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  His backup, and maybe not for long, was a junior transfer from San Antonio named Casey Lindell.

  “All’s Tim did,” Jake’s best buddy on the team, Nate Collins, said, “is move up in the line after your big brother got out.”

  They were stretched out in the grass, taking a water break in the high August heat before the last hour of practice today, drinking as much water as they could hold.

  Jake said, “Sometimes that’s the way it works in sports, that’s the way the line keeps moving.”

  Nate was a freshman, same as Jake. But last year’s center had graduated, and Nate was so big and so good, everybody knew when he was still in eighth grade that he’d be starting this season.

  Nate said, “Coach ought to give you a better look, not just see you as a freshman and put you in the back of the line.”

  “In your dreams, big man.”

  Nate, who looked like the old Hall-of-Fame player Warren Sapp, everything about him big, starting with his smile, said, “My mama thinks I’m a dreamer, too!”

  Nate Collins was six four and two hundred and sixty pounds already. And was still growing, both up and out. By next year, when some of the other guys on the O-line had graduated, Jake was sure they were going to move Nate over to left tackle, the Blind Side position on the line, the glamour position, the one where offensive linemen made the biggest money in the pros.

  In his spare time, he was also the biggest cheerleader at Granger High.

  For Jake, that is.

  From the time they’d started playing together when they were in grade school, Nate had always had way more confidence in Jake as a quarterback than Jake had in himself.

  It wasn’t that Jake didn’t think he had talent; he knew he did, had an ability to get the guys around him to play better, a knack for figuring out a way to make a play and win a game. He definitely had the brains for the position, grades in the classroom being the one shadow Jake had no trouble emerging from. He was a straight-A student. And it was his brains that made him a realist. He knew already that he just wasn’t going to be the player his dad had been before him, certainly wasn’t going to be the player his big brother had been.

  He had talent, just not Cullen talent, at least not that he’d noticed so far in his young life.

  “I know you get tired of hearing this,” Nate said. “But you got that magic in you.”

  “Here we go with the magic,” Jake said. “You brag on me like I’m Harry Potter trying to run a spread offense. Except we both know if my last name wasn’t Cullen, I’d be lucky to get time on special teams this season.”

  “You got to show Coach, every time you can, that when you absolutely got to make a play, you do,” Nate said. “Even if it isn’t always as pretty as, say, Sarah Rayburn.”

  “Ask you something?” Jake said. “You think you could ever go one whole conversation without mentioning her?”

  “Unlikely,” Nate said. “It’s too much fun for me, the way you’re crushin’ on her.”

  “Really? Hadn’t noticed.”

  “You just got to approach this with a better attitude,” Nate said.

  “Sarah or football?”

  “Football, least for now. Can’t let you just give up before the season begins, assume there’s no way for you to move up this season.”

  “You’ve got enough attitude for both of us,” Jake said. “I’m just being honest, is all.”

  “You know what the problem really is?” Nate said. “You’re the one needs to be more of a dreamer.”

  Jake sighed. Different day, same song. Nate was always giving him pep talks like this, on the field and in the locker room, at his house or Jake’s. Sounding like Jake’s mom sometimes.

  But never his dad.

  Troy Cullen kept telling his youngest son to just look at this season as a “learning experience.”

  And Jake would think to himself, Yeah, learn how to be the Cullen standing next to Coach McCoy while somebody else plays quarterback for good ol’ Granger High. Wyatt had started as a freshman, of course, becoming the first guy to ever be a four-year starter at quarterback for the Granger Cowboys—something even their dad hadn’t done. And yet Jake was already bigger than Wyatt, who stopped growing at six two. Jake? He at fourteen was already a skinny six three, on his way to what the doctors said would be six five when he finally stopped growing.

  Somehow, though, in all the important ways, Wyatt Cullen was all growed up, as they said in Granger, when he was fourteen, as if he had already been an upperclassman when he was a high school freshman.

  Jake was different, in so many ways he’d lost count. He had shared the quarterback’s job on the eighth grade team until halfway through the season, when he had made enough plays to take his team to the district championship game, where Granger had lost to Lovett.

  That and his last name were enough to put his name last on the depth chart at quarterback now.

  “You think I’m better than I really am,” Jake said to Nate. “Like you think that’s part of being my best friend.”

  Nate leaned closer to Jake, lowering his voice.

  “Gonna tell you a little somethin’ here,” Nate said. “Our senior quarterback ain’t getting it done this year. Don’t want to sound like a bad teammate, you know I’m not. But he ain’t the answer. And the transfer, walks around like he’s such a hotshot? He ain’t as good as he thinks he is. It’s why you got to make every snap count when we scrimmage. Open their eyes and make them see, dude.”

  “Isn’t that what that laser surgery is for?” Jake said.

  “Funny how the ball ends up where it’s s’posed to and when it’s s’posed to,” Nate said. “You think your arm’s your problem. It’s your brain.”

  “What’s wrong with my mind?”

  “You want the truth?”

  “Yes, please give me the truth, big man, so I don’t have to beat it out of you in front of the whole team.”

  “You just haven’t figured out you’re the Eli Manning of your family.”

  “Eli’s a freak.”

