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Coach nods. "That's exactly what I'm saying. If you go to State, they'll play you at QB. They've got an option offense, and that produces a ton of great linemen and running backs for the NFL, but it doesn't produce good QBs. It produces QBs who've taken a pounding so massive, they're no good in the NFL. They don't know how to read defenses, they don't know how to sit in the pocket, all the things that a good NFL QB can do. Clement runs a pro-style offense."

"But they're stacked at QB. Last I checked, they're three deep with a returning senior, a junior, and two sophomores, and that's not including whoever else they recruit. So what do I do?"

"You be who you are," he says, giving me a tight smile. "You're a smart player, Troy. And depending on how you finish growing, you'd make one hell of a pro-level linebacker. Clement needs good linebackers, and they run a 3-4, just like we do. And face it, you like smashing people out there."

I nod, admitting it before I think of a problem. "Contracts for linebackers aren't as big as they are for quarterbacks though."

Coach nods. "But salaries for star linebackers are a lot bigger than salaries for guys who get cut from the scout team. Think about it."

I do, and I shake my head. "It's a lot to think about. Can I just chill on it for a few days?"

"Of course. In the meantime, you're having dinner with my family tonight, and if you want a bed, it's yours as well."

"What about Dad?" I ask.

"Randy's going to be spending at least a few days in jail for assault, maybe more. Why?"

"It's my house," I say, looking out the window. "All my stuff is there. And it wouldn't be right to mooch off you or someone else."

Coach studies me for a moment, then comes over and lays a strong hand on my shoulder. It's hard to believe that this hand belongs to a history teacher. "That, more than anything, is the reason I believe that you can make it to the pros. We'll help you out as we can, though."



"Are you okay?"

It's the first thing Whitney asks me Monday morning, and I know there's no hiding what happened at this point. My face feels like it’s puffy, and my entire back and legs feel wooden, and despite my best efforts, I'm limping when I walk into school. I'd timed my entrance to try and minimize the gawking, but it didn't matter. Come one, come all and see the walking wounded!

"I'll make it," I say. "I . . . I’ll make it."

Whitney nods, and she looks a bit emotional, like she's about to cry. "Why didn't you call me? I had to find out from Dani via the grapevine!"

I swallow and take Whitney's hand, trying to take a deep breath. “I don't exactly know how to talk about this, you know? It's not the sort of thing I ever expected to call someone about. I'm sorry."

Whitney blinks and cups my face, looking me in the eye. "Okay. I'm sorry too. You don't need my drama on top of everything else." The bell rings, and we've got five minutes till our first class. "See you at lunch?"

I nod, and we share a quick kiss before Whitney takes off down the hall before turning right toward the math wing. She's gotta run. I know how far it is to her classroom. Silver Lake High is pretty stretched out that way. I watch her for a second before walking painfully toward my locker, trying not to meet eyes with anyone else. I'm spinning the dial on my lock when I feel a presence behind me, and I turn to see that all motion in the hallway has stopped and that I'm surrounded by my teammates. Cory and Gabe are in the lead, their home jerseys on, and I see that Cory's got his wrists taped up like he does before he plays.

"Game's not until Friday, fellas. You're a bit early."

"We're a team," Cory says, stepping forward and handing me my jersey. "That's on and off the field. Our brother's in trouble. We protect him."

"Fucking right," Pete Barkovich says. Pete's a big guy, maybe too short to play college ball, but built like a tank, and he's solemn. "Nobody touches my QB. We talked—all of us. You don't have to worry about a single comment or a damn thing from anyone. Or else they answer to us."

I gulp as I pull my jersey on, and then the clapping starts. My team—my brothers—surround me, and I'm nearly kept in a bubble as I make my way to first period English class, where Mrs. Penman looks at us just as the bell rings. She nods one time, then goes to her desk. "Next time, boys, tell me so that I can have your hall passes ready before you get here."

The morning goes well, and for once, I'm actually awake through most of class. Coach insisted on me going to bed at what he called a reasonable hour, and I got a full eight hours of sleep along with a full stomach the night before. When I get to lunch, I'm still wearing my jersey, and it's helpful to see the speckles of blue in the sea of students in the cafeteria.

"I heard about the stunt," Whitney says, and I'm touched again when I see that she's changed shirts as well, putting on her cheerleading practice top instead of the blouse she'd worn earlier. "Tomorrow I'll be more coordinated."

"You look beautiful to me still," I say, taking her hand. We can't kiss in the cafeteria. The teachers on duty can't overlook that level of PDA, but we are able to keep holding hands as we sit down and start eating. "I can't believe all this."