1 | RAIDERS!
The black-and-gold-clad crowd in the stands was restless, but Porter Rockwell had to block it out. The clock was frozen only seconds away from halftime, and the Ridgeport Raiders were losing their first football game of the season.
This was his senior year at Ridgeport—his season—and Porter wanted very badly to turn this disaster of a debut around. The score was 10–0 in favor of the Nighthawks. Down by ten, the Raiders were not going to go ahead with a touchdown, but at least they could take some momentum into the locker room at halftime. He was the quarterback. The team playmaker. It was up to him.
Coach Ruocchio stood on the sideline with his clipboard tucked under one arm, calm and resolute. He met Porter’s eyes and gave a steady nod. Porter returned it with a roll of his shoulders and stepped up behind center.
“Set,” Porter called, turning his attention to his teammates on the scrimmage line. The line crouched. Helmets gleamed under the lights. Across from them, the First Flight High Nighthawks—Outer Banks boys, fast and loud and used to playing with salt air in their lungs—leaned forward, hungry. The biggest of them was Nighthawks linebacker number 59, Pete Ricci. Porter and Ricci had a contentious history both on and off the field, but had ended up with a truce and a general respect for one another. But he knew Pete would absolutely crush him, given the chance, truce or not.
“Hike!”
The clock ticked. Five seconds left in the half.
Familiar chaos broke out around him: bodies colliding and disappearing from sight, cleats tearing at turf. Searching the left side of the field, he felt the first twinge of panic.
Where was his wide receiver?
Four seconds.
The Nighthawks rushed forward as if they smelled blood, ignoring any Raider behind them. Charging him.
Porter glanced around methodically.
Bad situation. His blockers were losing ground behind the Nighthawks. The Outer Banks boys were getting too close, too fast.
And there on the outside, number 59 was charging through a gap.
Raider black and gold flashed in his peripheral vision. There was no time to plant his feet as he moved. He estimated where Eric Slidell, his receiver, would be and threw the ball even as his line of sight was blocked—
By the looming bulk of number 59.
The ball left Porter’s hand slightly off-balance, wobbling in the air.
Two seconds.
One second.
Then the linebacker was upon him.
Crash!
Ricci crushed Porter, already overbalanced from the throw, hard to the ground. The breath rushed from his lungs as the sky spun above him, stadium lights smearing into white streaks.
The buzzer shrieked the end of the second quarter, and a cheer rose from the crowd. Finally Ricci crawled off Porter and jogged back to his side. Porter lay still for a moment, regaining the wind that had been knocked out of him.
Still lying on his back, Porter turned his head to find his girlfriend, Maren, in the stands. There she was, in her usual spot, two rows up in the bleacher student section. Maren was taller than most of the other girls and many of the boys, so it wasn’t that hard to spot her.
Even from this distance, he could see she was not wildly cheering in glee.
Nope, he thought. That is not a smile on Maren’s face.
Instead, Maren was shaking her head sorrowfully. And was that pity in her eyes?
Rising from the turf and searching downfield, Porter’s heart sank.
His receiver, Eric, hadn’t been there. The ball had hit the ground.
Though muffled by thick walls and rows of lockers, every beat of the drumline outside thumped in Porter’s head like a hammer as he made his way through the locker room. He wanted to sit and stare at his locker and think about nothing for a while. But that was not the way to be.
Can’t crack during the first game of the year, dude, Porter told himself. There’s another half to play.
He tucked his helmet under his arm and tossed a small smile to his teammates as he passed.
“Solid D, Drew,” he said, slapping the Raiders’ best linebacker on the shoulder. “Way to blow up that sweep.”
He nodded at his tailback, Grayson. “Keep rolling, Gray-man. It ain’t over till it’s over.”
But despite his outward attitude, Porter still felt hollow inside.
Ten points down and not a point on the board. I’m the one who could really use some inspiration about now, he thought.
Wasn’t it about time for Coach Ruocchio to come out of his office with lots of coach insight and lay down the law?
Low voices from the coach’s office. Porter knew the two assistants were dealing with minor injuries and hydration. Who the heck was in there with Coach Ruocchio?
Then Porter recognized the voice. Of course. It was Ben Prescott.
What the heck? Porter knew and loved his friend’s tendency to poke his nose into situations where it didn’t necessarily seem to belong. But into a football locker room at halftime?
Ben was certainly no football player. Ben was homeschooled and didn’t even go to Ridgeport High School. On the other hand, Porter knew Ben was not unknown to the coach. Ruocchio, like many high school coaches, also doubled as a history teacher, and Ben had audited a couple of Coach’s classes, including AP U.S. History. Ben had, in fact, heard about what an inspired history teacher Ruocchio was from none other than Porter himself.
