I lined up, crouching into my stance, fingers suspended above my knees and wriggling like I was making nervous notes on an invisible piano.
The ball was snapped, the linemen rose in their stances, pass. I dropped back into coverage, head swiveling, telling myself to murder the first purple jersey that crossed my path … but the quarterback’s protection broke down and he was sacked by Cornelius.
I wouldn’t have admitted it, but I was grateful not to have been tested on the first play.
Call, clap, I lined up again, hamstrings springy and fresh as I crouched into my stance. Wheeler, the tight end, went into motion. I pointed and yelled, adjusting my alignment. I’d watched my idols point on TV as I was pointing, and though there was no need to yell I did so anyway—I knew Hightower must be watching me, must be nodding his head at how natural Miles looked out on the field.
The ball was snapped, the handoff went to Kendrick, the Adonis from the lunge game in the weight room that winter. I beat the pulling guard to the hole, and when I hit Kendrick the tackle was so hard the collision felt downright soft, and when I drove him into the grass my nostrils were flooded with a wonderful, nearly cloying scent.
I stood up in the April sunlight, listening to players on the sidelines call out:
—All right, Furling!
I returned to the huddle, scarcely able to hear the call over my heartbeat.
The point where the tunnel emptied onto the game field was a large arch with benches lining its top rim. On a good day last season there would be a handful of fans waiting to congratulate players, maybe a kid with a team T-shirt he was too shy to ask us to autograph. But following the Purple and Gold Game a heave of people were waiting, shoving arms between railings in the hope of high-fives, tossing balls to be autographed, the crowd swelling so dangerously the security guards caught a couple people by the backs of their shirts to save them from taking spills onto the running track below.
At least half those fans wore number 23 replica jerseys, and when Reshawn approached the tunnel, the security guards strained to contain the surge, the railings digging into their backs so many fans were reaching down to touch Reshawn, have him sign something, or just get a closer look at the genius who’d rushed 190 yards on thirteen carries. But Reshawn didn’t look up when they called out to him, letting balls and programs and T-shirts rain onto the track as he disappeared inside. He was hurrying upstairs to shower, dress, and then hustle to catch the campus shuttle to Carsonville. Jamie had returned from California that morning.
I drove to the house around nine o’clock. By now all of Jamie’s roommates had finalized their postgraduation plans—consulting firms, law schools, backpacking odysseys—and as a result the Carsonville house had become the site of a near-perpetual party. Two teams of drunk students were playing croquet on the front lawn, using rusted equipment someone had discovered in an old woodshed behind the house. The dark porch was constellated by the ghostly green glows of blocky Nokia phone screens and the orange ends of cigarettes, while the chains of the porch swing groaned under the weight of six people. The house’s interior was even more hectic, with people resorting to sitting on coffee tables, in the deeply recessed wooden windowsills, on the stairs leading up to the second story. When I entered, Jamie was standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in a fresh red T-shirt with the Stanford tree in the center.
—Where have you been? she asked me, wobbling.
So she could hug me, she placed the Solo cup with her beer on a chest of drawers next to the front door. But once she released me and went to retrieve her drink, she found two Solo cups standing side by side, each filled with beer. She shrugged and grabbed them both, handing one to me.
—Congratulations, I told her.
I raised my drink after we toasted and noticed a long strand of hair floating in it. I set the cup back on the chest.
—Let me ask you, she said after gulping her beer. Is there any law saying football players can’t change schools?
—You mean transfer?
—Transferring. Is there?
—No. That’s allowed. Her eyes widened.
—I told him. Stanford would take him. They would. He hates this place, Miles. He says he doesn’t, but I know.
—Okay.
—Okay! So that’s the plan. You and me. We’ll get him to come to Palo Alto, and all this sadness? Poof.
It was painful to realize how much more I knew about Reshawn than this girl who loved him, to see how good Reshawn remained at keeping his secret.
She led me into the kitchen to get another round of drinks, and there we found Reshawn talking to some girls near the refrigerator. Reshawn wasn’t the sad boy Jamie had described—he was laughing, swaying, flirting, even drunker than Jamie. He saw us approach and arrayed Solo cups on the sink counter, pouring shots of Aristocrat vodka.
—To royalty! he said, and everyone repeated after him even though they didn’t know what he was talking about. I couldn’t tell whether he was he mocking them or himself.
Jamie left to use the bathroom, but after twenty minutes she still hadn’t returned. The keg was dead, the fridge’s alcohol raided, but Reshawn would not be denied. He rummaged in the cabinets until he found a tall brown bottle of something called Suze, an aperitif whose label was in French. He uncorked the bottle and passed it to me to sniff. The liqueur had a pleasantly strong scent of orange peel. He poured us each a shot, and it was
