Page 31 of Dream Chaser
Every game. Same routine.
Nothing written on tape. No charms. No photos.
Just the rhythm. Gramps taught me that when I went to live with them so I didn’t have to move schools and could focus inon what I knew was my passion, and what my dad said was a fucking joke. I remember the fight as if it were yesterday. He told me, “Go ahead; play a fucking game. You’re too soft to do what I do, anyway.” Under his breath, I heard him say, “Fucking waste. Should have been you.”
Mom did flinch … that time. But she didn’t stick up for me, never did.
Behind me, Grimes is muttering to himself, already tapping his helmet. Hart’s got his headphones in, nodding like he’s in another world. Boone’s with us. Even though he can’t play, he’s still fucking here.
Then the locker room goes quiet.
Coach Cohen steps in, and we all stand.
His voice is low, calm, but we know the switch is coming. He’s holding a laminated poster board. Just black print. A list.
“Bricks,” he says, and Bricks, our biggest D-line guy, jolts like he’s been caught texting in class. “What’s the top one say?”
“1989, last division win. But we changed that.”
“Hell yes, we did,” Coach Moore hoots.
Cohen turns. “Decker, what does the next one say?”
Deck reads, “1992, last conference championship game. We’re gonna change that, too.”
“Damn right,” we all say.
Cohen continues, “Boone, the next line?”
“1974, last league championship. We’re gonna fuck that up, too!”
We all roar.
Coach nods, setting the board down on the bench like it weighs a thousand pounds. “Sit.”
We all drop.
“You’re not here to just play a fucking game,” Cohen starts. “You’re here because the owners, this staff, all of Blue Valley, and the Knights fucking kingdom have faith in you. This season,you proved them right. You are the ones who change the story. You laid the first bricks in our quest to build a legacy.”
No one moves. No one blinks.
“The vision from day one has been this: knock the dust off those numbers. Make the next one count. You don’t want to be the guy who nearly did it. You want to be the name they chant in bars, talk about in college and high school locker rooms, and wear on their backs ten years from now. You want the win? Earn it. Go through them ontheirfield. Take it back home. And keep going.”
A slow clap starts from the corner. Boone. Then Hart. Then the whole damn room.
We’re not just hyped. We’re locked in.
“Game day. Let’s fucking go!” Logan yells.
I quickly pull my old cleats from my bag and set them in my locker before leaving with the team.
We’re in the tunnel. Lights dimmed, smoke machines humming low, and the sound coming from the stadium is damn near deafening.
The home team gets their entrance first, of course. Fire shoots from both sides of the tunnel, and DMX’s “What’s My Name” blasts through the speakers. The players are announced, and that sound—although it seems impossible—grows. Philly’s crowd is frothing already. They love a show, a fight, a win … no matter how the game is played.
But something about the song—about them using that song—rubs wrong, especially after hearing a few guys talk about podcasts they’d heard talking about what our team has gonethrough the past few weeks, and knowing damn well they can rattle us. I get it’s a fight.
I glance over at Lucas just as he lifts a hand.
