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After the game, the Normans’ locker room became a celebration.
Flea carried a boombox on one shoulder and danced through the room. Ace of Base’s "The Sign" poured from the speakers, bright and catchy enough that half the team started moving with it.
Ford stood by the door, flipping the locker room lights on and off in time with the beat.
For a few minutes, the place was less a locker room than a dance floor.
Then Nolan walked in.
Everyone rushed him.
"Nolan, did you see Hawthorne’s faces? They looked like they swallowed dirt."
"Those Cougars thought you were going to spike it. You played them like fools."
"My birthday party is this weekend. You have to come."
"Your name is going to be all over school by Monday."
"I’m calling that last throw the Nickoll Miracle. Nolan Callahan, you’re about to blow up. Maybe the Los Angeles Times even mentions you."
Everyone spoke at once.
The Los Angeles Times part was not completely impossible. It was only a high school game, and the Times was the biggest paper on the West Coast, but at BHHS, high school football did not stop at campus borders.
Parents bought tickets. Neighbors came. Local papers and regional sports desks cared about big games and big moments. For a serious football household, the weekend rhythm was simple: high school football on Friday, college football on Saturday, NFL on Sunday.
Football was woven into the school’s identity.
Nolan had already felt it firsthand.
After the game, spectators had poured down from the stands and surrounded him for nearly twenty minutes of photos and congratulations.
Most of them had been girls.
Several girls leaned in for photos, and more than one slipped a phone number into his hand.
In the middle of all that, several slips of paper had appeared in his hand.
Phone numbers.
All because of one game.
Coach Thomas entered the locker room.
"Ford, lights on. Flea, music off."
The players stopped. Thomas clearly had something to say.
"Boys, every one of us is a winner tonight. Nolan Callahan completed one of the finest comeback drives I have ever seen. I will remember this day."
His voice slowed.
"But don’t forget Adam Newman. He went back onto that field hurt because he wanted this team to win, even if it meant risking his future. You do not need to worry for now. He has been taken to urgent care for evaluation, and we should have results tomorrow."
"And don’t forget our backup quarterback, every player who stepped on that field, Flea, Bronco, Mountain, Matic, every substitute, every coach, every coordinator, and yes, me too."
Thomas looked unusually moved.
"But we are not finished. We are one game ahead of Hawthorne in the standings. There is still one more regular-season game, and in theory, they can still tie our league record. We own the head-to-head tiebreaker, but we do not get lazy now."
"I knew it," Flea whispered beside Nolan.
Thomas had promised days off. Everyone had been waiting for him to take it back.
"However," Thomas shouted suddenly, "even if they tie our record, we hold the head-to-head. We advance."
He grinned.
"My promise stands. Boys, enjoy your weekend off."
Helmets flew into the air.
Before leaving, Nolan found Thomas.
"How bad is Adam’s injury? Can he play in the next game?"
If Adam was out, the next quarterback would be either Rice or Nolan.
Rice was probably the safer political choice.
"Adam still needs the full exam," Thomas said, "but he will not play in the next game. As for quarterback..."
He studied Nolan.
"You have talent. Everybody saw that. Rice played poorly tonight, but I cannot erase his work either. I need this week to think. You’ll get the answer at the last possible moment."
Nolan nodded and watched him leave.
Flea came over, slung an arm around Nolan’s shoulders, and lowered his voice near his ear.
"Let me warn you early. You may not be the starting quarterback."
He steered Nolan out of the locker room.
In the hall, Flea explained what he knew about Rice.
"Rice’s father is a senior manager at a regional oil company tied to the Beverly High drill site. He works with the Monterey Formation down here in Southern California. His dad is also on one of the school’s outside advisory boards. That oil project brings the school close to a million dollars a year in extra royalty revenue, and a lot of the athletic money is tied up in that whole picture."
Putting an oil executive on a school advisory board looked a lot like an exchange of benefits.
Things were getting complicated.
"Rice transferred in sophomore year," Flea continued. "We’re in the same grade. My dad used to work under his dad, so I know more than most people. His parents divorced when he was ten. He grew up without much discipline. Before BHHS, he got into a fight at a public school and hurt somebody, which is why he transferred. He has had plenty of conflicts since joining the team too."
Flea patted Nolan’s shoulder.
"I’m only telling you because I like you. Do not repeat this."
Then he tried to sound comforting.
"Don’t worry. Next fall, he’ll be a senior. Once he leaves, starting quarterback is yours."
Nolan would rather transfer than sit around as a backup.
Santa Ana Mater Dei was one option, one of Southern California’s football powers, a school that had produced real quarterback talent.
The problem was simple: every strong school already had a starter.
Adam’s injury had created the one opening.
When Nolan and Flea returned to the locker room, Rice was laughing with a few friends. He saw Nolan and smiled.
"Nolan, that last throw was nice. Lucky, but nice. I should suggest to Coach that we bring you in for a few key plays as a change-of-pace option. What do you think?"
The meaning was obvious. Rice already believed he would start.
"But..." Monte began, ready to defend Nolan.
"Come on, Mountain," Rice cut in. "You don’t actually think somebody who barely knows which side of the playbook is up can play quarterback, do you? Without my dad’s company pulling oil out of the school’s wells, where do your athletic aid packages come from? Who pays for Thomas?"
He looked around as if he had just made a moral argument.
Beautiful.
Weaponized obligation.
The oil company made money from the wells too. How the school budget was arranged was the school’s business. Thomas was hired by BHHS, not the company, and certainly not Rice’s father.
Nolan did not say that now.
The matter was not settled yet.
He changed clothes and left through the player tunnel.
Mia and Katherine were waiting near the exit. The moment Katherine saw him, she rushed over and wrapped him in a fierce hug.
"You were so damn cool tonight."
Her smile was bright.
Also a little dangerous.
"You looked like you were having fun after the game," she added. "Holding all those girls for photos. I saw at least a few give you phone numbers."
Nolan shrugged.
"Those papers went straight into the trash."
"Really?"
She did not believe him.
"Absolutely. Go dig through the trash if you want."
That part was technically true. He had thrown the papers away.
Before doing that, he had copied the numbers into his notebook and added descriptions by hair color, height, and enough context to remember who was who. Strictly for study purposes, of course. He needed classmates to help him catch up.
"I don’t care," Katherine said. "You’re at the age where your hormones are insane, and now you’re charming enough to talk your way into trouble. If you spend every night chasing girls, your legs will be useless and your game will fall apart. Starting tomorrow, we go home together."
"S.O.C.D.," Nolan muttered.
"Self-appointed older-sister disorder," Katherine said, smiling. "I admit it."
"All right, both of you," Mia said. "You’re too old to act like children in front of every parent here."
Parents packed the player exit after the game.
The three of them started to leave.
Then Nolan noticed Rice walking out.
The moment he reached his mother, he turned quiet and obedient, nothing like the arrogant kid from the locker room.
His mother stood beside a car in her deep V dress.
She was striking. Tall even without the thin heels, and with them, she stood almost level with Nolan. Her look was bright, deliberate, and practiced, her eyes sharp in a way that knew exactly what they were doing.
Nolan also noticed signs of work done to her face. Lips, nose, chin, forehead. Maybe more.
He could not judge the rest through the dress.
Still, women in Hollywood aged under brutal lights and brutal expectations. If someone had the money, spending tens or hundreds of thousands to maintain a look was normal.
And the money had not been wasted.
If Nolan had not lived through enough expense-account nights, client entertainment, and older men trying to impress younger women, he might not have noticed at all.
"Come on," Mia said beside him. "To celebrate your performance tonight, we are eating out. I also have good news for both of you."
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