Ben was, after all, one of Porter’s two best friends, the other being his fellow treasure hunter, Latch McRae. There wasn’t much they didn’t know about each other.
Ben must have snuck in just before the team returned at the half, Porter figured. Or, from the intense sound of discussion within, may even have arrived at Coach Ruocchio’s invitation.
Porter drew closer and leaned forward to listen quietly near the half-opened office door.
“Coach, I’ve been watching and analyzing the play action just like you asked me to,” Ben said.
So he is here by invitation, Porter thought. Whew.
“In fact, I’ve put it into a graph here so we can visualize the data and—”
“Just give me your conclusions, Prescott,” Coach grumbled. “Haven’t got time for a slide show.”
“Right,” said Ben. “Main thing I’ve noted is the Nighthawks’ overly aggressive movement on defense. Three out of every four plays they’ve committed hard and smashed through any weakness in your line. Kind of makes it hard for the QB when he has no time to set or execute.”
“No kidding, who wouldn’t notice that?”
“But Coach, I’m talking about extremely overaggressive movement. Committing instantly once they think they know where the play is going. Early. Also, I notice they all follow the big linebacker, number 59. He’s clearly the defensive squad’s leader.”
“That’s Ricci.”
“Yes, I know. Pete Ricci and I have had a couple of run-ins before,” Ben said with a wry smile. “Anyway, Ricci is keyed up tonight. He’s lunging at anything, even at shadows. He’s especially going after sweeps. They’ve been crushing us on our outside runs.
“Don’t I know it.”
“So my suggestion is to give 59 a few shadows to lunge at. And if you get in a goal line situation or a must-have down conversion, show him a sweep, and—”
Coach Ruocchio smiled. “I see where you’re going with this,” he said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Flea-flicker,” Ben said. “Or a variant. Sweep modified. Ricci is almost certain to overcommit. And the others will follow, including the pass coverage. If history is any measure, there’s a seventy-five percent chance they all will.”
“Seventy-five, huh?” Coach Ruocchio chuckled, then nodded. “All right, give me the list of everything you have—I know you’ve written plenty more up—and then get out of here, Ben. Right now, I have to talk to the team.”
Porter glanced around the corner to see Ben nod and find the list he’d of course prepared. Ben tore it from his notebook and handed it to the coach.
“Go Raiders,” he said with a grin.
“Get back to the bleachers, Prescott!” said Coach Ruocchio loudly, but returning Ben’s smile. “And get them cheering.”
“That,” Ben said, “is my girlfriend’s department.”
Ben wandered out of the office and almost passed Porter without noticing him.
“Howdy, Ben,” Porter said.
Ben started, then smiled at his friend. “Rough first half,” he commented.
“Took a few licks.”
“Hope the team can regroup.”
“Bruh, you and me both.”
Ben chuckled. “Of course you’ll regroup. You always do.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Hang in there,” he replied. “And, like I said to Coach, sell them a few lies. Finesse. Fool’s gold.”
“I got you,” Porter said. “But are you sure you want to go through there—”
Unfortunately, there was no way out of the locker room without passing by the whole team.
“Mr. Hometown Genius,” somebody muttered. “Bro definitely learns at the kitchen table.”
Porter gritted his teeth and glanced over in annoyance to see Eric Slidell snickering. He didn’t know what Eric’s problem with Ben was, but he’d had one for as long as Porter had known Eric, never missing a chance to get in a dig about the way Ben dressed or his interests—and always making some crack about Ben’s being homeschooled. Eric was otherwise an okay guy, but when it came to Ben, he had a real burr under his saddle.
Ben’s ears had turned red at the tips, but his face remained unchanged.
Suddenly, Coach Ruocchio was beside them. The coach was a fireplug of a man. He seemed nearly as wide as he was tall to Porter, although of course that couldn’t be. But it wasn’t fat so much as coach-like mass that made up Coach, like he had been stamped whole by a coach-making machine that then moved on to extrude another coach exactly like him. The coach clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “All right, Prescott. Like I said, get out of here.”
“Sorry, Coach,” Porter interjected. “He’s just trying to help.”
“And he did,” Coach Ruocchio chuckled. “Now give me my locker room, Prescott, so I can explain your genius plan to the team in terms they’ll understand.”
Ben backed away with a crooked grin on his face, pointing his thumbs at his chest. “Hear that? I’m a genius.”
“Out.” Coach Ruocchio waved him out of the locker room.
When the door closed behind Ben, Coach Ruocchio addressed the whole team.
