First & Then(50)

Our team took the field with its usual look of determination, but something was different about play tonight. It was sloppy.

And somehow the sloppier the team got, the better Ezra got; he darted around defenders faster, he pushed himself further. He was playing a spectacular game, and by the end of the first half, Temple Sterling led by four touchdowns. Lake Falls, despite Temple Sterling’s sloppy playing, hadn’t even come within twenty yards of its end zone.

Mr. Harper was taking sideline shots of our players and of theirs—the sports section would be organized a little differently this week, I’m sure. Some tribute to Sam or something. The courage of a team going on without its captain.

Which was, in a literal sense, what Temple Sterling was doing. When the team went back in at the half, Ezra was held on the sidelines.

“Put me back in.” I was close enough to hear Ezra arguing with Mr. McBryde.

“You’re out for the time being.”

“Why?”

“If you don’t like it, you can sit out the rest of the half, all right?”

“Are you kidding me?” Ezra threw his helmet to the ground. I had never seen him so mad. In fact, I had never seen him mad at all. On an emotional scale of one to ten—one being catatonic and ten being full-on daytime soap opera—Ezra usually hovered somewhere around a three.

“Look.” Mr. McBryde got right in Ezra’s face, his voice dangerously low. “If you don’t want to cooperate, you can sit out the next game. Despite what you seem to think, you can be benched like anyone else.”

“It’s not like that.” Ezra was struggling to control his voice.

“You can leave, Lynley.” Mr. McBryde was steely. “We’ve got a game to play.”

“And I was playing it!” Ezra burst. “I was the only one out there playing it! Don’t you see what they’re doing?”

Mr. McBryde picked Ezra’s helmet up and shoved it into his chest. “Check yourself,” was all he said, and then he stormed away to consult with the defensive coach.

The offensive coach, Mr. Evans, went over to Ezra. I could hear him talking quietly about how important it was to be “classy” in a situation like this, and how he was concerned that it might look as if they were abusing Lake Falls’ situation to pad stats.

Just as Rachel had said. Politics.

“Ease up,” Mr. Evans said. “Everyone’s gonna get a little play tonight, okay? It’s only fair.”

Ezra didn’t speak. He just clutched his helmet and refused to meet Mr. Evans’ gaze.

With Ezra sulking on the sidelines, Lake Falls scored twice in the third quarter and twice again in the fourth. A two-point conversion made the score 29–28, Lake Falls. Our coaches pulled the greener players out after Lake Falls began to score, but Ezra never went back in.

With just seconds left on the clock, it was clear that Temple Sterling’s only option for a win was to go for the field goal. It was long, but Foster had kicked from farther before. Coach slapped him in, and with a momentary glance back in Ezra’s direction, he ran onto the field.

Play resumed. The line took off and collided with Lake Falls’. They snapped the ball, and the line took off and collided with Lake Falls’. Foster strode forward, and connected. The kick looked good, arcing end over end on a straight path toward the goalposts.

But it fell short.

And the clock had run down. The team went over to shake hands. All but Ezra, who stood with his back to the field.

I carried Foster’s bag for him as we left the field. He trotted alongside me as usual, but there was no running commentary of “Ezra caught that pass, did you see that pass, did you see his touchdown?” Foster was quiet.

Until we reached the car, at least, when he looked at me and said, “Sam was just like any one of us. Like Jordan or Marcus or Reggie, and then that would be us out there.”

I nodded and the “yeah” stuck in my throat.

We were parked next to Ezra’s truck. I didn’t realize he was behind us until I heard his bag hit the flat bed.

“Good game,” Foster said.

“We lost.”

Foster shrugged. “They beat us.”

Ezra snorted.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“Yeah. He missed that kick on purpose.” Ezra’s eyes were fiery. “We would’ve won the game, but you f*cked up on purpose.”

“I didn’t,” Foster said.

“You did. Don’t bullshit me. You did.”

Foster just stood, staring at Ezra like he was a stranger.

“Foster, get in the car,” I said after a moment, trying to keep my voice calm. “Go on.”

I dumped his bag in the backseat and stood until Foster had closed himself in the front. Then I pulled Ezra around the other side of his truck, out of Foster’s sight. The last few stragglers were trailing from the stadium, but all in all, the parking lot was pretty quiet.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“He lost the game.”

“Yeah. He made a bad kick. It happens. Not everyone’s a f*cking All-American, Ezra.”

“This has nothing to do with me being All-American!” It was an explosion. An M-80 lighting up the night sky. “He could’ve made that kick; he’s done it a hundred times!”