Atticus waited by his red 2020 Toyota Rav4 along with Tytus and Damian after changing and showering in the locker room. The clock was reading 7:35 PM when Josiane arrived with a pout on her face.

“You were watching me,” she said in a soft drawl to Atticus, the pout turning to a smirk. “One of these days, I’m going to have to get you interested in cheerleading, and not just because I’m on the team.”

“But you’re all I need to watch,” Atticus said with a smile, as the two quickly kissed, Josiane getting into the SUV’s front seat (Tytus took most of the back seat, barely fitting in while Damian’s smaller frame fit in easily).

Josiane smirked more. “That catch at the end? A thing of beauty.”

“You were watching?” Atticus asked curiously as he started the drive from his school to the others’ homes.

“You bet your ass I was,” she teased.

“Then you saw the two sacks I got before he had that catch?” Tytus asked with a grin.

“That, I did, Ty.”

“You’re flirting with both of them, aren’t you?” Damian said with a sigh.

“Come on, Day, we’ve all known each other since we were kids. You know that I’d never steal Ty from his girlfriend, especially since she’s more of the vindictive type.”

“Teresa’s not vindictive,” Tytus defended. “Just cause y’all have a beef-”

“I get it. But I’m worried for you, Ty. She’s not a nice person deep down.”

“So, um…how was everything with everyone?” Atticus asked to defuse a potential argument.

“Day’s been getting me into Baldur’s Gate 3,” Josiane said, flipping her hair. “Good recommendation as always. It really is a great game, but I can’t do hundreds of hours like he can, especially since my birds need attention, too.”

“I thought you liked D&D?” Damian snickered.

“I do! I just wanted an aarakocra on my console playthrough…”

“I thought you liked all kinds of elves, though.”

“I just want to play a bird person! Is that too much to ask?”

“You and ya birds, Josi,” Tytus chuckled, humorously shaking his head.

“How about I flip you one?” the girl said teasingly.

“I swear, I will turn this car around,” Atticus mock-warned.

“No need, we’re at my house,” Damian answered bluntly.

Atticus noted the fairly well-to-do house Damian’s parents owned that was closest to the school. His friend never allowed the three to go to his house; he had always come over to Atticus’s place (and never Tytus’s or Josiane’s, even when they asked). He had a deep suspicion why…but he was reluctant to share and respected Damian’s autonomy too much to just blurt it out.

“You sure you don’t need help with any of your stuff?” Josiane asked Damian gently.

“I’ll be fine. Just have to pay my dog a visit. She’s probably wondering where I am.” Damian flashed a smile and waved at his friends, limping toward the house, before Atticus drove on.

“Could ya drop me off next, Ats?” Tytus asked. “I know ya probably wanna spend time with your girl.”

“Much as that would be awesome, we’re not at that point at the moment,” Josiane said dreamily.

“So, I’m dropping you off first, Josi?” Atticus asked.

“Sure. I know you two are probably going to be-”

“Actually, I gotta help clean up the house for my ma. So, drop me off first.”

“So, we’re not spending the night, any of us?” Atticus asked.

“I’d ask Day to spend the night, maybe even play some video games, but he’s been reluctant to spend time with anyone but you, ever since we were kids, never asks any of us to come over to his place,” Tytus said, his tone growing quiet. “Maybe his folks are even worse than we think.”

“I think so.” Josiane’s tone was both sorrowful and furious. “I swear, if I ever see his parents-”

“Don’t,” Atticus warned. “You know what Day will say and how they’ll react.”

“I just…I’m furious that nobody will do anything for him,” the cheerleader said in helpless rage. “Including us.”

“Day thinks he has to handle these things alone,” Tytus said regretfully, before his voice became venomous with anger. “Honestly wouldn’t mind gettin’ my older brothers and me to come over there and deliver real justice-”

“And Day would be furious that y’all ruined your lives over him,” Atticus finished, his tone blunt as a hammer.

“God, Ats, I can’t stand seeing that every day, he’s got a new injury and a new excuse for it.”

“Day’s scared. As all of us would be in his place.”

The car ride continued on silently before they reached Tytus’s place. It was a bigger house, but still in a rough neighborhood, and an older Black woman with gray hair saw the car pull to a stop, Tytus quickly getting out and giving his mother a gentle hug.

“Thanks for dropping off my son, Atty, Josi,” Mrs. Cormier said in a tone as warm as an apple pie. “I wish Day could come over here, but know he’s welcome here at any time.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rho,” Atticus and Josiane chorused; Mrs. Rhonda Cormier may have cut a fierce figure with her imposing size, and she was fierce when it came to matters of family, but they all knew she was a kind, if demanding woman.

“Now, Ty, you can have dinner and then we can clean up the house. You have the choice between the vacuum and dishes or cleaning the bathrooms, then your dog and cats need-”

Tytus saluted the car before Atticus drove off, the time reading 8:02.

