The Backup Quarterback's Playbook

• Chapter 1 Holding the Clipboard
• Chapter 2 Homecoming Optics
• Chapter 3 The Queen and the Fake King
• Chapter 4 Accidental Audience
• Chapter 5 Spotlight and Sidelines
• Chapter 6 Rehearsal Interruptions
• Chapter 7 Scripted Moves
• Chapter 8 Off-Book
• Chapter 9 Friday Lights, Saturday Props
• Chapter 10 Under the Bleachers
• Chapter 11 Unofficial Dates
• Chapter 12 Breaking Formation
• Chapter 13 Phantom Signals
• Chapter 14 The Costume Shop
• Chapter 15 Half-Time Confessions
• Chapter 16 Double Coverage
• Chapter 17 Interception
• Chapter 18 The Rumor Mill
• Chapter 19 Stepping Into the Spotlight
• Chapter 20 Fumble
• Chapter 21 The Final Dress Rehearsal
• Chapter 22 Unscripted
• Chapter 23 Fourth Quarter
• Chapter 24 Calling the Audible
• Chapter 25 Standing Ovation
• Chapter 26 The New Playbook

The hardest part about being the second-string quarterback for the Oakridge High Wildcats wasn’t the bruised ribs, the seven a.m. weight room sessions, or the subtle, distinct smell of damp turf and old sweat that seemed permanently embedded in my laundry. It was the clipboard.

The clipboard was a slab of thick aluminum held together by a heavy spring clamp, scuffed at the edges and plastered with play sheets, clip-on highlighters, and the dry-erase board Coach Hayes used to diagram routes when the primary plan fell apart. Being the backup meant I was the official steward of that clipboard. While Chase Vance, our starting quarterback and the undisputed crown prince of Oakridge, took the snaps, barked the cadences, and got his picture printed in the local weekly paper, I stood three paces behind Coach Hayes on the sideline, clutching the aluminum board like a shield.

I was supposed to be studying the opposing defense, watching for secondary rotations or tendencies in their pass rush. Most of the time, I was just trying to keep my hands busy so nobody would notice how hard I was trying to look like I belonged there.

"Caleb, get the call in," Coach Hayes barked, not bothering to turn around. His

The Monday following our opening-game victory was less about football and more about public relations, though in a town like Oakridge, those two things were functional synonyms. Homecoming was three weeks away, but the machinery that drove it had already been whirring in the background since mid-August. Committees had been formed, floats had been drafted on grid paper, and the unspoken social hierarchy of the senior class was being quietly, ruthlessly calibrated.

I sat on the low cinderblock wall outside the cafeteria, picking at a lukewarm chicken patty sandwich while the mid-September sun beat down on the courtyard. Next to me, Chloe Miller was holding court, her phone propped against a bottle of sparkling water as she scrolled through a shared spreadsheet with the intensity of a air traffic controller.

Chloe was the head cheerleader, senior class vice president, and the undisputed architect of school spirit. She was also, for all intents and purposes, my girlfriend. Or at least, she was the person the rest of the student body believed I was dating, a narrative that suited both of us with terrifying efficiency.

"The color scheme for the float is navy and gold, obviously, but the spirit committee wants to bring in silver accents for the court procession," Chloe said without looking up from her screen. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a high, immaculate ponytail that didn't move even when the autumn breeze picked up. "If we go with silver, your tie needs to match, Caleb. Not grey. Metallic silver."

"I have a slate tie," I offered, taking a bite of the sandwich. "It’s kind of shiny."

Chloe finally looked up, her blue eyes narrowing slightly in affectionate disapproval. "Slate is for autumn funerals, Caleb. We're going for regal. You're standing on the field at halftime next to me, not reading an obituary."

"I'm the backup quarterback, Chloe. I spend most of my time standing on the field looking like a glorified coat rack anyway."

"You're second in line for the throne, which means you have to look the part," she corrected smoothly, leaning in to adjust the collar of my varsity jacket. Her touch was warm, precise, and completely devoid of any real romantic friction.

That was the deal, an arrangement forged during the second week of junior year over a shared plate of greasy fries at the local diner. Chloe needed a partner who was dependable, looked good in photos, didn't make clumsy physical advances, and wouldn't get drunk at parties and ruin her carefully curated image. I needed a high-profile girlfriend to shield me from the quiet, persistent questions about why I never asked anyone out, why I didn't join the rest of the team on their weekend hunting trips, and why I seemed so strangely detached whenever the guys in the locker room started rating the girls in our class.

It was a contract signed in mutual self-interest. To the outside world, we were the dependable, picture-perfect high school couple. To each other, we were business partners managing a brand.

"Look," Chloe continued, pointing her phone toward the patio area near the arts wing. "The court announcements are on Friday, but everyone already knows the lineup. Chase and Sierra are taking King and Queen, obviously. You and I are locked in for the court. Which means the photo op after the pep rally is critical."

I followed her gaze toward the arts wing, but my eyes didn't stop on the spirit squad members hanging poster board near the double doors. Instead, they drifted toward the steps leading down to the black box theater.

A guy was sitting on the bottom step, surrounded by three huge plastic tubs filled with painted wooden props. He was wearing an oversized thrift-store sweater despite the heat, a pair of worn canvas shoes, and had a paintbrush tucked behind his ear holding back a mess of dark, unruly curls.

Julian Diaz.

Unlike me, Julian didn't have a double life, mostly because he didn't seem to care enough to build one. He had come out at the beginning of sophomore year with a level of casual indifference that I found both terrifying and deeply envious. He didn't make a grand spectacle of it; he just stopped pretending, started wearing vintage coats, and spent all his free time in the drama department designing sets and directing the one-act plays.

As I watched, Julian lifted a large, painted wooden sunflower out of the tub, paused, and held it up to his face like a makeshift mask, turning to say something to a girl carrying a stack of script binders. She laughed, kicking his foot lightly before heading inside. Julian dropped the sunflower, laughing himself, a sound that carried faintly across the dry grass between the courtyard and the theater wing.

"Caleb? Are you listening?" Chloe's voice snapped me back to the cafeteria wall.

"Yeah," I said quickly, pulling my eyes away from the steps. "Metallic silver. Got it."

Chloe eyed me for a second, her phone hovering mid-scroll. She had an uncanny instinct for when I was distracted, though thankfully, she usually attributed it to playbooks, game stress, or my general lack of fashion sense.

"Good," she said, tapping the screen to close the app. "Because if Chase gets suspended for his attendance record and you end up taking snaps on Homecoming night, the local press is going to be taking twice as many pictures of us. We need the optics to be flawless."

"Chase isn't getting suspended," I said, leaning back against the brick wall. "Coach Hayes would give him an honor guard to walk him from class to class before he let him miss a game."

"Still," Chloe said, standing up and smoothing down her pleated skirt. "Preparation is everything. Walk me to class?"

I stood up, sliding my hands into the pockets of my jacket, and slung my backpack over one shoulder. As we walked through the courtyard, arm in arm, I made a deliberate point of looking straight ahead, steering clear of the black box theater steps, keeping my eyes fixed entirely on the path we had drawn for ourselves.