Trent Reedy - Divided We Fall

“Murderer,” one of the opposing players said as I stumbled back to our huddle, trying to shake the pain after the jerk cleated my leg.

It was third and fifteen on our own thirty-five-yard line. Sweeney might have completed a pass to TJ, who was wide open since they were stacking the coverage on me, but a couple Wolves busted through the line and sacked him for a loss of seven. Skylar Grenke came out to punt.

“You okay?” Sweeney asked as I made it back to the huddle.

“Great. You?” I said.

“That was a rough hit, but nothing like you’ve had all night,” he said. “They’re all over you.”

“They heard the news,” I said. “And they’re pissed.”

Skylar reached the huddle. “Deep punt,” he said to Sweeney.

I grabbed Sweeney’s shoulder. “Remember our first game, when you helped me get back into things?” He nodded. I stepped closer so only he could hear. “I need something like that again. Fake this punt. They won’t hate me enough to double up coverage when they could be going to block the punt.”

“You’re crazy,” said TJ, overhearing. “We’re down by six and have terrible position. If you don’t catch it, they’ll take over right here and be ready to score.”

“So you go long too,” I said. “I don’t care who gets it. I just want to stick it to these bastards.”

“We have to hurry!” Brad said.

“Let’s do it,” said Sweeney. “Deep punt on one. Break!”

We ran to the line. I shot a look over at TJ on the other side of our formation. He shook his head. Coach would make us run until we puked for this stunt, but if it worked, it would be worth it.

The ball was snapped and I shot ahead, spinning off a linebacker and running into open field. Only two defenders were between me and the end zone. They split to go after me and TJ. Sweeney fired his pass a second before they took him down. “I got it!” I yelled to TJ, who ran toward me.

“Drop it, murderer,” came a stranger’s voice from behind me.

But I caught it and ran like mad. TJ took out the last defender right in time. Then I went on ahead for the touchdown. TJ followed me in and slapped me five.

“That was stupid,” he said with a smile.

“Thanks,” I said.

Our two-point conversion put us ahead, and the rest of the quarter was a defensive battle. Cal came unglued, shooting through the line for three sacks. That backup quarterback was hobbling around, looking pretty pathetic by the time the game was over.

When we went though the line to shake hands and say “good game” over and over, every third or fourth guy would call me a murderer or worse. To those assholes, I’d say, “You lost.” It helped a little bit.

The celebration in the locker room was all loud screaming metal, snapping towels, and the guys laughing and talking about different great plays from the game. A bunch of them slapped me on the back or punched my arm, saying “good job” for my catch. Even Coach Shiratori said it was a beautiful play. “But if you guys try a stunt like that again, I’ll make you run until you die,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. The little victory party was exactly what I needed.

Finally, after we had all showered and dressed, Coach announced that the bus was waiting to take us home, and we should pack our gear and get moving.

“I can’t believe we pulled off that fake punt,” Sweeney said, walking beside me toward the door to the parking lot.

Cal stepped up on the other side, clapping his hand on my aching shoulder. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, showing off his muscles, which were bruised in at least three different places. “You got balls of solid rock, Wright. Not only the fake punt, but the way you stayed in the fight even with all those assholes gunning for you. All those extra cheap shots and dirty hits they were throwing on you just pissed me off. I think it helped me play better. I hit every one of those sons-a-bitches twice as hard.”

“Glad I could help.” I shoved the bar across the middle of the outside door to push it open. The cool breeze felt good after the dank, steamy locker room.

Everything lit up bright.

“Daniel Wright, what is your response to being publicly named as one of the shooters from the Battle of Boise?” a woman with a microphone shouted.

A man with a large gut stepped closer, a cameraman following right behind him. “Why did you shoot that night?”

Hundreds of cameras flashed so that I could hardly see. Another man tried to push Sweeney aside to get closer to me. “Private Wright, who gave the order to fire?”

Sweeney wedged back in front of him. A blond woman stood a few feet away in front of a camera that shined a blindingly bright light. “I’m here live on the scene, and this is Battle of Boise shooter Private First Class Daniel Wright’s first public appearance since his role in the massacre has been confirmed,” she said into the lens.

Cameras and lights were everywhere. Through the glare and the flashes, I spotted our bus parked thirty yards away. At least a hundred reporters crowded the parking lot and kept surging toward us. A small helicopter camera drone hovered overhead. There were almost more media people wedged in between us and the bus than there had been fans for both sides at the game. The questions started blurring together.

A Bonners Ferry police car had pulled up behind the crowd. Its red and blue lights kept spinning past the brick school wall and across Sweeney’s and Cal’s worried faces. One cop struggled to push through the crowd, trying to restore order. “You people need to get back! Clear the area!”

“Daniel Wright, I’d like to interview you for People magazine!”

“Can you give us the names of any other shooters?”

“What are we going to do?” Brad Robinson had come out of the locker room behind us. “They got us blocked off from the bus.”

Coach Shiratori joined us outside. “You have to let us through. I have to get these boys home!”

Another woman held her comm up, shooting video. “Mr. Wright, how many people did you kill in Boise?”

The bright light, the hundreds of questions flying at me, the accusations. It all froze me where I stood. Like the nightmare at Boise all over again, the noise and the pushing mass of bodies.

“I just… wanna play football,” I said. “Can’t you leave me alone?”

“What was that?” “What did he say?” “Something about football.” “Can you repeat that, Danny?” “Was it a confession?”

“All right, screw this!” Cal shouted. He shoved me back behind him. “Form up! PAT formation, now! We’re moving to the bus.”

Coach blew his whistle and the guys started taking their positions for the Point After Touchdown formation. Sweeney grabbed my arm. “Stay with me, dude. We’ll get you out of this.”

“Get out of the way!” shouted Brad at center. “Come on, boys. Shoulder to shoulder. Nobody gets between us.” He started walking forward, and the whole line moved as one. The linebackers and second stringers made a wall to protect our side. Slowly, we pushed our way through the crowd of reporters and cameramen.

“Who gave the order to fire?” “Was it Governor Montaine?” “What were your rules of engagement for the mission?”

“Danny!” JoBell shouted from somewhere in the back of the crowd. “Danny!”

I shielded my eyes from the bright lights. Finally, I spotted JoBell and Becca trying to push through the army of reporters.

“Girls, you’ll have to meet us at home,” Coach Shiratori shouted. Then he pointed at the struggling cop. “You have to call for backup.”

“They’re on their way!” the cop said. “Get on your bus.”

“Can you confirm reports that some of the protestors were armed?” “Did you yourself sustain any injuries that night?” “Is it true that one of the soldiers in your squad is a member of a white supremacist group?” “Was race a partial motivator for the shootings?”