“You sure Teresa’s vindictive, Josi?” Atticus asked his girlfriend in concern, his eyes glued to the road. “I mean, she doesn’t have nice things to say about you or Day, but Ty-”

“Believe me, Atty, she’s fucking vindictive as hell.” Josiane’s voice was blunt. “I feel awful for Ty, wanting someone good, but ending up with her. I feel awful that nobody has considered Day when we know how good of a person he is. It’s just…it’s not fair.”

“I know,” he said with a sigh.

The car ride continued in silence before they reached Josiane’s house: a large two-story building a little ways from the school.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Atty,” Josiane said with a kiss on his cheek.

“See you then, Josi,” he echoed.

She hopped out of the car, her parents waiting for her before she waved goodbye.

Atticus went on the road, his thoughts only on his parents and his older sister. Mom and Dad…they were proud of him being the star football player, and he knew that both of them loved their kids, but they really weren’t as involved with his life as Tabitha, his older sister by five years, was.

It was Tabby who made sure to put her career as a professional ballerina - a very talented professional ballerina - on hold to make sure the family could be supported. It was Tabby who bought him the Rav4 with her own hard-earned money working two separate jobs. It was Tabby who gave him a recommendation for his own job, as she had worked at Popeyes once upon a time and he had followed suit, busting his ass on the weekends. Hell, it was Tabby who taught him more about footwork - and who taught him more about playing wide receiver - than anyone ever had, even Coach Hamilton. Ballet was all about footwork, and one of the biggest weapons a wide receiver had was footwork, so the synergy was there from the start.

At least she didn’t make me wear a leotard, he thought with a shudder.

The drive to the house didn’t take long (he was fairly close to both Josiane and Tytus), and the clock read 8:58. He parked the car in the driveway of his house - a fairly modest two-story building - and hopped out, ready to greet his parents (he assumed Tabby was at her evening job at the girl’s clothing store).

His dad, originally a Texan man with graying hair and a huge beard, was there at the table, his blue eyes appraising a newspaper when Atticus waved at him, saying, “Hey, Dad.”

His dad spoke in a deep Texan drawl, “Hey, Atticus. How was practice?”

There it was. No questions about what his grades were (decent - B-minus all around - and getting better), no questions about his friends, not even a question of how he was. Just football practice. Then again, his dad was a taciturn man of very few words.

“Practice went well,” Atticus said nonchalantly, as he put the equipment he was allowed to bring back (the practice jersey, gloves, protective cup, and girdle, which were thrown in the washer, his cleats - scrubbed clear of the grass and dirt they practiced on) in the laundry room. “Caught a couple of passes. Ty had some great pressures. I think we’re winning the championship.”

“Good. Colleges should be watching, so I expect the best.”

Atticus nodded.

“Hello, Atty, dear.” His mom, her Louisiana accent prominent, had come into the picture, her forest green eyes warm, her strawberry-blonde hair - with hints of gray in them - falling to her shoulders. She gave him a big hug. “Dinner’s in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“Thank you, Mom.” Atticus looked at the dinner - shrimp, scallops, and andouille sausage gumbo with the Holy Trinity (onions, bell peppers, and celery) and okra; his mom seemed to make it perfect every time - cold in the fridge. He put it in the microwave, waiting for it to cook.

“I hope you ain’t been neglecting your grades?”

“B-minus all around, Mom,” he said, waiting for the gumbo to finish cooking.

“B-minus ain’t gonna get you into the top schools,” she chided. “I want you to get at least an A-minus on all your studies.”

Atticus bowed his head. While his dad was obsessed with him getting into schools on a football merit, his lawyer mom demanded perfection at school, albeit with her wanting him to succeed on the football field as well. He tried his best, honestly! He tried to work on his grades as well as football practice, but the former just wasn’t coming easily.

“I’ll do better,” he said, as the timer dinged.

“Good, honey,” she said with another gentle hug. “That’s all I want. Don’t want you to hafta go to community college to get your grades up for football.”

“Understood, Mom.” He got out the gumbo, waited for it to cool, and ate in silence.

Then Tabby came home from work at 10:30.

“Hello, everyone!” she sang in that soprano of hers, rushing over to hug Atticus and then their parents.

Tabby was small and slim (only around 5’1” without her heels at the most), still in her uniform (a black dress that fell to her knees and stiletto heels that made her height five inches taller), her sandy-brown hair (obviously, she had gotten Dad’s hair) in a ponytail, her green eyes sparkling with love. That’s who Tabby was: a loving woman who cared deeply about her family.

“Hey, Tabby Cat,” Atticus replied with a grin, seeing his sister groan at the hated nickname. “Everything go well at work?”

“I’ll ‘Tabby Cat’ you,” she mock-chided him before she grinned and lit up the entire room with that smile. “Work went well. Some woman was a total Karen and wanted her measurements done now instead of waiting. Management took care of it. Everything was good otherwise. Nothing too fancy, nothing too memorable.”