  “Well then,” Nate said, sitting up, hearing the same whistle from Coach McCoy they all did, “time to get your freak on, boy.”

  “You’re an idiot, you know that, right?”

  “Nah,” Nate said, “but I do snap the ball to one sometimes.”

  The two of them stood up, put their helmets back on, started walking back toward the newly painted white lines and brand-new turf of Cullen Field.

  “I’m telling you straight up,” Nate said. “It’s up to you to make them see what you got.”

  Jake thought to himself, and not for the first time:

  How do I do that when I still don’t see it in myself?

  03

  EACH OF GRANGER’S THREE QUARTERBACKS WOULD GET ONE series today, one crack each at the first-string defense, a chance to start at the twenty and see if they could take the ball all the way down the field.

  Soon as they didn’t make a first down, or turned it over, it was next man up.

  Tim Mathers went first and was shaky at the start, nerves already an issue with him even though he’d practically been handed the job. Jake had seen it when they’d started scrimmaging at the end of last week.

  Jake watched Tim, thinking this poor guy wasn’t the only one worried about the reach of Wyatt Cullen’s long shadow.

  But Tim settled down after a couple of bad throws, moved the offense past midfield, looked like he might go all the way until he telegraphed a deep sideline throw to Calvin, eyes locked on him the entire time, the ball intercepted by the Cowboys’ best corner—maybe best in the state this season—Ollie Gray, who had already committed to LSU for next year. Ollie had run with Calvin step for step all the way, turned back for the ball at exactly the right moment, caught it in stride inside the ten-yard line, as if he was the one who’d been Tim M
athers’s intended receiver all along.

  Casey Lindell’s turn.

  Casey looked old enough to be in college already, same height as Jake and easily weighing twenty more pounds. He had a rocket for an arm, had even started for his high school team in San Antonio since he was a freshman. But his parents had gotten divorced and his mom, who was from Granger, had moved back to her hometown with her three kids. Casey didn’t seem too worried about the move, or about Tim Mathers being the starter, at least for now. He was a cocky kid, not coming out and saying it but clearly thinking he was the one who’d be starting before too long.

  He was good and he knew it.

  One of those guys.

  One more quarterback Jake wanted to be like.

  And if he was as good as he thought he was, and did get the starting job, it meant Jake would be playing behind him for the next two years.

  It was just a week into practice, but Coach was only sending in about every other play, letting his quarterbacks decide what to call sometimes, wanting to find out about their decision-making as much as he wanted to find out about their arms. Wanting to see how much they’d been studying his playbook. And every time Casey got to make the call, he called Calvin’s number, four straight times, completing all four throws. It helped him move the ball, all right. But Jake, even as a freshman third-string quarterback, knew that was a mistake for a quarterback at any level. When you locked in on one guy the way Casey had, the defense was going to figure you out sooner or later, even if it hadn’t happened yet today.

  Calvin? He was fine with it, because as much swagger as he had on and off the field, Jake knew something about Calvin that Wyatt had told him:

  Behind the swag, Calvin was insecure, totally, worried that without Wyatt this season, he wouldn’t be the same kind of star he’d been last season when it was Wyatt Cullen throwing him the ball. And that was the thing about wide receivers, even the famous ones. It all went back to the immortal words of Keyshawn Johnson when he was still playing and not working for ESPN: They all needed somebody to throw them the damn ball. Today, Casey was keeping Calvin happy.

  It was funny, Jake thought, watching the two of them chest-bump when Calvin came back to the huddle—even as they acted like they’d become instant best friends, it was like they were using each other.

  Casey called Calvin’s number again from the defense’s fifteen-yard line even though it wasn’t his turn to call the play. Showing some rope, changing the screen pass Coach had sent in for Spence Tolar, calling an audible at the line of scrimmage. The new guy doing that, in training camp. Even with the screen set up to the left, Casey faked in, turned, and threw a perfect high fade to Calvin in the corner of the end zone for the score.

  The same play that Wyatt had called to win the state championship.

  Casey ran down to Calvin, the two of them celebrating as though they’d just won the BCS championship game, starting with a flying chest-bump, finishing with some complicated handshakes, like they’d been practicing together.

  But when Casey came back up the field, Coach McCoy said, “You changed the play we sent in.”

  Casey showed even more rope, impressed Jake by not backing down.

  “Safety read the screen perfectly, was moving over to that side as I was calling signals,” Casey said. “I knew that left Calvin single-covered.”

  Calvin was there, too, now, heard Casey say, “And Coach, I don’t think even Darrelle Revis can handle Calvin straight up.”

  Calvin smiled and pointed at Casey.

  “Lucky,” Coach said to Casey.

  “Sir . . . ,” Casey said, but Coach held up a hand before he walked away and said, “Lucky you were right.”

  Jake’s turn.

  When he got to the huddle, Nate said, “You got this.”

  “Long as I got you blocking for me, big man.”

  “Just pretend we’re playin’ at your house like when we were kids.”

  But Jake floated his first pass to his fullback, Spence Tolar, and nearly got picked off when the ball soared five yards over Spence’s head. On second down, he pulled back from center too soon, dropped Nate’s snap, and fell on the ball for a two-yard loss.