“Okay, D is holding up pretty good, so let’s talk about our O. The Nighthawks are rash, and they’re vulnerable when they react. We’re going to make them rethink their whole strategy—but it’ll be too late, of course. ’Cause we will have already beaten them when they figure it out.”
The team whooped and hollered, and somebody whipped a towel over his head.
“Listen up. I know you’re all wishing the first half had gone differently. But you know your plays, and you trust each other. And guess what? For those of you that may be wondering . . .” He looked pointedly at Porter before sweeping his gaze over the rest of the team. “College scouts—and I happen to know there are a couple out there—don’t care whether you’re behind in the first half. Not as much as they care about how you handle the pressure of being behind. How you react to disappointment says more about you than the skill it takes to get it right the first time. And that’s what matters to me, too.”
Coach Ruocchio looked again at Porter, and he held his gaze with a firm nod. He tucked the clipboard under one arm and straightened his back. “Okay, Raiders. Let’s ride!”
And it seemed to work. Almost.
Thirty game minutes later, the score was 24–21—still, unfortunately, in favor of the Nighthawks.
Porter had led his offense to three touchdowns and one conversion, with an extra point added (like many quarterbacks, Porter doubled as the kick placeholder) by their skinny but normally effective kicker, Tom McNaughton.
It had been an epic battle. Ben’s advice had proven correct. The Nighthawks were so keyed up, they were biting on just about every stunt Porter and Coach Ruocchio could think to pull. The First Flight coach, who was rumored to be a taskmaster but not exactly a tactical genius, had failed to make adjustments on defense. He’d just growled at his players to be even more aggressive.
Porter had thrown for two touchdowns and run one in himself.
Yet he had been forced to watch helplessly from the sidelines as the Raiders defense had allowed two more scores from the Nighthawks offense. He wished he’d been in there to help. Porter was, himself, a very good defensive end and short coverage man, but there was no way Coach was going to let his starting quarterback run himself ragged playing both sides all game long.
The Raiders had drawn within three. Now they had possession after finally forcing a fumble. And, after an epic ten-play drive, they had taken the ball to the Nighthawks’ fifteen-yard line. But time was running out, and it was third and long. Porter had confidence that Tom McNaughton might be able to tie it up if they were forced to kick a field goal on fourth. But when he’d last checked with Tom on the sidelines, his nervous kicker was noticeably trembling on the bench, expecting he might be called on in an impossible situation, and struggling to pull himself together.
Besides, with nineteen seconds on the clock, there was absolutely no guarantee there would even be a fourth down.
No, this was a do-or-die situation. The kind Porter both daydreamed about—and the kind of set-up that sometimes haunted his nightmares.
“Raiders! Raiders! Raiders!” the crowd chanted, buzzing with a fresh excitement. A warm breeze swept across the field, carrying with it the smell of nachos and popcorn, which mixed delightfully with the eye-watering scent of twenty-two sweaty teenagers slamming into one another while dressed in modern-day suits of armor.
In the huddle Porter glanced over to Coach Ruocchio, who nodded and, with a quick tilt of his head toward one side, indicated the flea-flicker was on. Porter turned back to his players and called the play that Ben had recommended.
“All right,” he said, “we’ve done this in practice over and over.”
The team all nodded. Porter looked to Grayson, the tailback who had the surest hands in the backfield. “Ready?”
“Let’s do this,” Grayson replied.
Then he turned to Tanner, his fullback, his enforcer and bulldozer. Tanner was a beast of a fellow who was almost as tall as Porter, and a good three inches broader in the shoulders.
“You’re going to sell that incoming FB block, Tan-man.”
“Like a freight train on the loose.”
“That goes for the line, too,” Porter said. “Everything you do has to say ‘right sweep.’”
Everyone nodded.
Porter turned to his backside receiver. “And Eric. Well, you’re my backside X.”
Eric gulped and nodded.
“Nobody on this field’s quicker than you.”
Well, except for me, Porter thought matter-of-factly. But I can’t very well throw the pass to myself.
“You’ve got this,” Porter said. “I know you do. You know you do.”
Eric bobbed his head, nodding repeatedly. “Sell the stalk block, then take the post,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “I’ll be there! I’ll be there!”
Maybe too enthusiastic, Porter thought. “Keep it settled, X-man,” Porter said to Eric with a smile.
“Yeah, yeah,” Eric replied. “Gotcha, bro.”
Porter addressed the team.
“Okay. This is it. Here we go,” Porter said. “On three.”
They yelled “Raiders!” as they clapped to break the huddle and headed for the line of scrimmage.
“Hike, hike-hike!”
On three, the ball snapped to Porter’s hands.
