POWER BACK

Chapter 8: Game On

Game On

Jack, October

On my way to school Monday morning, I can't stop thinking about Peyton's expression when I tried to approach her on the bus after the Magnolia game. I've seen her eyes full of ice before, and I've seen them full of fire. They've been sad, angry, wry, knowing, passionate, and even haunted. But I've never seen her look broken. And that's what I saw in her eyes Friday night.

She was broken.

She was sitting with her forehead pressed against the window, and Marshall was on the aisle seat next to her, almost like he was guarding her. 

"Hey," I said softly, trying to get her attention. Marshall shot me a cold, hard stare and gave a slight shake of his head, as if to say leave her alone.

She slowly turned her head and looked up at me like she'd just woken from a dream. But I don't think she saw me. It was like she was seeing someone or something else. And whatever it was she was seeing filled her with terror, as if some monster had come to inhabit her.

I'll never forget that look in her eyes, ever.

I feel sick to my stomach all day long. Nothing I do makes it better.

I finally see her at practice, but she's dressed in regular clothes and talking to Coach Murphy. She hands him a piece of paper, and they discuss something in quiet tones. After he claps her on the shoulder, she walks to the shade and sits down. I want to go ask her what's wrong, if she's sick or something. But I can't make myself. For some reason it feels too invasive.

It's a Monday practice, so we get our asses chewed for a while before we start. Coach C is blaming the O-line and lead blocks for Cash's interceptions. Such bullshit. He could have ten minutes in the pocket and still not make the throw. He lets the pressure get to him, mentally. He doesn't have the athleticism to shift and evade the tackle. Can't really blame poor blocking for that.

But I vow to myself to show the coaches today, to hold my blocks on passing plays so Cash can't hide behind that excuse anymore. After the drills, we line up on offense in a T formation, with Darius and me on the wings. I'm protecting Cash against the blitz, and Darius is supposed to go out for a pass. Marshall's job on defense is to try and get through me to the quarterback.

Not a chance, Bro.

Cash calls the cadence, but before he says "hut! hut!" Marshall pushes through the O-line, lunging at me to get to Cash.

I shove him back, anger triggering a surge of adrenaline. "What's your fucking problem, Man?"

He shakes his head, refusing to make eye contact. He never jumps early. Like ever. He has way too much patience and discipline to jump early. Something's off.

"Offsides on the defense!" Murph shouts. "Run it again!"

This time, Cash completes the cadence, but Marshall plows through the line before the ball is snapped, steamrolling me to get to Cash. I hop up and run over to where they've gone down in a pile. As Marshall is getting up, I shove him hard in the shoulder pads.

"You trying to start shit? Let's go. Right now!" I yell in his face.

He merely steps closer. We're standing nose to nose when coach breaks it up and sends us for water.

I follow Marshall to where he's taken off his helmet, rubbing at his temples with his hands.

"What the fuck, Marshall?" I yell. "Are you trying to make me look bad?"