“Any chance o’ gettin’ back into ballet?” Dad asked. “I know you wanna do it…”

“I’d rather stay close to y’all,” Tabby said bluntly. “You know ballet travels all over, and I miss y’all too much. Maybe later on when Atticus is out of high school. And speaking of which-” She pointed at the clock. “It’s 10:30. Atty, shouldn’t you be going to bed for school tomorrow?”

Atticus yawned. Yeah, he was a little tired, but…ah, hell, Tabby was right. He had another day of football practice before the big game on Saturday.

“Okay, I’ll get some shuteye,” he said. “Night, y’all.”

He heard their goodnights before he went up to his room and opened the door.

The walls were what a teen boy would typically have: posters of hot women in bikinis on the walls, a dresser with football memorabilia (including a signed football by Drew Brees, the quarterback of the New Orleans Saints, that he treasured), the bookshelf of action packed books, the closet filled with T-shirts and jeans, his bed freshly made (obviously by his mom) with green sheets and a worn pillow.

He flopped on his bed, making sure to turn off the lights from the remote nearest him. Sleep came rather quickly after that.

One day stood between him and his destiny.

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 the typical Edna Karr school uniform (a purple polo shirt, khaki pants with a black belt without a large buckle, black Under Armour shoes, and a student ID), before 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 mesh 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 the same uniform, with a medium-sized mesh 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, a grin on his face as he carried a large mesh 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. Unlike the stereotypical goth kid, he wore the school uniform as was, as he cared a lot about his grades. 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 clear backpack 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 after their lunchboxes were searched by nearby staff.

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.

Atticus woke up early from Tabby’s prodding. 4:00 AM on the 13th of December. The charter bus would leave at 9:00; the game itself would be a 2:00 PM kickoff. He showered and did his business in the restroom, ate a meal of eggs on toast and oatmeal with fruit, got his backpack and lunchbox ready (just in case, of course), and this time, their dad was driving his car to the spot, along with Atticus, Tabby and their mom (with all but Atticus dressed in black like all of the other Covington High fans for one reason: to create a blackout effect), while picking up Damian (Tytus’s mom and Josiane’s parents were driving each of them and their families, respectively) to go with them.

The group of four got in the 2022 Hyundai Palisade, picked up Damian (his parents opted not to go to the game for whatever reason. Apparently, they just weren’t sports fans.) from his house, as he packed his things in the car to get ready to go.

Atticus and Damian were busy listening to music from their iPhones, while Tabby was talking to her parents in an excited tone. Soon enough, they had reached Covington High, where a large number of people were ready to go to the charter buses. Atticus quickly found Josiane amongst her large family: her parents, Mr. Carter and Mrs. Carter, and their four daughters other than his girlfriend (twenty-year-old Tiphanie, thirteen-year-old Jeannine, and ten-year-old twins Leonne and Lysiane) with her mother and even her father smiling at him (they had known that Josiane was amongst his best friends in childhood, so they were remarkably well-adjusted to her being his girlfriend) with friendly expressions.

“Hello, Atticus,” Mrs. Carter said with a smile, her dark coffee-colored skin gleaming in the sunlight peaking from the clouds. “Ready for the big game? I know Josi is.”

“You bet, Mrs. Carter, ma’am!” he said in excitement.

“Good, good,” Mr. Carter said with a smile, his pale face creased in a smile. “Bring home a championship, Atticus, okay?”

“Of course, Mr. Carter, sir!” Atticus said, as the younger girls in the family giggled at his eagerness; even Tiphanie, who was the most reluctant of the girls to accept his relationship with her younger sister at first, was smiling softly.

“Hello, Nico, Genevieve,” a booming feminine voice said.

Mrs. Cormier had come, along with Tytus and all of his older brothers: twenty-two-year-old twins Chazwick and Chazwell, twenty-one-year-old Jamarion, and twenty-year-old Zai’air, all of whom had Division 2 football scholarships at Morehouse (Chazwick and Chazwell as defensive ends, Jamarion and Zai’air as defensive tackles). Their school had missed their bowl game, so it was obvious that they were going to go see their younger brother play.

“Hello, Rhonda,” Genevieve said warmly, hugging the heavyset Black woman.

“Hello, Mrs. Rho!” Atticus and Josi exclaimed.

“Hello, to all of you,” Mrs. Cormier said. “Ready for the game, Atty?”

“Absolutely!”

“Hey, bring home a winner, okay, brotha?” Jamarion, his dreadlocks even longer than Tytus’s, said to Atticus and Tytus.

“Y’all two are gonna go far,” Jai’air said warmly, patting Tytus’s right shoulder, his large frizzy afro soaked in the rain.

“Y’all got this,” Chazwick and Chazwell, identical in every way except for their hairstyles (long cornrows for Chazwick and short frosted twists for Chazwell), chorused.

“Absolutely, bros,” Tytus replied.

