Atticus woke up to the clock alarm at 5:30 on Friday morning, and he put his hand on the off button to stop the radio music station. He yawned, quickly getting his clothes ready after he took a quick shower. He got into a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with no logos or slogans, and a pair of tennis shoes, going down the stairs to make himself some breakfast before he had to drive to school (his parents and Tabby were all at their jobs), grabbing his football items (freshly washed by his mom) from the laundry room and shoving them in his backpack.

Of course, breakfast was a lot: French toast, scrambled eggs, a bowl of Lucky Charms with milk, and a glass of nutrient-dense cold pressed apple juice. He finished making and eating the breakfast, and made sure to put the remainder of the juice in a bottle of the large HSHRISH tactical lunch box he carried to school every day (along with a turkey and roast beef wrap, a rice bowl with chicken, black beans, and corn, a whole wheat pasta bowl, a granola bar, two oranges, a banana, an avocado, a strawberry-and-mango yogurt smoothie, and two reusable ice packs to keep it all cold. Yeah, it was a lot, but football players needed to eat a lot to help with retaining muscles and growing stronger, and he always had a very high metabolism.), along with his large red backpack filled with books, school supplies, his tablet, and, of course, the football gear. His iPhone 15 was in his pocket, along with his earbuds.

Atticus hefted the lunch box and backpack over his shoulders, put them in the trunk of the Rav4, and drove to pick up his friends for school.

First was Josi, who was ready for school, wearing a pink tank top, black knee-length skirt, and white sneakers with a medium-sized hot pink backpack of her own, which she also put in the trunk. She smiled at him, and he almost wanted to lose himself in that smile.

“Hey, Atty,” she whispered with a peck on his cheek.

“Hey, Josi.” His response was a kiss on her cheek, as she got in the passenger seat.

They drove to Tytus’s house next, and he was ready on the driveway with a black shirt, gray sweats, and scuffed basketball shoes, a grin on his face as he carried a large green backpack that still seemed almost tiny in his giant frame as well as a huge lunchbox like what Atticus had, as he put both of them in the trunk and got in the backseat behind Josi.

“Hey, guys!” Tytus called. “Can’t wait for the big game tomorrow!”

The three of them chatted amicably as they drove to Damian’s house next. He was in his driveway, nervously looking over his shoulders with his black backpack. As a typical goth kid, he wore a black shirt that seemed big on him, baggy black jeans, and sneakers. He also bore two black eyes that weren’t there the night they dropped him off, as he limped over to the car, put his belongings in the trunk, and got in the backseat behind Atticus.

“Shit, Day,” Tytus said, his voice subdued. “You okay?”

“Just fell down the stairs.” The response was scripted, almost like even he didn’t believe it but didn’t want any more discussion about it.

And they didn’t discuss it as Atticus drove them over to Edna Karr High School, parked in the lot close to the football field (none of them minded the walk, even the limping Damian). They got their backpacks out (with Atticus and Tytus having giant lunchboxes that they hefted quite easily).

The school came into view soon enough, and the group of four entered the front doors.

The looks of everyone were frozen in shock, and they whispered with each other when they saw three of the most popular kids in the school, two top football athletes and the head cheerleader…with the least popular kid at the school in Damian.

Then Jack McGee, the 6’4”, 295 lbs. junior center for the football team, along with his bigger and heavier junior guard buddies, Thad Trosclair and LaMichael Thibodeaux, walked up to the group and sneered, “Who gave ya the black eyes, Douche-et? I wanna give ‘em a kiss.”

“Fuck off, McGreed,” Josiane growled in her soprano tone, while Atticus and Tytus moved to protect both her and Damian by standing in front of them, both of them glaring at McGee.

“Can’t even defend himself, the pussy,” Thibodeaux sneered, cracking his knuckles. “Relying on a bitch to do it just makes him a bigger bitch.”

“Dunno why you defend the loser, Carter,” Trosclair spat, shaking his head in disgust. “You already got a boyfriend…or are you just easy?”

“Say that again, and I’ll knock your ass out!” Atticus snarled, moving protectively towards his girlfriend.

“And I’ll fuckin’ join him in knockin’ all y’all’s asses out,” Tytus growled.

“Good luck with that, Cormier,” McGee said coldly. “We’re just as big as y’all, and there’s more of us. We just want to give the douche the fuckin’-over he deserves.”

“Just proves how cowardly you are,” Atticus retorted. “Three of y’all ganging up on one kid who isn’t as big as you. Fucking cowards, that’s all y’all are.”

McGee grabbed Atticus by his shirt, ready to start swinging. The 6’7” 320 lbs. Thibodeaux boxed in Tytus to prevent him from defending his friend, while the 6’6”, 315 lbs. Trosclair menaced Josiane and Damian.

“What’s going on here?” a familiar voice called out, causing McGee to let go of his hold on Atticus’s shirt and his two lackeys to back off.

Coach Wallace Hamilton had come over to defuse the argument, going through the mob of students who had come to watch, glaring at the three offensive-linemen, who, while they were big, were much smaller than the coach, and quickly shrank away like the cowards they were. “You three, I want you to stop bothering our video assistant and head cheerleader. Josiane’s the one who leads the group and helps pump up the crowd - and thus, our team - with their cheers and performances. Damian’s the one who films practice for me to watch and help improve your technique. As a one-time, zero-tolerance warning: if you’re violent towards them - or anyone else in the school, for that matter - you’ll find yourselves on the bench for all of the championship game. Understood?”

