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The BHHS Normans’ home uniforms stood out in the Ocean League.
Black formed the base. Bright orange cut through it. The effect was sharp, almost severe, which suited the school perfectly. Whether Beverly Hills could dominate on the field was one question. Looking the part was nonnegotiable.
Nolan looked down at the orange-and-black number on his jersey.
88.
A receiver’s number.
It looked right on a wide receiver.
The jersey itself was not what he had imagined. It felt closer to nylon, tight and elastic, designed to move with the body while offering a little protection.
Then came the pads.
Helmet, shoulder pads, hip pads, thigh pads, and knee pads. Everyone wore those. Gloves varied by position.
The shoulder pads and gloves were where the differences mattered.
To protect speed and range of motion, a wide receiver’s shoulder pads were the lightest and most flexible on the team. Defensive linemen, by contrast, looked as if they had strapped on armor plates.
The gloves had sticky rubber across the palms, enough grip to feel almost unfair, though it was completely legal.
Nolan stripped down, put on the pads and uniform, and stood in front of the mirror.
The shoulder pads widened him dramatically. His upper body narrowed into a clean V at the waist, the kind of shape every gym rat chased. In uniform, he looked powerful.
There was one obvious problem.
The pants fit tighter than Nolan expected, and the bright orange panels were not forgiving.
Nolan stared at the mirror.
"Who designed these colors?" he called to the teammates dressing around him.
Several players looked up and immediately started laughing.
"Man, you look like you wandered out of a superhero movie," Flea said, grinning.
"That color scheme had to be designed by some alumna with a sense of humor," Monte said, hiding a laugh behind one hand.
"All right, stop posing," Adam said. "Fix your gear."
"I didn’t do anything." Nolan shrugged. "This is how they fit."
Adam glanced once more, then muttered, "Shit."
"Fine," Nolan said. "I accept my fate. There are worse problems to have."
There were worse problems to have.
Last, Nolan put on the new cleats. Football cleats looked a lot like soccer cleats at first glance, but the toe had extra studs, and the upper was made from thicker, tougher material.
When Coach Thomas entered the locker room, every laugh stopped.
Helmets went on immediately.
Rice had once joked around too close to game time and been chewed out until the walls shook. Nobody planned to repeat his mistake.
Nolan put on his own helmet. It was hard plastic with padding inside, not especially heavy, though the facemask did cut into his vision.
"Everybody sit," Thomas said. "Twenty minutes to kickoff. Somebody tell me how long we’ve been preparing for this."
No one answered.
"As a team, you’ve put in hundreds of hours since last fall."
Thomas looked across the locker room.
"Since last September, we have been waiting for this moment. You trained through spring for this moment. You sweated all season for this moment."
"Our opponents have no idea what is waiting for them."
"I do not care who they put on the field."
"We run them off our field. Starting tonight, we do not let up."
"This is football. This is legal violence."
"I don’t care who lines up across from you. If your own father walks onto that field wearing blue and white, you hit him like he stole something."
Thomas let the silence hang.
"Do you want to know what it feels like to break somebody?"
The first response was firm but not loud enough.
"Louder."
"Yes!"
"Louder."
"Yes!"
"LOUDER!"
Thomas slammed the clipboard to the floor.
"YES!"
The locker room roared like something wild.
...
Outside, a student announcer’s voice rolled through the stadium speakers.
"Hello, everybody. This is KBEV Channel 6, and I’m Bob, a junior."
"Thank you to our cheer squad for the warm-up performance. Now the field belongs to the game. Are you ready?"
The voice echoed over the open stadium.
"It is eight o’clock Pacific time. Beverly Hills High School takes on Hawthorne High here at Nickoll Field in a key Ocean League matchup."
"We have at least three thousand fans in the stands tonight. Thank you to every parent, student, and neighbor who came out to support us. This game will help decide whether the Normans reach the CIF Southern Section playoffs, so make some noise for your boys."
The cheers bounced through the night. Under the stadium lights, Nickoll Field looked almost unreal.
"Of course," Bob added, the enthusiasm dropping just enough to be funny, "we also welcome Hawthorne."
The stands booed.
That was home-field hospitality.
"Enough talk. Let’s welcome your Normans."
Standing inside the tunnel, Nolan heard the call.
The team began jogging. Near the exit, the jog became a run.
A huge banner blocked the entrance. When the players reached it, the paper split down the middle.
The run-through banner was a college-style football tradition. The message on the front usually mocked the opponent. No profanity allowed, at least in theory.
The crowd’s noise hit Nolan all at once.
He ran with the team to midfield and tried to find Mia and Katherine in the stands. There were too many people. The lights were too bright. His heartbeat picked up, adrenaline rising in a hard, clean rush.
On the opposite sideline stood Hawthorne in blue and white.
The two quarterbacks, both captains, walked out for the coin toss. Adam got lucky. The Normans would receive.
The teams lined up for the opening kickoff. Hawthorne sent the ball deep, and the Normans’ return unit surged forward.
Nolan and his teammates formed a line, every body tense and ready.
On the sideline, Coach Thomas suddenly flashed a signal.
Adam understood at once and shouted toward Nolan.
"Nolan, Coach wants you back as the returner."
What?
Nolan was surprised. The returner was usually chosen before kickoff, but Thomas had changed his mind at the last second.
There was no time to think. Hawthorne’s kicker had already sent the ball into the air.
"Nolan’s fielding it," Adam shouted. "Everybody block. Get him moving."
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