“Of course!” Atticus responded.

“Good,” Mrs. Rho said. “Now, you’ll need to join your team; I think they lookin’ for y’all.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rho!” Atticus gave Josiane one last kiss before he and Tytus searched for the team.

Coach Hamilton was directing the team to their buses, his 6’9” frame taller than any man. His wife, Wisteria, was tiny next to him: a mere 5’2”, but no less of a fierce competitor, having been a top gymnast long ago and still teaching gymnastics to many young girls in Louisiana.

The coach waved over Atticus, Tytus, and Damian.

“Atticus, Tytus, you’re on the second charter bus,” he said. “Damian, you’ll be with the coaches with me and my wife. Understood?”

“Yes, sir…” Damian said, his voice shy.

“Of course, Coach,” Atticus answered at the same time Tytus said, “Yes, Coach.”

“Good. Big day, lots of excitement. Keep yourselves in the moment and play like you know you can. Damian, you’ll be one of the video cameramen for our team on the field, and you’ll be directed where to go. Make sure to get the best shots-”

Coach Hamilton was still talking to Damian as the buses began to load the people at the school, Atticus and Tytus quickly getting in their designated charter bus, listening to their music as the bus went to the Superdome.

Atticus had the window with Tytus sitting next to him. The young receiver drummed his fingers gently on the glass as the scenery changed to the New Orleans landscape, a huge urban area with multiple high-rise hotels, office buildings, and parking garages as well as numerous bars and restaurants. It was beautiful, bustling, and full of life.

And then there was the Superdome, a place he had only been once before: a football game in 2016 when he was a seven-year-old kid, in awe of Drew Brees, Brandin Cooks, Michael Thomas, Cameron Jordan, and many other players, all of them larger than life to him. Brees had signed a football for him there, and it was still one of the best memories he had ever had.

Hopefully, this will be another positive memory, he thought as the buses stopped in front of the Superdome.

Atticus felt a charge go through him as he entered through one of the visitor’s locker rooms of the Superdome.

Maybe it won’t be the last time I go through that locker room or even go into the home locker room. If I make the NFL, I’ll be a Saint one of these days; I’ll make sure to go there whenever my contract with whichever team drafts me runs out. Maybe I’ll go there to win a Super Bowl, make a good career, inspire another kid like me, pay everything back.

His thoughts of grandeur were interrupted by Tytus who silently signaled him to get his headphones unplugged, to read the room.

Atticus unplugged his headphones, loud rap music echoing through the locker room, pumping up the team. Broussard and Theriot greeted them, already in their uniforms, getting taped up (to prevent their joints from getting any injuries, amongst other reasons).

“Keep doin’ what you’re doin’, you two,” Broussard said.

“Just focus on the grind,” Theriot advised.

“Will do,” Atticus said.

“Right,” Tytus echoed.

“Good. I wanna win this game bad; didn’t get close my junior year,” Broussard said.

“Focus on your assignments, and we’ll focus on ours,” Theriot continued. “They’ll be matchin’ up #21 on you every play they can, Carver, I fuckin’ guarantee it.”

Atticus nodded; #21 on Holy Cross was Rogers, the elite cornerback/wide receiver. Of course, he figured, the other side would likely talk about #88: him.

That’s all football really is: a chess match, countering one piece with another, hoping to neutralize that piece, take it off the board.

“Ats?” Tytus had spoken. “Time to get in our uniforms.”

And so, they did, while also getting taped, listening to the music end, waiting for the game to start. To his surprise, Atticus wasn’t nervous. It was just another game, just like playing a road game.

Time was passing quickly and slowly simultaneously; they went on the field, stretching, doing warmups and drills, seeing Holy Cross’s team do the same, going back into the locker room for the start of the game, and listening to the final pep talk by Coach Hamilton.

Then the start of the game began, the crowd roaring at the introductions. Atticus stood on the sidelines, his hands draped on his uniform collar as the national anthem came from a local choir, watching Broussard, Theriot, Hutchinson the junior quarterback, Hendrickson the senior tight end, and Salmon the senior kicker - all of the captains of Covington High - go on the field to do the coin toss. Holy Cross won the toss and elected to receive. Covington High would defend left.

The adrenaline was pulsing through his veins, the roar of the crowd must’ve been what a drug high was like, and he wanted more.

And then the kickoff began, and unknown to Atticus, the clock of destiny was ticking down the last seconds of his normal life.

The kickoff returner for Holy Cross knelt in the endzone after Salmon kicked it to him, and the ball was brought out to the twenty-five-yard line. Tytus immediately went out on the field along with Broussard, Theriot, and eight other players, the crowd roaring so loudly that Atticus could barely hear Coach Hamilton’s playcall for the defense.

Edna Carr was in a nickel package (three defensive linemen with Tytus lining up at the defensive end position, three linebackers - two on the edge, one in the middle - and five defensive backs in the secondary) showing Cover 2 man with both Broussard and Theriot shadowing #21 - LaQuan Rogers - even when he was put in motion.

