by Sean Rodman
Copyright © 2019 Sean Rodman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Rodman, Sean, 1972–, author
The bodyguard / Sean Rodman.
(Orca soundings)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-2201-6 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-4598-2202-3 (PDF).—ISBN 978-1-4598-2203-0 (EPUB)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings
PS8635.O355B63 2019 jC813'.6 C2018-904882-4
C2018-904883-2
First published in the United States, 2019
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018954080
Summary: In this high-interest novel for teen readers, a star football player who dreams of being a filmmaker agrees to be an exchange student’s bodyguard.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Edited by Tanya Trafford
Cover images by iStock.com/digitalskillet (front) and
Shutterstock.com/Krasovski Dmitri (back)
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
22 21 20 19 • 4 3 2 1
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To Laura. I couldn’t do it without you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
An Excerpt from “Infiltration”
Chapter One
Chapter One
My name is Ryan “Replay” Hale. According to the local newspaper, I’m the greatest running back that Marathon High School has ever seen. The Marathon Tribune called me a “talent to watch.” And “the golden boy of the Golden Warriors.”
But they don’t know about my pregame ritual—barfing quietly in a locker-room bathroom stall, hoping nobody hears me. The only one who does hear me, unfortunately, is my best friend, Alex. He always stands guard outside.
“Replay?” he hisses through the stall door. “You almost finished? Game time in five.”
My empty stomach lurches again, trying to hurl whatever might be left down there into the stained toilet bowl in front of me. The result of a nasty cocktail of nerves and fear. Not for the first time I wonder at the cruel joke of genetics that made me into a football superman. I’d much prefer to be Clark Kent. I have a love-hate thing with the game of football.
I’m distracted from my misery by muffled voices outside the stall door.
“Replay must have had a bad burrito, Coach,” I overhear Alex say. “No big deal, sir. He’ll be right out.”
Alex thumps on the door. “Seriously, man! Ride the vomit comet and get out here.”
There’s no more putting it off. I can’t disappoint Alex. My team. My parents. I wipe my mouth with the back of a gloved hand and adjust my neck roll. My stomach feels like it’s filled with battery acid. But it’s time for my game face. I slide my helmet on, hoping it will hide my seasick expression, and open the stall door.
“Replay! Good to see you, man!” Alex checks his watch and raises an eyebrow. “Seventeen minutes and thirty-seven seconds of solid puke.” His teeth flash white as he grins and slaps me on my shoulder pads. We walk out of the locker room and through the dim tunnel toward the brightly lit field. He’s chuckling to himself all the way.
“What are you so happy about?” I ask. As we step out of the tunnel, the noise and sights of the field make Alex pause before answering. The big screen is flashing a pre-game show, throwing crazy shadows everywhere. The stands are like rippling sheets of gold, Warriors fans decked out in our school colors. It feels like a circus with the drums banging away and cheerleaders spinning and twirling, all blond hair and wide smiles.
We walk over to our place on the bench. It’s occupied by a new guy, a freshman. Alex gives him the hard stare until he shoves over. Star treatment for the star players, like me and him. I guess football has some perks.
“Why am I happy, you ask? Well, I’m proud of you, son.” Alex puts a fatherly hand on my shoulder.
“Proud of me? For what?”
“That was your personal best for a pregame spew-fest. The more you barf, the better you play. I’ve watched you do this for what, a dozen games?” He gives me a toothy grin. “Bet you didn’t know this, but I timed all your barf-o-thons.”
“That’s actually kinda creepy.”
“No, no. I’m a scientist, man. I have the data to back me up now. It’s not just a theory. Longer barf session equals better game performance. It’s a fact. You’re going to be awesome on the field tonight.” Alex suddenly looks serious and leans in toward me. The crowd roars louder. “Just don’t lose your lunch while you’re wearing your helmet. That’ll get ugly.”
“Thanks for the advice, man.” Time for the other part of my pre-game ritual. I pull out a small video camera from my backpack under the bench. “Also, how come you know so many words for ‘puke’? How many can there be?”