Hamilton never once shouted; he never shouted at anyone, but his calm and serious tone was warning enough, and the three offensive linemen slunk away.

“Don’t y’all have a class to go to?” he asked the students who were watching the attempted fight break out, as all of them quickly scurried away. The four friends were tempted to leave as well, before the coach said, “Not you four. I just wish to talk just a bit more. Who gave you the black eyes, Damian?” The coach’s tone was full of concern. “Are you all right?”

“I just took a spill down the stairs, sir,” Damian answered. “Hit the wall hard. It’s not a big deal, sir.”

Nobody believed him, but the coach was the one who stated it. “Well, if you need to talk about how you got two black eyes from your spill, about anything at all, my door’s always open, and nothing will go beyond there, I promise.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll keep my mind open, sir.” Damian had said those words while dipping his head in respect…or was it fear?

Coach Hamilton noticed, the sadness in his eyes showing before he walked away.

“I’m okay,” Damian said to nobody in particular, even though he said it out loud. “I’m…okay.”

He limped away from the group; unfortunately, none of them had the same classes in any of their curriculum: their schedules were different, despite all of them being sophomores. Damian, in particular, was in honors for every class. The group split up, Atticus quickly moving to math.

Every class seemed to be a blur. A test here, a quiz there, all of which he tried his best on…but his mind was focused on the big game tomorrow. A championship where he could strut his stuff, do well against some of the better cornerbacks on the opposing teams in Louisiana (he still thought Broussard and Theriot were much better than the vast majority, but Holy Cross had a senior two-way player - LaQuan Rogers - who was really good: tall and lengthy at 6’4”, 215 lbs., blazing fast, cat-quick, everything you could want in two-way cornerback/wide receiver - had offers from Louisiana State, Alabama, Georgia, Ole Miss, every single one of the South Eastern Conference programs and even more outside of the SEC, all of the big blue-blood programs wanted him. And that wasn’t even mentioning their elite O-line and running back...), to help his team win it all when they deserved that championship.

Then came lunch, where he sat at the same table as his friends, like clockwork, eating their lunch (Atticus and Tytus having much larger lunches requiring microwaves for some of the food), making small talk about what was going on in classes - without the three asshole O-line bullies bothering them, even - before the bell rang to signify the end of lunch.

More classes, more blurs in his life. Atticus was laser-focused on the game, trying his best to succeed in classes, but obviously distracted with the thought of one final practice, the finale to this season.

Then the 4:00 PM bell sounded, and it was time for practice.

Like last time, the football field had wet turf with the rain that came in the middle of the day. They wouldn’t have those conditions at the Caesar’s Superdome, the place where the New Orleans Saints played, where the Louisiana Class 5-A game would be played; that was a dome, different from the outdoors stadium that was Behrman Stadium.

Atticus was more than prepared, completely locked in; nobody could cover him this practice, no matter the route, no matter the defensive formation, no matter who was guarding him. His head and body fakes fooled the corners and safeties on every route, he was wide open every single time, and caught the ball easily, even making a few one-handed catches in the rain.

Broussard and Theriot were utterly stunned, just patting him on the ass after every catch made against them. The team as a whole seemed shocked at how easy he was making this look. Even Coach Hamilton had nothing but praise, except for one little thing: it was practice, in response for the championship game.

“Are you going to do this every game?” Coach Hamilton asked him pointedly. “Not just this upcoming championship, but work this hard in your junior and senior years, do this consistently, game in, game out? Are you going to be satisfied with a high school championship or keep rising, to your junior and senior years, to college, and possibly the pros?”

“Yes, Coach!” Atticus replied emphatically. “I want to be the best, wherever I play!”

“Good! Bring it here, bring it here!”

The team immediately crowded around the coach, who was hyped.

“Remember, I’m proud of you as young men. You’ve fought throughout the season, you’ve grown through adversity, you’ve grinded and worked for this, and you have a good chance to bring home a championship. Whatever happens on that field, know I’m so proud of y’all! Family on three! One, two, three-”

“FAMILY!” the team, Atticus and Tytus included, roared out simultaneously.

Atticus and Tytus immediately went to Damian to talk to him, then showered in the locker room, and finally went to see the end of cheerleading practice with both football players talking to their respective girlfriends.

They knew they’d take four school-charter buses for the team (even Damian, who had nothing to do with anything other than video-taping practices, was allowed on the charter bus for the coaching staff because Coach Hamilton considered him part of the team - a kind gesture). The cheerleaders would take one separate bus, the marching band three buses, and there were even a few buses for super fans (like Josiane’s parents and siblings) and the families of players in the so-called “Road to the Dome”.

Atticus dropped his friends off, all of them too excited for tomorrow to talk, dropped his equipment in the laundry room, barely talked to his mom and dad about the game, didn’t even wait for Tabby to come home before he fell asleep at 9:00 PM, unaware of what would happen tomorrow that would change his whole life.