The first play was a run left with Holy Cross’s stud junior running back, Edwards. It was well away from Broussard and Theriot, and Holy Cross’s offensive line buried everyone on the first and second levels…except Tytus, who used a quick move to get past the left guard and wrapped up Edwards for a loss of a yard.

“Yeah!” Atticus shouted. “Yeah, Ty!”

Tytus, somehow hearing the shout through all the noise, nodded back in appreciation. Holy Cross lined up quickly. A run up the middle. Tytus was immediately buried to the ground, pancaked by the left tackle and left guard, the former of whom quickly moved up to the second level and easily leveled the junior left edge rusher, Blalock. Edwards broke through the chaos for a twenty-eight-yard gain before Theriot and Broussard chased him and brought him down together.

Now Holy Cross’s team was shouting with excitement as the Edna Karr crowd tried to muster more noise. Another run with Edwards to the right (with Rogers somehow blocking both Broussard and Theriot), an eleven-yard gain down the sidelines until the senior strong safety, Johansson, knocked him out before he could gain more.

Now Atticus was nervous. Forty-one yards stood between Holy Cross and a touchdown. Their quarterback, Doherty, snapped the ball. A pump-fake, then a long pass to Rogers, who brought it in with both hands, in spite of the double coverage all over him.

Eighteen yards before they get a touchdown, Atticus thought. Come on, D, get a stop…

Holy Cross ran it with Edwards again, this time up the middle, but Tytus and the senior nose tackle, Forret, immediately sniffed it out and stuffed him for no gain. Then a trips formation, a bubble screen to Rogers…which both Broussard and Theriot defeated the blocks and tackled him simultaneously for another play with no gain.

Third down, a dime package with three linebackers (two edge rushers and the middle linebacker), two defensive linemen (Tytus and Forret), and six defensive backs. Atticus noted Tytus lining up close to the center along with Forret. The ball was snapped. The coverage was outstanding…and Forret took on the center and right guard, leaving Tytus able to break through the right interior on a stunt, Blalock rushing from the left side, and they brought Doherty down at the twenty-five yard-line before he could throw the ball.

“SACK!” Hendrickson roared, along with the crowd and the Edna Karr sidelines, Atticus included.

Fourth down, and the Holy Cross field goal team went out, along with the other special teams players for Edna Karr. Tytus went back to the sidelines, Atticus giving his helmet a tap before they did their special quick handshake: front, back, front, back, bottom and top fist, and an armlock to finish it off.

“Fuck yeah, Ty!” Atticus shouted, before putting on his helmet, getting his chinstrap buckled right, giving a helmet tap to all of the defenders.

Holy Cross’s field goal attempt was good. The drive had taken four minutes and eight seconds off of the twelve minute clock.

Plenty of time to score a touchdown, Atticus thought as the returner brought it out…and was stopped at the eighteen.

Atticus went out with the offense. Rogers was on the field, covering him. Atticus knew it was press-man by the way Rogers was lined up with Holy Cross in Cover-3 (with both safeties and a corner in zone).

The crowd seemed even louder than it was when Edna Karr was on defense, and Trosclair moved before the ball was snapped. Whistles blew and yellow flags were flung by the refs.

“False start,” the head ref said in the microphone on his shirt for all to hear, the call causing the Holy Cross supporters to scream with excitement, “offense, number 67, five-yard penalty, still first down!”

The crowd was booming, Hutchinson was shouting the play, but nobody heard him…and then Thibodeaux jumped early. More whistles, more flags.

“False start, offense, number 70, five-yard penalty, still first down.”

The noise was too much; Hutchinson was doing a silent count, Atticus staying shock still until the ball was snapped. Rogers backed off from him; the corner was obviously in zone, and the receiver ran a slant over the middle - quite dangerous with a linebacker potentially waiting for him.

Atticus immediately turned to see the pass headed for him. He snagged it with both hands and when he was sure it was secured, turned up field, pinballing off of the linebacker's tackle by going lower; the linebacker was attempting a kill shot instead of wrapping up, which only helped the sturdy receiver. Atticus saw the safety next, bowling him over and leaping over the outstretched hands.

Then someone hit him hard in the chest, with the crown of their helmet on the ball. It took everything in Atticus’s power to barely hang on to the football, going down immediately from the hit, losing his breath as he hit the ground on top of the ball. He rolled on his back, winded, and looked up to see Rogers walking back to the huddle, smirking and shaking his head at Atticus, as if to subtly say “No, no, I’m the one who’s gonna make all the plays, not you”, having made the tackle (the refs penalized everything unsportsmanlike in high school rules, even a first down signal, so that was as close to a celebration as one could get). Atticus forced himself to pop back up on his feet, despite the loss of breath (no weaknesses or signs of pain - unless it was major - were shown on the field amongst football players, even at the high school level), handing the ball back to the ref.

