very person had driven him insane, he wished not to appear weak, but his blunder had already done that for him. The pain was near unbearable and standing was near impossible. Horace massaged the back of his thigh nonchalantly. Will noticed this; he thought of asking Horace if he was okay, but decided against to avoid another confrontation. Horace was much more defensive of his conditions. He would often be offended if anyone suggested he were in pain. Will returned to his previous topic. He sighed deeply, longing, wishing that this night had progressed differently.

"Halt was right," Will admitted. Horace regarded him strangely.

"What's he right about?" he asked.

"The only reason I continued to play through my pain was because of Alyss," Will replied. Horace chuckled lightly; Will stared at him. "What's so funny?" Horace shook his head and huffed.

"It was too obvious!" Horace laughed. Will raised an eyebrow inquiringly. "Will, this entire team knows you, knows that you love Alyss. Any football player, whose crush or girlfriend was in the stands, would fight, no matter how much pain he was in."

"Yeah, but look at George!" Will pointed out. "He's not in pain; he just made a couple mistakes." Horace shrugged.

"I bet if he had a broken leg, George would be dragging himself onto the field just to impress Ashley," Horace mused. Will hunched over and looked at George, who was on his knee, staring depressively at the ground.

"Hey George!" Horace called. He dared not look up, ashamed to show his face. "Come on buddy, I'm not mad! Come over here!" For a few seconds, George showed no intent of joining them. Then he stood up slowly and dragged himself to the bench. He slumped down next to Will. The only sound emanating from him was the sound of his discouraged breaths.

"What's wrong with you?" Horace asked. "You look like someone killed your puppy." George said nothing; he continued staring dispirited at the grass. A kick issued from the other end of the field, snatching Will and Horace's attentions away. Just Malcolm was going to catch the ball; Peter dashed over and snatched the ball away from Malcolm's grasp. He took off behind dueling blockers, weaving through the gaps, hoping to remain untouched. He only made it fifteen yards when what looked to be the middle linebacker rampaged through Peter. The ball slipped from his grip, open and inviting to all. Players from both sides began screaming, hoping their teams would pick up on this crucial sight. Malcolm was the first to spot the ball and dove desperately. The ball was firmly in his grasp, no amount of piling on would dislodge it.

"Kick by number 18, Martin Bartell of the Knights for 75 yards. Returned by number 34, Peter Berrigan of the Eagles for a gain of fifteen. Fumble recovered by number 18, Malcolm Meralyn!" the commentator announced.

"Horace!" Coach Duncan bellowed, whipping his head around for a sight of the behemoth. Horace rose from the bench, strapped on his helmet and ran up to the coach. Coach Duncan gestured him to the offensive huddle. Will felt slightly assured that Horace was playing full back, but disappointed that Coach Duncan had not called him alongside. The coach called out a play to Halt, who repeated it in a low tone and broke the huddle. For the first time, Will watched the offensive line form from the sidelines. Behind them, Will saw an unsure Halt, a swaggering Peter, and a towering Horace. He could only hope that the ball would be placed in Horace's care instead of Peter's idiotic hands. Halt hunched over the center, his hands reaching beneath the center.

"Down! 180…180 set go!" Halt growled, receiving the snap. He faked the run to Horace and then handed off to Peter. Will's heart cried out in protest, unbelieving of what they had just done. Horace pummeled the middle linebacker, but wasn't able to block the two outside linebackers. They smashed Peter from both sides, watching him with amused smiles crumple to the ground.

"Number 34, Peter Berrigan on the run for a gain of two, tackled by number 59 Tony O'Malley and number 51 Bob Hardstriker of the Knights!" the commentator called. Will sighed in defeat; there was no way they would take the lead back if this is the best that they can do. He looked over at George who hadn't changed any detail of his position. Will shrugged and returned his attention back onto the field. Halt called another play and broke the huddle. Perhaps the coaches would learn after Peter's 'success' not to hand him the ball.

"Down! 180…180 set go!" Halt yelled, taking the snap. Again, he faked the run to Horace, but pitched the ball to Peter. The ball bobbled in his unexpected hands while he tried to pick up yards. Number 51 had picked up on this and ran through him as if he were made of paper. The ball spun hopelessly away from Peter and the rest of the offense. The replacement safety seized the opportunity as if it were made of gold and scooped the ball up off the ground. He didn't go far, but it was still enough to celebrate over. The entire quarter had been cheerless for the home section unlike the visiting spectators who had lost their voices in mere minutes. Once Miller's defense had been pulled off the field, Peter sprinted back to the sidelines, as if hoping to slip under cover in a crowd of Football players. But none were willing to hide him; they were all disgruntled with his performance and looked as if they would order a pack of rabid dogs to attack him. Will looked over at the coaches; Coach Duncan's face had been buried in his hands, Coach Chubbs' tongue protruded through his cheek in clear displeasure, and Coach Arald looked as if he were dabbing at his eyes. Six years, an unheard of six year losing streak to one team. This of course would be common at the college level, but certainly not to high school football players. Will understood why Peter's less-than-acceptable deeds would be like being hit by a cinderblock of anguish. Horace was glaring at Peter, looking like he was trying to decide what to do to him. Halt was aiming looks of pure hatred, expressions that Will had never before seen. If Peter had not exhibited such smug arrogance and snootiness, Will might have felt sorry for him. However, Horace didn't have time to ponder on punishments; he strapped his helmet back on and led an infuriated defense back onto the field. Halt replaced Horace's empty seat on the bench next to him. Will stared at him in shock. Halt opened his mouth, perhaps to say that he was sorry, but Will cut him off.