  Third-and-twelve, just like that.

  Jake knew he had to make a play now, find a way to swallow his nerves so the day wouldn’t be a total loss. He stood tall in the pocket, stepped up, hit Roy Gilley over the middle, Roy breaking a tackle and running all the way to the forty-five.

  Nate gave Jake a high five, said, “What I’m talkin’ about.”

  Now Coach had Jake throw the same pass to Spence he’d missed on first down, and this time Jake led him perfectly and Spence ran all the way to the defense’s thirty-eight before Ollie caught him from behind.

  They ran Spence off-tackle for four yards, followed by a short pass to Roy that got them to the defense’s thirty. Then came a quick slant to Calvin on third-and-two, Jake wobbling the throw—if you were looking for spirals every time, Jake Cullen wasn’t your guy—but still putting it right on the 1 on Calvin’s chest.

  First down at the twenty.

  But Jake and Spence messed up on a handoff, Spence falling on the ball in the backfield for a five-yard loss. Then Jake threw behind Roy on second down. Third-and-fifteen. A sideline throw to Calvin gained ten.

  Taking them all to fourth-and-five.

  And at the end of practice, just for the fun of it—because Coach McCoy had always wanted football to be fun—he called the same pass for Jake that Casey had just called on his own.

  Wanting to see if Jake could deliver the goods on it the way Casey Lindell had.

  Jake took the snap cleanly, dropped back, plenty of time, Nate taking out Luke Kelly, their big-as-a-barn nose tackle, with a block that knocked Luke back before it just flat knocked him down.

  Having been given the extra time, Jake told himself not to rush the play, to let it happen, waited as Calvin faked out even the great Ollie Gray, broke into the clear the same way he had against Fort Carson, turned and waited for Jake Cullen to get it to him the way Wyatt and Casey had.

  Not even close.

  Jake tried to put too much on it just to make sure he didn’t miss somebody as wide open as Calvin was, not give Ollie a chance to recover and get back into the play. He knew the ball had sailed on him—big-time—as soon as it came out of his hand. He threw it over Ollie and over Calvin and nearly threw it to the cheerleaders, having their own preseason practice behind the end zone at Cullen Field.

  Calvin put his head back and made a big show of watching the ball fly over his head like he was watching a plane take off.

  Jake didn’t move, stayed right where he was in the pocket when he’d released the ball, thinking that the only thing anybody was going to remember from practice today was the last thing they saw, a god-awful, piss-poor throw like that.

  Nate was next to Jake, of course.

  “Got away from you, is all,” he said.

  “You think?” Jake said.

  Then Calvin was there, like he was as fast getting back to Jake now as he usually was running his pass patterns.

  “Dude, you sure you and Wyatt are related?” he said.

  04

  JAKE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY TO THAT, JUST WATCHED CALVIN walk away, shaking his head.

  Coach blew his whistle and said he’d see everybody tomorrow, bright and early. Jake didn’t even stop for a drink, just headed for the parking lot. Tim Mathers had said he’d give Jake and Nate a ride home.

  Jake felt a hand on his shoulder, was about to turn and tell Nate he didn’t need any more pep talks, not today. But then he saw it was Ray Jessup, the team’s new offensive coordinator, a former Granger wide receiver, not even thirty years old yet, but already having gone into coaching. And you could see two things about Coach J already, in just a week. One was how much Coach McCoy trusted him to call
plays.

  The other was how enthusiastic he was.

  Jake said, “Coach, I stopped watching after a while. My throw come down yet?”

  Ray Jessup smiled. “I think you might have taken out one of the cheerleaders doing the pyramid.” Shrugged like it was no big deal, said, “You tried to make it too perfect, is all.”

  “Ended up doing the opposite.”

  “But you made two third-down plays when you had to, that’s what I took away from today.” Giving Jake a little fist-pump.

  “You, maybe. Not me.”

  “You’re gonna get better,” Coach said.

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “One of these years.”

  “No, I mean you’re gonna get better today,” Coach said. “Stick around after the other guys are gone.”

  “I was gonna catch a ride with Tim.”

  “Let’s you and me have a little game of catch,” Coach said. “I’ll give you a ride home. Not like I don’t know the way; I used to work summers at the ranch for your grandpa.”

  “Coach, I’m a whupped dog.”

  “You just think you are.” Smiled and said, “C’mon, dog. You gotta love it!”

  Some days, Jake wasn’t so sure.

  How much he really loved it.

  Jake was too tired to still be on the field after all his buddies were gone. The day was too hot even for Granger, a town Jake had always thought of as the brown-grass capital of Texas, which meant it was probably the brown-grass capital of the world. Plus they’d spent the first hour and a half of practice today doing conditioning drills in full pads, Coach telling them that the heat wasn’t going anywhere even when the season started up for real.

  And he still was kicking himself for missing Calvin the way he had, by a country mile.

  But somehow, to Jake’s surprise, Coach Jessup made their one-on-one workout fun, doing play-by-play even as he was running his pass routes, his voice booming in Cullen Field, telling Jake at one point he was ready to go all day and all night, put the lights on if he had to.