He had gained all but one of the yards that they had lost from the penalties.

Second down. The crowd was still roaring loud enough for Hutchinson to use a silent count in a shotgun formation.

Atticus and Rogers both knew that the ball was coming to him; the corner was in press-man coverage. Atticus had just started breathing normally after the hit, while Rogers was still smirking at him. All the while, the receiver thought of his mantra.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The ball was snapped. It was perfect technique by Rogers, pressing his hands into Atticus’s chest…but the Edna Karr receiver had been trained by Coach Wallace Hamilton, the master of everything that any football player could ever need. He swiped away the outstretched hands of Rogers, who began to trail him as Atticus ran the dig pattern across the middle of the field, snagging the high pass from Hutchinson with one hand, making sure to bring it back to his body - there was no way in hell he was dropping it - and then turning up the field and sprinting down the right sideline as fast he could, looking behind him occasionally to see if anyone was close, to the roar of the crowd…but this time from Edna Karr’s supporters as he raced eighty-three yards to the endzone, and not even Rogers was fast enough to catch him, the two-way player being two yards behind when the receiver hit paydirt.

The sidelines erupted for both sides; Atticus could hear Holy Cross’s coach swear, and Edna Karr’s sideline explode with shouts of glee. He threw the ball to the ref, breathing heavily and raced to the sidelines where his teammates - with the lone obvious exceptions of McGee and his two lackeys - mobbed him, giving him helmet taps, and screaming a cacophony he didn’t even hear with the cheering of the crowd. Atticus continued concentrating on breathing as Salmon nailed the kick. Then the handshake with Tytus, despite being damn near out of breath from the long run and being winded before, as he saw Josiane lead the cheerleaders with their cheers, saw Damian filming the whole thing on the Edna Karr sideline at midfield.

7-3, Atticus thought as he panted, almost like a dog. Get a defensive stop or two, another touchdown, and we can run away with this.

The ball was kicked by Salmon, and Holy Cross’s returner didn’t return it, putting the ball at the twenty-five.

Holy Cross was back on offense, and it took them two plays to get a touchdown and retake the lead. First, Edwards ripped off a huge run on the right side on a stretch run - away from where Tytus and both senior corners were lined up - on first down, sprinting all the way down to the seven yard line with Broussard barely hanging on, until Theriot and the senior free safety, Baldwin, got there and managed to bring the powerful running back down and save a touchdown. Unfortunately, the very next play - with Edwards off of the field to take a breather - was a pass to Rogers, somehow lined up in the slot against the senior nickelback corner, Barnett, using a well-run whip route and getting in untouched.

Atticus put on his helmet, the game clock reading 5:14.

The ball was kicked and the returner didn’t bring it out. Atticus lined up at the twenty-five-yard line, the Holy Cross crowd screaming.

McGee committed a false start (as he moved the ball without snapping it, the ref calling out “false start, offense, number 69”) next, and the ball was backed up to the twenty. A draw play to the junior running back, Gomez, went for four yards as Atticus attempted to block the bigger, stronger Rogers, who easily knocked him to the ground before helping gang-tackle the running back.

“Stay down, white boy,” Rogers whispered with a smirk as he walked back.

Atticus popped back up; he would show no weaknesses to anyone, not even the top two-way athlete in the nation. He didn’t respond; his play would do the talking, as he went back to the huddle. The next play would be play-action - a fake to the running back for Hutchinson to throw it, likely to Atticus, who was lined up alone on the left side.

Rogers didn’t bite on the play action, but the receiver ran the corner route perfectly. The corner attempted to undercut it and time the play for an interception, but Hutchinson had thrown another high ball, and the receiver snagged the ball away from Rogers and finished with a toe tap and drag before tumbling to the ground on Holy Cross’s sideline near the Edna Karr forty.

He thought he heard someone on the opposing sideline say, “Who the fuck is that white boy?”, but he tossed the ball back to the ref without a word, lining up outside again.

This time, Rogers wasn’t lining up against him, and was in obvious man against the second receiver, a senior named McAllister, in the trips formation with Atticus alone on the left side again. With the noise, Atticus knew that Hutchinson wouldn’t notice Rogers, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he knew exactly what would happen.

True to his fears, Rogers immediately raced past the attempted block, stepped in front of the bubble screen, and picked it off, with Atticus and McAllister immediately pursuing the corner to get him down.

Both receivers were fast, but Rogers was fast as well, and he had a head-start; the pick turned into a pick-six.

17-7, he thought angrily as he went back to the sidelines. Hutchinson, why the fuck didn’t you call timeout? Fuck…at least we’re coming right back out on offense. Next play, short memory.

Coach Hamilton was firm, but fair; he was giving critique to Hutchinson who was nodding in shame, and Atticus patted the quarterback on the head, hoping to reassure his teammate, while Holy Cross hit the extra point. The kickoff wasn’t returned again, and they went back to the twenty-five. The crowd was especially deafening, and McGee committed another false start by moving the ball again, to the further screaming of Holy Cross’s crowd, moving them back to the twenty.

