“We can’t afford the legal fees if we break their noses,” I clip loud enough for Gus to hear, pushing Camilo to the front of the tunnel. “Let them vent. We’ll crush them on the field, just like Gus’s friends crush his mama when they are drunk enough not to give a shit what they dip their dicks into.”

“You sonofa…” But Gus never finishes the sentence. His team pulls him back when he tries to charge toward me. I stretch my arms out and laugh.

My players are bouncing and shifting next to me, ready to burst. The games with All Saints High are not only about points and stats and rankings. They’re about pride and socioeconomic justice and revenge. Historically, the two high schools have been known to prank each other on the hardcore side before and after games. From us burning down their mascot costumes to them putting dish soap in our fountains because we’re dirty, poor trash. We positively hate each other.

Josh, Malcolm, Kannon, Nelson, and the rest of my team have good chemistry on the field. I’m not gonna pull the whole “we’re family” crap, but we’re tight. Everyone’s got a story on this side of the tracks, and we’ve all helped one another at some point during high school. Where we come from, there are two surefire ways to get rich: become a rapper or an athlete. None of us can sing for shit, so we might as well try for the other route together.

That’s why I’ve felt guilty these past few weeks. None of my teammates know I’ve moved. Not even Kannon and Camilo.

“Pennywise,” Knight hollers at me from the bowels of the tunnel. I twist my head, my body still facing the field. I don’t know what it is about him that makes me not hate him. He and Vaughn obviously know I moved in with the Followhills, and for some reason, I trust them with this information.

There’s a certain irony about assholes—they usually don’t give a shit. Knight and Vaughn are like that. They’re not good guys by any stretch of the imagination, but unless you actively piss them off, they’re not after your neck.

I jut my chin to him. We both wear war paint. But I swear, his looks like a makeup artist applied it. He grins.

“After the game. Party hard at Blythe’s?” He moves his hand back and forth as though he’s spanking an invisible girl.

I don’t shit where I eat, and I don’t mix with the All Saints crowd. Blythe was a one-off. An indulgence saved for a night in which I made Vaughn piss red and couldn’t move my face. Besides, as Gus pointed out, I have a piece of tail—a girlfriend, if you will—and I should probably stop messing around with other girls in public.

“Pass.”

“She asked about you.”

“Maybe he gave her chlamydia, and she wants him to pay for the treatment.” Colin, ASH’s linebacker, hiccups, and everyone but Knight erupts in laughter.

“That’s rich from someone whose face looks like genital herpes,” I pipe out.

“Come at me, bro!” Colin bangs his chest with his fist.

“I would, but I don’t hit chicks,” I drawl.

When we get on the field, we “accidentally” tear through the Go Saints! sign made by the cheerleaders. Daria growls as I push through the fabric she is holding and shit all over her effort. The blinding bright lights and the fresh grass promise a big, green opportunity. The only one I’ve ever had. Rhett used to say that it’s not coincidental that grass is the same color as money—top athletes swim in it.

It’s the only semi-clever thing I’ve ever heard him say.

The game starts, and All Saints gets the ball. At first, I’m focused and loose. But by ten minutes in, I know something is off. That something is my defense. My useless, crappy, nonexistent defense. Seems like Josh, Kannon, Nelson, and the rest didn’t bother showing up to the game. Physically, they’re here, but they’re dragging their feet, missing the ball, spacing out, and averting their gazes to the bleachers as though they’re waiting for something bad to happen. I’m getting zero play time while Gus is going at it like a frat boy at a whorehouse. Coach Higgins is having a coronary on the sidelines and tries hard to balance his screaming so people won’t think he’s going to commit murder at halftime. He’s making changes to both the offense and the defense, running some adjustments, but his orders fall on deaf ears. Even the kicker looks pissed, and Daria is on the sidelines, cheering on ASH the entire time.

When halftime finally rolls around, I tear off my helmet before we even get to the locker room, trudging toward it. My teammates know better than to approach me. Once we get inside, I crash my helmet on a bench with a snarl.

“What in the actual fucking fuck is happening?” I yell at them, straining my vocal cords before Coach darts in.

“I don’t know, but something’s up.” Camilo raises his helmet slightly to pinch one nostril and shoot snot through the other one on their locker room floor. Everyone grows eerily silent. Coach walks in, and the guys immediately look down at their feet. They know they suck. Fuck, UFOs from other planets can see how hard we suck.

“This is the worst I’ve ever seen you,” he grumbles, quiet and stern, and I think it’s because he doesn’t want to have a heart attack.

“Those people out there?” He points at the door. “You don’t have their respect. You need to hustle. To bring ’em hell. Yet you’re completely out of sync. You’re lying there letting them screw you over. You need to wake up. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Coach,” we all say in unison, eyes on the floor.

“You need to compete, hit them, destroy them. Then everything else falls into place. Somebody needs to fix this for me. You need to play fast, play hard, and most importantly, play for each other. The offense is getting no play time because. Of. You. Those kids out there?” Higgins laughs, slamming his open palm on a locker. “They don’t need this. This is fun for them. The shit they’re gonna show their kids in a few years in fancy photo albums. They have trust funds and colleges secured for them. You? You depend on this. For your college applications. For your scholarships. Hell, for your pride.”

I see the goose bumps raised on people’s arms and hope like hell he managed to get through to them.

When we leave the locker room, bumping fists and barking, “Yes, Coach, Yes, Coach, Yes, Coach,” I think we’ve got this.

I’m wrong.

The game ends with the scoreboard reading 38-14. We lose, and all fourteen points are because of touchdowns I scored. To say I’m crushed would be the understatement of the century. We’re starting the season with a huge loss to a bunch of preppy douchebags we haven’t lost to in five years. On my watch.

So this is what death feels like.

The coaches meet on the field to talk. Before the buses pull up to take us back to school, I take Coach Higgins aside and ask him if I can bum a ride with Knight Cole.

“Just wanna see what happened here,” I lie.

“Sure. Sure, sure,” Higgins says. He allows me this one-off because Camilo and I were the only functioning players on the field in red.

The Followhills descend the stands, and I snatch my duffel bag and meet them on the sidelines. The only reason I’m hanging out with them in public is I know no rich motherfucker would ever think the Followhills are stupid enough to take a hood rat under their roof. Most people see me and think of how I’d tarnish their daughters.