Grayson blasted past him, and Porter slipped the ball nimbly into the pocket formed by his arms. During the exchange, they deliberately shared a long glance that Porter knew number 59, Pete Ricci, would instantly read from across the line as a real handoff, because it was. That was the beauty—and peril—of the flea-flicker.
Grayson took off toward the right side of the field in the classic arching path of the sweep around the end. Meanwhile Tanner was already nearing the line, beading in menacingly on a much smaller Nighthawks defensive end. Porter eyed the defense.
They were all shifting to their left, some already taking steps in that direction. It was working.
But what about Ricci? As he trailed after Grayson a few steps, Porter looked over the shoulders of his linemen.
The big linebacker was hesitating.
Probably thinking, “Should I commit?” Porter thought. Well, let’s make it easy for him. He barreled after Grayson as if he were going to follow his tailback downfield. He couldn’t waste time checking to see if Ricci was buying it.
Nothing but execution counted now, Porter told himself. Focus like a laser. Focus like Ben in one of his “flashes,” his visions of the past. Or like his other best friend, Latch McRae—who was a gifted mechanic—when Latch was making some beast of an engine purr like a kitten.
One step before the line, Grayson turned his sweeping arch into a quick and graceful curve into the backfield. He took a step and spun around as he did so.
With a quick motion, he lateraled the football back to Porter. This “flick” back to the quarterback was the signature move of the flea-flicker.
It was a wobbly toss, and Porter had to shuffle a half step off course to catch it. That cost a fraction of a second—a fraction he might need. He was sure that Pete Ricci now understood what was happening—the Outer Banks player was no dummy—and was zeroing in on Porter like the guided missile he was.
Time to find Eric downfield.
It took only one sweep of the field for Porter to pick up a Raiders jersey just past the secondary, being trailed by a completely flummoxed Nighthawks safety who was the final point of defense against passing and was flailing his arms in frustration trying to catch up with the fleet-footed Raiders receiver.
Ten yards downfield. Five.
Porter mentally led Eric by another five into the end zone, got ready to throw . . .
Before he could release, something moved in Porter’s peripheral vision. A looming form. Barreling in from the side was number 59, Pete Ricci. Porter dare not take his eyes off Eric now. His pass had to be exact and on the money. The safety was not that far behind Eric now. This could be no toss-up to the end zone.
Porter must either make an accurate pass or be crushed by Ricci. Or possibly both.
The looming form to Porter’s right grew larger. Porter set for the pass.
Larger. There was no doubt now. This was Ricci. He’d gotten into the backfield, and he was stalking Porter down.
Porter’s fingers found the ball’s laces. Perfect. His grip felt perfect. This was going to be the best pass of his life. Accurate, catchable. Everything he’d been practicing for years to master. He could feel it all coming together.
But the shadow to his right was a growing storm cloud now. Porter just knew he was never going to get that perfect pass away.
Then, out of nowhere, a second form crashed into Ricci at an angle, but squarely facing downfield.
Number 59 was just as surprised as Porter when it happened. It did appear as if he’d been hit by a freight train.
Tanner, Porter thought. The big fullback. He’d been watching Ricci, too. He must have doubled back as soon as the lateral was made.
Number 59 was thrown totally off balance, and as Tanner finished his perfect block, the Nighthawks linebacker stumbled, scrambled to hold his footing, stumbled again.
Porter didn’t have time to check. He had to assume Eric had run his post.
He released the pass.
And it was just as perfect as he’d envisioned, dreamed about, rehearsed over and over in his mind.
It spiraled toward the field goal post.
Somewhere, as if in a distant dream, Porter heard the final buzzer blare. Play action would continue, and then that would be it. Game over.
And there was Eric, five yards into the end zone, ready to reel that pass in.
Eric’s hands went up and the pass dropped into his palms like a plane landing softly on smooth tarmac. Eric pulled it down and snuggled it soundly against his chest. Two steps of possession, three.
The safety had not caught up, but if he had, it would not have mattered.
The ref’s arms shot up.
Touchdown!
Eric didn’t stop running with the ball. He held it tightly as he made a lap around the end zone. Waiting, rightfully, for the rest of the team to catch up with him, grab him, chest bump him, slap him on the shoulder like the champ he was. Porter trotted after the team, and when he reached the end zone, Eric clearly only had eyes for him. He hugged his quarterback.
“Did it, bro. We did it.”
“You did it, my man,” Porter said. “That was you!”
Eric smiled broadly, laughed. “Yeah, I guess it was, wasn’t it!”
“Heck, yes.”
Porter grinned at his jubilant team. The crowd roared.
Ben’s idea had worked. Just as Porter had known it would. You could always trust Ben when the chips were down.
That is, provided the pieces fell together, Porter thought. And provided I execute.
And, at least this time, he absolutely had.