Atticus drowned it out. He was going to run a post, and he was going to do it perfectly. He stood shock still as Rogers smirked, ready for an off-man trail, to the receiver’s discerning eye, seeing the safety start to shadow him.

The ball was snapped with play-action. Atticus faked the out route, and Rogers and the safety were fooled, both biting on the coverage, and Hutchinson threw a perfect pass to him. Eighty yards later, the score was 17-14, and all Rogers and the safety could do was shake their heads in disgust.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU FUCKING SHADOW 88, DAVIDSON?! AND ROGERS-” he heard the Holy Cross coach bellow furiously, but he merely tossed the ball to the ref and went back to the jubilant Edna Karr sideline, to Tytus’s handshake.

17-14. Come on, D…

Atticus saw the last seconds of the first quarter end when Holy Cross’s returner brought the ball out to the twenty-seven before being tackled by a group, led by Barnett.

The clock of destiny was counting down, and he had no clue that soon enough, the clock would strike midnight…and he could kiss his normal life goodbye.

The second quarter started, the teams moving to the opposite side of the field.

Holy Cross lined up in a twelve-personnel set (two receivers, two tight ends, one running back), and continued to pound the ball with Edwards - who got four to eight yards with each carry - with the occasional first down pass to Rogers. It was a very long and time-consuming drive that got all the way to the seventeen-yard line, where Coach Hamilton called a timeout. It was somewhat to try to slow down the Holy Cross offense and get the right play in, but the timeout was mostly for the defense to catch their breaths.

Holy Cross lined up in eleven-personnel (three receivers, one tight end, one running back) this time. Doherty went back to pass three times. All three times were mistakes: three sacks - a half sack shared by Blalock and Forret, a half-sack shared by Tytus and the senior right edge rusher, Hales, and a solo sack by Tytus, this time with a powerful bullrush on the left guard - knocked the ball spot back to the thirty-three yard line and shut the drive down. The Holy Cross field goal attempt missed, and Atticus and Tytus shared a handshake again with 6:47 left to go in the second quarter.

The crowd was still deafening, and Atticus thought that he’d lose his hearing for sure after this game. Another silent count, the second corner and the safety matched up against him. The receiver didn’t treat him any less than he did Rogers; it was just him against whomever, and he knew he could beat anyone on his best days. He was fucking on his best day today, and Hutchinson seemed to know it, as all of the drive’s plays - all passes - went to him.

A curl route was the first one. Atticus caught it, and the second corner attempted to tackle him. He managed to get eleven yards out of it, spinning out of the corner's grasp before the safety helped bring him down.

Rogers was right back on him the next play, showing man coverage after Atticus went into motion to the slot. Atticus merely used an option route - a fake post turning into an out route - to fool the corner, moving towards the sideline, getting an extra few yards and going out of bounds before Rogers could touch him. Another eleven yards, another first down, this time with the clock stopped with him going out of bounds on his own volition.

The next play was a comeback. Atticus’s footwork and shoulder fakes fooled Rogers again, thinking it was a go route before he pivoted back with a quick cut of the route, going towards the sidelines and finishing with a nice toe tap before Rogers could touch him for a gain of fifteen yards and stopping the clock again.

Both Rogers and the second corner were on him now; the Holy Cross coach was obviously desperate to stop him. The next route was a sail route. Another easy completion, but he was tackled at the seven by Rogers and the safety, the clock counting down to four minutes.

Holy Cross called a timeout, and the Gatorade bottles and the fresh towels were brought out on the field, to Atticus’s relief, as he was sweating hard. Coach Hamilton tried to bring him out of the game with his calm voice.

Atticus had other ideas.

“Coach, I’m on fire now,” he protested. “I want to finish this drive.”

The coach sighed. “You’re being stubborn, Atticus…but if you think you can do this, I’ll let you. One play that goes to you on this drive. No more.”

“Yes, Coach!” Atticus went back onto the field to the huddle. The play came in. His route was a fade; a technical route only used while a receiver was close to the endzone. Rogers was on him again, with the safety shadowing him.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Sweat dripped down the face of the receiver as the play was snapped. He trusted his footwork, three hesitating steps to fool the two-way player, enough to run the fade. Rogers seemed to know the fade was going to him. Hutchinson threw it high again, so that even Rogers couldn’t get it.

But Atticus knew he could. He leaped for the ball, the safety trying to push him out of the endzone and into the white line in the back to knock him out of bounds. The receiver snagged it with the fingertips on his left hand, brought it into his body with both of his arms covering it, all while somehow managing to get his toes down (thank you again, Tabby!) into the green beforehand.

He stayed unmoving on the ground for a while, waiting for the refs to discuss what to call the play they saw…until one of them raised his arms to signal a touchdown, and he was lifted up by Hendrickson, the tight end letting out a jubilant shout and giving him a helmet tap as well, along with most of the offense.

