Gut Check by Eric Kester

Author:Eric Kester
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

“Christ, Wyatt, hurry your ass up!” Crooks screamed. My leg was awake now and I sprinted back to the huddle and buckled on my helmet en route.

I didn’t have time to fully translate Nate’s cryptic message. But as I looked at Brett, his entire body caked in mud and the gash in his forearm oozing blood, I thought about how I—me—Wyatt—was 50 percent Brett. Coursing through me at that moment was a surreal surge of power. It wasn’t that I suddenly thought I could be as athletic as Brett, but I now knew the scientific truth: Buried somewhere inside me was at least some of Brett’s talent. This wasn’t a guess or a desperate hope. It was science.

“Alright, fellas,” the head ref shouted to us once the injured player was off the field. “Fifteen seconds on the clock, starting on my whistle.”

“You heard ’em,” said Brett, crouched in the center of our huddle. “It’s do-or-die time. I want everything you have left. Too far for a field goal, so we’re going with a 33-44 waggle right. Let’s go—we’re winning this thing.”

Brett broke the huddle and we jogged up to the line. The ref blew his whistle, and the clock started counting down.

I crouched into my stance and looked up into Leopold’s black eyes. In my peripheral vision, I could see Brett crouch under center. But something was off. I could see it in his eyes.

Suddenly, Brett took a step back from the center. “Austin, Austin, 47-Chicago!” he shouted.

A second passed as our offense deciphered Brett’s audible.

“What the hell?” the guard next to me wondered aloud. And I was thinking the same thing: Was Brett seriously changing the play to the tackle-eligible pass?

I was the tackle eligible.

It had to have been a mistake. But then again, Brett didn’t make mistakes. Not when the game was on the line.

The clock ticked down to five … four … three …

“Hut-HUT!”

Our center snapped the ball to Brett and I shot out of my stance. Crooks’s repeated instructions to Trunk about the tackle-eligible pass echoed in my head: Before you run your pass route you MUST chip block Leopold so he doesn’t get a clean run at Brett. You MUST slow down his rush.

I took two steps forward and in an instant I was upon Leopold. I lowered my shoulder, went square for his enormous chest—and completely whiffed.

I stumbled forward a bit as Leopold dodged me like a matador dodges a bull, but all I could do at this point was keep running my route. I’d made it about ten yards downfield when I glanced back at Brett. I saw Leopold fully outstretched and flying helmet-first into Brett’s jaw. Then I noticed Brett’s throwing hand. It was empty. The ball was already in the air.

I looked skyward and there it was, a foot away. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Blakemore’s safety charging at me. The pass was high and slightly behind me, so I swiveled my shoulders around and reached back to the ball with one hand, which was all I could get on it.

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