Chapter 43: Blowout

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"Something is happening on the sideline," John said from the stands.

He wore a baseball cap and had come as a private observer, not as a principal making a formal visit. Entering the locker room had not even been part of the plan until he happened to run into an assistant coach.

Mostly, he wanted to see the young man who had appeared like a meteor over BHHS football.

So far, aside from a mouth that desperately needed adult supervision, John liked Nolan Callahan.

There was another reason too.

John loved football. He had followed the Los Angeles Rams for years, and with the pro calendar quiet and the team’s future in Los Angeles feeling increasingly uncertain, high school football suddenly looked more appealing than usual.

"I cannot tell from here," Grace said. "Looks like something with their cheer squad."

Unlike her father, Grace had spent much of her life on sidelines without ever becoming sentimental about football. Her ex-husband had been a college quarterback and was now a professional player. That history had left her with more resistance than affection for the sport.

Her reason for coming was much simpler.

She still wanted Nolan Callahan.

For cheer.

She knew Burbank’s squad too. Two years earlier, they had won at USA Spirit Nationals. They were not just decoration.

"He is going in," John said.

"There he is." Grace fixed her attention on number eighty-eight and almost laughed. "Those colors really are a choice."

Orange and black looked fine on most of the team. On Nolan, the uniform drew attention in ways a school uniform probably should not.

Grace looked more than once.

"Next year," John said, embarrassed despite himself, "we revisit the design."

Then he turned back to the field.

"Basic I-formation look... cross action... nice screen. Now the run develops."

John leaned forward.

"That throw was gorgeous. Almost blind. With a helmet on, he cannot actually see the teammate at three o’clock from that angle. He is throwing off memory, movement, and trust. On the run too. Accuracy held. That is not bad at all."

John chuckled.

As a fan, he understood the value of the play. Nolan had made Burbank chase ghosts.

Grace could follow enough to see the difference. She had once watched her ex memorize play calls until they sounded like a foreign language. Nolan did not feel like those quarterbacks. He relied more openly on personal force, memory, and instinct. The field around him was becoming a stage.

Crack.

Pads collided three or four yards in front of Claire.

Number eighty-eight met a Burbank defender head-on. At the last instant Nolan turned slightly, showing shoulder instead of chest. The defender took the contact square and dropped backward, limp enough that the officials stopped play.

Medical staff and teammates rushed in.

Nolan, the cause of the stoppage, stood near the sideline.

Then he lifted his head and looked straight at Claire.

Behind the facemask, his blue eyes caught hers.

Claire looked away first.

She hated him. She wanted him to be the one on the turf.

’So why had her pulse jumped?’

She had watched his first drives with anger. Then with disbelief. Now something worse had begun to mix with both.

Attention.

Her brother came over.

"What did that bastard say to you?"

"He..."

Claire hesitated.

If she told the truth, there would be another fight.

She did not repeat what she had told the nurse earlier.

"Nothing."

"He said something."

Her brother had already decided he would settle it after the game.

"Wait." Claire’s eyes tracked a perfect deep ball from Nolan that ended in another touchdown. The scoreboard moved to 20-0, and the second quarter had barely settled in. "He is really good."

Her brother’s face locked.

’Why was his sister defending him?’

The sensation in his chest was immediate and irrational, like someone had reached for something he had protected too carefully.

"If we lose," he snapped, "we at least score."

Burbank did not.

The Normans’ defense denied them over and over. When Burbank finally found a gap, a flag wiped it away. After that, everything got worse.

Nolan’s offense moved through them with a cruelty that looked almost casual: throws over the top, runs through traffic, shifts that made defenders turn the wrong way. By the fourth quarter, the lead had grown to 42-0.

No professional quarterback was coming down from the clouds to rescue that score.

Nolan even threw one ball away on purpose and let Mark punt, offering Burbank a mercy possession.

Burbank refused the charity and gave the ball right back.

"I do not want your pity," their quarterback said as they crossed paths.

So Nolan ended the next drive himself, added the two-point conversion, and then Thomas pulled him for a younger backup.

His workday was over.

The final shape of the game was no longer in doubt.

The second Nolan reached the sideline, several Burbank offensive players stared at him as if they wanted to restart the morning’s locker-room visit.

The Normans had people beside him too.

Both sides gathered.

Coaches, Burbank staff, and even Claire hurried over before the scene became an actual fight.

With the result settled, Nolan chose honesty. He looked at Claire and shrugged.

"Everything I said on the sideline was a tactic."

"Who plays tactics like that?" Claire complained, cheeks puffing with irritation.

"A tactic is not judged by whether it looks polite," Nolan said. "It is judged by whether it works."

"You dragged me into it. I am not even on the field."

"You are the quarterback’s sister."

"Fine," Claire said after a beat. "I accept the logic under protest."

She seemed about to introduce herself properly.

Then her brother started shouting again.

Claire stepped forward and shoved him back toward his own team.

Nolan’s backups pulled him toward the locker room, and the confrontation finally died.

...

Nolan returned alone and started peeling off his uniform.

He had just removed his jersey, exposing his chest and shoulders, when an assistant coach led John and Grace into the visiting locker room.

"Young man," John said, taking a seat as if locker rooms full of half-dressed athletes were his natural habitat, "you have real ability."

He had suspected the newspapers were exaggerating.

Now he thought they had undersold the story.

Grace looked Nolan over with even less subtlety.

Broad back. Clean muscle. Sharp torso. Strong chest. Face like someone had carved the arrogant parts first.

’Could she squeeze one arm just once?’

Probably not professional.

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