“No FUCKING WAY!” Rogers shouted furiously. Atticus knew he was in the head of the star two-way player, in the heads of all the Holy Cross defenders judging by their dejected looks and even living rent free in the heads of the Holy Cross coaches, if their furious and swear-laden shouts, audible even through the crowd, were any indication.

Good.

The call stood, as decisions by refs were considered final at the high school level (there were no replay booths here), and Salmon booted the extra point through, the entire team and the Covington High supporters screaming in joy. Atticus gave another handshake with Tytus before Salmon kicked the ball out to the Holy Cross special teams. The returner brought it out, but only to the fifteen before Baldwin tripped him up with a hard tackle.

Edwards got the ball over to the opposing forty on the next play and Rogers caught a nice pass from Doherty to get them to the redzone with the two-minute warning…but it was all for nought; Tytus, lined up wide left, beat the left tackle with a speed rush, beat Edwards’ chip block and chopped down on Doherty’s right hand before he even attempted to throw. The ball popped out of the quarterback’s grasp and Hales immediately pounced on it on the twenty-five-yard line, to the screaming sideline of Covington High and the crowd.

“FUCK YEAH, TY!” Atticus shouted through the noise of the crowd, giving a quick special handshake with his best friend before he went back onto the field with 1:28 left on the clock after a quick timeout by Coach Hamilton.

Rogers was still matched with him, but he could tell that the two-way player was beyond frustrated and pissed. The next route would be a simple go-route; all Atticus had to do was outrun his man. It would be difficult, considering the opposing corner’s speed, but he was riding on a wave of confidence. Not cockiness that he was better than everyone but just knowing that he could do anything short of something superhuman on the field of play, and that it would be impossible to stop him.

To the credit of the Holy Cross crowd, they were still making a hell of a lot of noise. The ball was snapped, and Atticus ran the go, with Rogers barely trailing behind, flipping his hips easily to run with him.

But Atticus was still faster, and even with the ball placement with Hutchinson underthrown, he hauled it into his body. Rogers managed to catch up to him with the underthrown ball and finally dragged him down at the nineteen-yard line, but the receiver wasn’t even close to being out of breath: just annoyed that Rogers prevented him from another touchdown.

Coach Hamilton had immediately called another timeout. More Gatorade, more towels, and the coach told them the play came in: a bubble screen to Atticus, ride the hot hand - and the receiver was more than prepared to do it.

The Superdome was still rocking, and Atticus smiled at the visibly angry Rogers before popping his mouthguard back in. The ball was snapped, and Rogers read the play like a book, attempting to jump the throw and pick it off for a second time. Atticus, reading Rogers’ actions, merely sprinted in front of him as the bubble screen quickly turned into a quasi-tunnel screen. The opposing corner attempted to take him down with an arm tackle around the waist, and the receiver shrugged it off as he bounced to the outside. A linebacker tried to tackle him, but Atticus gave him a stiff-arm on the helmet to send the opposing player tumbling to the ground and unable to get a hand on him. He was a yard away from the endzone when their safety lowered his helmet to go for a killshot on him.

Atticus went airborne. It wasn’t even a hurdle, he barely realized, as he put a hand on the safety’s shoulder; he was in midair, going head over feet in a flip that he had never done before. His feet stuck the landing, almost like a gymnast, and he realized he was in the endzone with everyone staring at him in stunned disbelief. The Covington High crowd was going absolutely bonkers with screaming. But both of the sidelines were in stunned disbelief at what just happened - and even he barely believed that he just did what he did.

Strangely, he didn’t even feel winded after the drive, as he ran over to the sideline where Coach Hamilton merely tapped his helmet and said, “That’s like what Jerome Simpson did in 2011…except you did it better. You came to play, Atticus, you’re giving this team confidence, and you were right; you’re absolutely on. Make sure to play the same way in the second half, all right?”

“Yes, Coach,” Atticus said eagerly as Salmon knocked through another extra point.

There was one more handshake with Tytus before the kickoff and before the defensive tackle went onto the field. Atticus turned his attention to the cheerleaders, hoping to catch a glimpse of Josiane.

The half ended with a Holy Cross three-and-out (three incomplete passes with Broussard and Theriot getting a pass breakup apiece on the increasingly pissed off Rogers, and Tytus, Blalock, and Hales applying pressure on the final pass to force a quick throw that was too low for the second receiver to handle), a punt received, and a Covington High kneel down to get to the end of the half.

As the team went back into the locker room, Atticus didn’t realize that he would never again share the special handshake with Tytus, didn’t realize that his team would never again congratulate him for an excellent play, didn’t realize that he would never be able to play the sport he loved ever again, didn’t even realize that the start of the third quarter would be when his life would be upturned forever.

Because destiny can never be changed, and his fate had been sealed since before he even came into the locker room.