“Challenge accepted, my friend! Let’s see…there’s blow chunks. Toss a sidewalk pizza. Chunder. Curl and hurl. Drive the porcelain bus…”
I tune Alex out and flip open the little screen on the side of the camera. Pressing the red Record button, I scan the field. Two lines of players. We’re in gold, they’re in white. The quarterback barks out his call, then snaps the ball forward. Game on. I pan over to the stands. The drummers in front, thrashing away on their instruments. Behind and above them, rows and rows of fans wearing gold-colored T-shirts and hats. I pause for a moment and zoom in on a middle-aged couple, cheering frantically. They’re dressed in matching oversized Golden Warriors T-shirts and shimmery gold wigs. I groan softly. Mom and Dad. Hard-core football fans. Unlike myself. I click off the camera and put it back into my pack. I realize the new guy is studying me, wide blue eyes under a mop of blond hair. What is he, like, ten years old?
“You getting game tape or something?” he asks. “So you can study it later? That is so pro.”
I shrug. The truth is that just seeing everything through the camera screen kind of calms me down, gives me some distance. I like movies, real life or made up.
Alex stops listing all the words for puke to answer the new guy. “Yeah
, he tapes every damn thing, all the damn time. That’s why we call him Replay.” Alex shakes his head “You have so much to learn, newbie. Go get us some Gatorade.”
Coach comes over. He never walks, runs or hustles, no matter what’s happening on the field. He saunters like some old-timey cowboy. He bends down to look me in the eye. “Ryan, you gonna make us proud today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get out there. It’s your time to shine.” He slaps me on the helmet.
I trot onto the field along the solid wall of linesmen. The play is called a draw. Designed for a high-speed running back such as myself, it relies on a couple of things to work. First, my big refrigerator-shaped friends—like Alex—need to block the opposing refrigerator-shaped linesmen and pin them down. Then I have to spot a hole in the grunting mass of players and shoot through it, like a turbo-powered slippery eel. If everything goes right, we gain some yardage. If not, I get crushed under hundreds of pounds of irate refrigerators. I belch into my helmet, wincing at the stench.
As I squat into position directly behind the quarterback, I hear him make the call. In a moment, the QB has the ball and is pedaling backward toward me. He’s making it look like he might throw a long pass down the field. Instead I rush up toward him, and as I sprint by, the QB stuffs the ball into my waiting arms. I quickly scan the field and panic a little. No holes to shoot through. I swerve and keep running, hoping something will open up. Nothing. I can practically touch the wall of linesmen struggling ahead of me. Nothing.
And then it happens. Players peel off to the left and right, tumbling to the ground. There’s my window through the line. One guy leaps out of nowhere, but he’s timed his tackle too early. He skids into the grass right at my feet. I lift off, leaping over him like he’s a big, stanky speed bump. And then I’m on the other side of the line, free and hurtling down the field. The crowd roars around me. Players on both teams, white and gold, are tearing after me. But I cannot be stopped. I am pure momentum. I am a rocket, a meteor, tearing across the green sky of the field.
For a moment there, I think football is pretty all right. Then my legs get pulled out from under me, and I pinwheel into the ground. My face slams against the front of my helmet, and I taste metal in my mouth. A second later a refrigerator lands on my back. But the crowd is going wild, because I’ve gained some serious yardage for my team. They’re chanting my name: “Replay! Replay!”
Like I said, I have a love-hate thing going with the game of football.
Chapter Two
“Why does the computer lab always smell like moldy cheese?”
Following Alex’s lead, I take a cautious sniff. I’ve never noticed it before, but he’s right. Dirty socks or wet dog. Weird. But it sort of fits in with the general vibe of the broken-down computer lab. A bunch of old whirring boxes attached to smudged screens that kinda-sorta work. The walls are decorated with posters suggesting we learn to code or study engineering, peeling slowly away from the wall. It’s a sunny day outside, and it seems criminal to be stuck in this cheesy-smelling, despair-filled room.
The guidance counselor, Mr. Pier, is working his way around the class, logging everybody into a website designed to “give us feedback on possible career choices.” Eventually Alex and I start filling out screen after screen of questions:
I would rather be (choose one):
(a) audit manager
(b) a safety manager
“I would rather (c) punch myself in the head,” whispers Alex. I snicker.
I enjoy hobbies I can do on my own, such as gardening or developing photographs. (True/False)
“Developing photographs?” hisses Alex. “I think my gramps did that when he was a kid. Right after he used his telegraph.”
