Chapter 44: Interview
The post-game handshake line had the particular atmosphere it always had when the score was lopsided — one side moving through it with the loose, generous energy of people who'd gotten what they wanted, the other moving through it with the tight dignity of people who hadn't.
St. Martin's head coach, Coach Briggs, was a compact man in his mid-fifties who had been running a successful private school program for twelve years and was not accustomed to losing to public schools in the first round. He shook George's hand with the firm grip of someone who respected the result and resented it simultaneously.
"Good game," he said. Then, after a beat: "That transfer of yours — where'd you find him?"
"He found us," George said, with the moderate smile of a man who had earned the right to enjoy this moment and was pacing himself about it.
Briggs looked at him with the expression of someone who had more to say and had decided most of it wasn't worth saying. He settled on: "Your program's come a long way. Hope you make some noise in the next round."
It was the most generous thing a losing coach could offer — the implication that losing to a team that went far wasn't the same as just losing. George received it the way it was intended.
"Appreciate that," he said. "Good luck with your fall season."
They released the handshake. Briggs walked his team off the field with the quiet, specific dignity of a program that had class even on a bad afternoon.
George watched them go.
Top eight, he thought. We could actually make the top eight this year.
He hadn't let himself think that before today. He let himself think it now, briefly, and then put it away for later.
The team had gathered at the center of the field for the post-game huddle, the full roster — starters, backups, the players who'd never seen a snap — all of them part of the same thing.
Aaron stood in the middle of them and didn't make a speech. He just put his hand out.
Thirty hands went on top of it.
"One, two, three — Medford!"
The roar that came back was less a cheer than a release — the specific sound of a group of people who had been carrying something heavy and had just set it down.
Then Georgie and Aaron exchanged one of those looks that teammates develop after enough time on the same field together, and before Mike had fully processed what was happening, four sets of hands had grabbed him from different directions and lifted him off the ground.
"Hey—"
"You're going up," Georgie informed him, from somewhere below his left knee.
"I can see that—"
He went up.
The team carried him around the field on their shoulders with the specific, joyful chaos of people who had found the right target for their celebration and were committed to it. Mike made one serious attempt to get down and then gave up and waved at the crowd, which the crowd received enthusiastically.
On the sideline, the cheerleading squad had produced confetti and two canisters of blue-and-gold colored smoke that Regina had clearly planned in advance. The smoke drifted across the sideline and into the stands, and the Medford supporters who'd been waiting for exactly this kind of moment gave them everything they had left.
He finally made it off the field twelve minutes later, straightening his jersey, helmet under his arm, moving toward the sideline where the Cooper group was waiting.
Connie had her sun hat in one hand and the hundred-dollar bill from Wade Mercer in the other and was looking at both of them with the satisfied expression of a woman who had accurately predicted two things in one afternoon.
He was about fifteen feet from them when someone stepped into his path.
"Mike Quinn?"
The man was somewhere in his mid-forties, carrying a professional-grade shoulder camera with a local affiliate logo on the side, wearing a press credential around his neck and the slightly rumpled look of someone who'd been at a lot of events today and this was the last one. He had the tired eyes and genuine enthusiasm of someone whose job had just gotten considerably more interesting than expected.
"I'm Jack — Jack Pruitt, from the KTXS sports desk." He extended his hand. "That was an extraordinary performance out there. I'd love to get a few minutes if you're willing."
Mike glanced toward the Cooper group. Connie gave him an encouraging wave with the sun hat. George Sr. made a go ahead gesture.
"Sure," Mike said. "A few minutes."
He shook Jack's hand.
Jack's camera operator — a younger woman who'd been tracking Mike since the third quarter — set up quickly while Jack flipped through a small notepad.
"You comfortable on camera?" Jack asked.
"We'll find out," Mike said.
Jack smiled. "Fair enough. I'll keep it straightforward — you can pass on anything you don't want to answer."
He nodded to his operator. The camera light came on.
