Free Deadwood by Kell Andrews Page A

the thirty-yard line, Hannah clambered up the aluminum bleachers. Waverly and Libby picked their way up the rickety metal steps behind her. Most other high schools in the area had spanking-new concrete stadiums, but at least the grass on the field was green. The assistant coach, Jake Laughlin, her brother’s boss at the landscaping company, had donated field services, spraying enough chemicals to coax the rock-hard field into a patchwork of green, bright as artificial turf. Almost as bright as Martin’s aunt’s lawn.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Waverly demanded.
    â€œYou can see the game better from up high,” Hannah said over her shoulder.
    â€œBut we can’t see anyone from up there,” Libby complained, trying to make eye contact with some boys who looked old enough to drive. The boys ignored her.
    Hannah knew she meant that no one could see them . She preferred it that way. She caught a few people pointing and whispering at her. Everyone knew she was Nick’s little sister—she looked like a football player with a ponytail. She took off the sparkly scarf and stuffed it in her pocket as she sat down, avoiding the mud on the seats from somebody else’s footsteps.
    She waved at her mom and dad, dressed in red and black, five rows back on the fifty-yard line. Her mom waved but didn’t smile—too anxious, Hannah guessed. They all used to watch A.J. together as a family—Nick with his hair wet beneath a beanie, fresh from playing JV, and Hannah snuggling between her parents in a fleece blanket. Now she was old enough to sit with her friends, and A.J. perched a few rows behind them with his old high-school buddies, one of whom had a curly-haired baby, dressed in a Philadelphia Eagles jacket, on his knee. Even the babies knew better than to align themselves too closely with the Black Squirrels.
    The band ran through “Louie, Louie,” rather sloppily for a song played every game every year for the past four decades. They segued into “Hey Ya” as the flag-team girls pranced down the field in unitards, waving silk banners. Two held the ends of a paper banner painted with bubble letters spelling “Lo-B Rulz.” Hannah was glad Martin wasn’t there to see it.
    The team was building up to its grand entrance—not so grand, actually, because the players had to jog the full distance from the gym lockers, through the parking lot, and over the soccer field. A.J. and Nick always complained about the lack of locker rooms in the stadium, and Hannah could see their point.
    Hannah picked out Nick even without seeing his number—five, like Donovan McNabb had worn for the Eagles when they were kids. She smiled, just in case he could see her, too, but he seemed focused, staring straight ahead and bouncing from foot to foot. Waverly and Libby were still chatting.
    A drumroll rattled and the loudspeaker boomed, “Ladies and gentleman, the Black Squirrels!” Hannah yelled so loud she didn’t care if anyone else made a noise.
    Nick burst through the paper banner, the rest of the team flowing behind him like a red and black cattle drive. Head Coach Schmidt brought up the rear, his ball cap so high on his head it looked like it might pop off if he took a deep breath. His red nylon pullover was big enough to land a paratrooper and stretched tight over his gut. It was a stark contrast to Assistant Coach Laughlin, beefy but trim in a black polo and sharply peaked cap.
    Lower Brynwood won the coin toss, and the offensive line set up at the twenty-yard line after the kickoff ended in a touchback. Nick took the snap and dropped out of the pocket. He sent a low spiral to Chase, who shook off a defender to pull in the ball at the thirty-five. He spun to avoid a tackle and took off, accelerating toward the forty-five, the forty, the thirty-five. Even Waverly and Libby leaped to their feet. One defensive back and thirty yards of grass lay between Chase and the