"Don't say it," Will ordered. "You were right; I was only playing injured because Alyss was in the stands." Halt closed his mouth, his eyes shone with astonishment.

"Well, thanks," he said, unsure if what Will had said was a compliment or not. He opened his mouth to say something else, but a loud "psst!" drowned out his words. Halt and Will whipped around to see Jenny and Cassandra staring intently at them.

"You two were so great tonight!" Jenny complimented in a bright tone. Will and Halt exchanged confused glances with one another, trying to decipher Jenny's words.

"We're not even in the fourth quarter yet!" Halt pointed out. Jenny's face turned a deep shade of red. Cassandra fought back a laugh. She cleared her throat and turned her attention to Will.

"So, have you asked her yet?" Cassandra asked him. Will grinned broadly, but shook his head. Cassandra looked puzzled; she looked over at Jenny for an answer, but none came. "Then what do you look so happy about?"

"He's got a plan," Halt replied for Will, his tone filled with a tone of mischief. Jenny and Cassandra both took nervous steps back, as if both boys were carrying contagious diseases.

"Do you mean he has a plan?" she asked, pointing at Will. "Or is this some bizarre strategy that you made up?" Halt laughed and regarded Will. Jenny looked as if her breathing had become much easier.

"Oh, well, how are you going to do it?" she asked curiously. Will rubbed his hands together, resembling a villain in cartoon movies.

"You'll see," he replied simply. "You two are coming to her birthday party tomorrow right?" Cassandra and Jenny nodded, though it looked more like Jenny was forcing herself to.

"Yeah, what does that have to do with anything?" Jenny interrogated.

"We thought you were going to ask her after the game," Cassandra added. Will shook his head. That was his original plan until Alyss had mentioned her birthday party. Details had since then changed and become much easier to follow.

"Who asks a girl out the day before their birthday party?" Halt asked rhetorically. Jenny and Cassandra thought about it for a few seconds, and then shrugged. "It sounds more romantic if he asked her on her birthday doesn't it?" Jenny gasped and Cassandra started waving her hands towards her face, as if she were fanning herself.

"Oh Will!" Jenny shrieked gleefully. "I'd hug you, but you are sweaty and gross!" Will laughed.

"Gee thanks," he mused.

"I'm kidding!" she said brightly. "Seriously, I would hug you, but you're on the Football field and I don't want to get you in trouble, right Cass?" She elbowed Cassandra in the arm who grunted in surprise.

"Ouch! Yeah, we would," she agreed, rubbing the spot where Jenny had hit her. A cheer began to emanate from the squad. "We got to go, talk to you after the game!" As they sprinted back to the other girls, Will heard Cassandra whisper: "You didn't need to hit me!" Will and Halt returned their attentions back to the game. The offense had advanced to Meadow Ridge's thirty yard line. Desperation was clear on Coach Chubbs' face. The victory seemed only thirty yards away from the edge of just out of reach. Will looked over at the scoreboard and the stress seemed slightly relieved. They were on the third down with four yards to go for the first down. Coach Chubbs called another play to Horace. Horace's bellows could be heard from the top of the bleachers. The huddle broke and the defense met the offense upon the line of scrimmage. Will could have swore he saw Miller's quarterback shudder when his eyes had fallen upon Horace. He squatted down, his hands underneath the center, awaiting the snap.

"Down! Wide 80…wide 80, set go!" the quarterback roared, taking the snap. Horace pounded through the gap and pulverized the quarterback before he could hand the ball off. At last, the home section had their opportunity to erupt in waves of gleeful cheers. The defense clamored around Horace, glorifying his heroic actions. What they never expected was for their special teams coach to call: "field goal!" Will sat as if he were glued to the bench. Miller's kicker punted the ball through the uprights, adding three points to their lead. He turned his attention to the scoreboard, hanging on the final seconds ticking away. The alarm sounded, a tone taunting Meadow Ridge for their loss of the lead. Just as the year before, Miller seized the opportunities presented to them, capitalizing on mistakes; proving they were the face of the county. The air in the stadium chilled to the point of depressing gusts. Perhaps Meadow Ridge could not do the unthinkable, perhaps a victory over Miller only survived in the realm of imagination.