"First question," Jack said, settling into the focused rhythm of someone who did this professionally and was good at it. "Late in the third quarter, Medford's down in their own territory, most coaches punt in that situation. Coach Cooper goes for it and puts you in. What was going through your mind when you got the call?"
Mike looked at the camera without looking at the camera, which was the trick of it.
"Honestly? Just the play," he said. "Coach had been preparing me for situations like that all week. When he called my number, the job was clear — find the space, make something happen, help the team get out of trouble." He paused. "The credit goes to Aaron and the offensive line. They gave me the lane. I just ran it."
Jack made a note. "You made it look easy. The hurdle over those two linebackers — I've been covering high school football for eleven years and I've seen that maybe twice. How long have you been playing?"
Mike did the honest math in his head.
"I've been serious about it for about six months," he said.
Jack stopped writing.
"Six months," he repeated.
"Give or take," Mike said.
Jack looked at him the way people looked at information that didn't compute and was apparently true anyway. He wrote it down with the careful handwriting of someone making sure they had the number right.
"Six months," he said again, to himself, and moved to the next question.
They were four questions in when Regina appeared.
She didn't interrupt so much as arrive — the specific arrival of someone who had timed it deliberately and was presenting it as spontaneous. She stepped into the camera's sightline with the easy, practiced grace of someone who had understood cameras since middle school and had a working theory about angles.
"Hey, you." She touched Mike's arm briefly, then turned to Jack with the warm, professional smile of someone who had done local media before and found it comfortable. "I'm Regina George — I'm a senior here, head of the cheerleading squad. Mike and I know each other well. Happy to add some context if that's helpful."
Jack, who had clearly been planning to wrap up and had not planned on a photogenic senior cheerleader materializing in his shot, made the rapid calculation that most local sports reporters made in this situation.
"Sure," he said. "Absolutely."
Regina positioned herself beside Mike with the naturalness of someone who had decided this was where she belonged and was giving the camera time to agree. She talked about the team, about Mike's first week at Medford, about the school's football program in terms that were generous and specific and made her sound like she'd been paying close attention to all of it, which she had been, though not for the reasons she was implying.
She was, Mike noted with genuine respect, extremely good at this. Every answer landed exactly where she intended it. She made the interview feel like a conversation and herself feel like a natural part of the story.
At one point Jack asked her a question about the cheerleading squad's Summer League performance, and she talked about it for ninety seconds with the precision of someone who had been planning to say exactly that for exactly that long.
"Fantastic," Jack said, when she finished. He looked at his notepad, at the remaining questions he'd had for Mike, and made the executive decision that he had enough. "This has been great — really great. Mike, Regina, thank you both." He was already reaching for the camera. "Watch for the segment on Friday's evening broadcast."
He had the look of a man who was already composing his segment title on the walk back to his car.
Regina watched him go with the composed satisfaction of someone who had executed a plan cleanly.
"That went well," she said.
"For you especially," Mike said.
She looked at him with the expression that appeared when he said something she found genuinely amusing. "For both of us. You needed someone to talk about you. I was happy to do it."
"I noticed."
"You're welcome," she said, without irony.
Mike looked toward the Cooper section, where Missy was now holding both her sign and Connie's pennant, apparently having been put in charge of both.
He started toward them.
"Mike."
He stopped. Turned.
Regina had the expression she used when she'd made a decision and was presenting it as an invitation. "The team's celebrating tonight. There's a party at the Hendersons' place — their parents are out of town, they've got the backyard." She held his gaze. "You're the reason we won. You should be there."
It wasn't quite a question. It was the kind of invitation that had the shape of a question and the weight of something else.
Mike looked at her for a moment.
"What time?" he said.
The corner of her mouth moved. "Eight. I'll send you the address."
She turned and walked back toward the cheerleading squad with the unhurried confidence of someone who had gotten what she came for and was ready for whatever came next.
Mike watched her go for a half-second.
Then he went to find his family.
(End of Chapter 44)
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