I would rather be (choose one):
(a) an artist
(b) an athlete
The smile fades from my face. It’s not a real choice, is it? If you want to make art—say, movies—guess what happens? You starve to death. “Artist” is not a real job. Being an athlete, on the other hand, can get you places. College on a full-ride scholarship, for example. A career with the NFL. Using your talents as an investment in your future.
“You all right?” Alex is looking at me, his big forehead crinkled in concern. “I mean, you’re looking at that screen like it gave you ‘psycho killer’ as your future career.”
I punch him in the shoulder, a little harder than I mean to. Alex swears in surprise, which draws the attention of Mr. Pier.
“Mr. Martinez?” he says to Alex. “Do we have a problem?”
“No, sir. Sorry. I’ve finished the quiz. What do I do now?”
“Just be patient. The software is combining your academic transcripts with your answers. I’ll print out a copy of your report when it’s done. That way you can share it with your parents.”
As Mr. Pier walks toward the printer, Alex turns to me. “What has got you wound so tight, man?”
“I don’t know. Graduation, college, jobs. It’s all really…complicated.”
“Complicated?” Alex looks confused. “We are legendary football players! Colleges want legendary football players. Colleges have money. We don’t have money. We will take their money. And we will be kings!” He lifts both hands in the air, victorious, like he just spiked the ball in the end zone.
“King Alex?” Mr. Pier says dryly, reappearing over his shoulder. “Your enthusiasm for career planning is impressive. But dial down the volume. Here are your reports.”
“Hey! Stand-up comedian!” says Alex, reading the first page. “That’s awesome! I can do that. And radio announcer? Like a DJ? All right!”
“I’m thinking you may not have taken the quiz seriously, Alex,” says Mr. Pier. Just then the bell rings. There’s a roar of chairs scraping and feet stampeding for the door. I nod at Mr. Pier, and we make our escape.
Alex and I shoulder through the crowd toward our lockers.
“DJ Alex Martinez!” he yells over the top of all the heads. “I like the sound of that!” He mimes spinning records, scratching back and forth.
We reach our lockers, clearing a couple of juniors out of the way with hard stares. I undo the padlock and slam the thin metal door open.
“Seriously, dude?” I say. “You’re definitely not a comedian. And I can’t see you being a DJ. Like you said, we’re going to play ball.”
“Hey!” Alex suddenly spins me around and pushes me against the lockers. He looks fierce. He shoves one finger into my chest.
“Remember, music chose me—not the other way around. Music is not what I do. It’s who I am. Twenty-four hours a day, eight days a week, broadcasting the live beats all around the world!” His face splits into a wide grin. “Damn, Replay! Lighten up! You are taking this crap way too seriously! You know it doesn’t mean anything, right?”
“Okay, maybe I was wrong,” I say. “The comedian thing sort of works for you.”
Alex pretends to straighten up my T-shirt and dust it off. “You know it. Now let’s get to practice. That’ll get you thinking straight again.”
Chapter Three
The first time I see Markus I’m headed down the hallway, my sneakers squeaking on the concrete floor. He’s wearing beige pants with neat creases—my gramps would call them slacks—a white dress shirt and a gray jacket that almost reaches his knees. His clothes look expensive but awkward somehow, like someone else chose his entire outfit.
I overhear him talking to Emily and Mina, two girls from the cheerleading squad. He has a thick accent that has a sort of singsong quality to it.
“I was kind of a big deal,” he says. “I mean, it wasn’t like I was super famous for playing poker. But I was, you know, almost super famous?” The girls are smiling, but they have this look on their faces like he’s been talking at them for a while now. The curiosity is wearing off. Emily sees me out of the corner of her eye and seizes the opportunity.
“Hey, Replay! Come meet the new kid,” she says brightly. “Sorry, what was your name aga
in?”
“Markus,” he says. He thrusts out a hand for me to shake like he’s stabbing me with a knife. I carefully take it, and he pumps up and down a few times. His palm feels wet and cold. Markus blinks behind his thick glasses and studies me.
“You play football here?” he asks. “You look very strong.”
Emily looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Sweetie, he is one of the best football players in town.” She smiles. “In fact, he can tell you all about football. Mina and I have to get to practice. See ya!” Emily and Mina swing their backpacks over their shoulders and hustle off down the hallway.
Markus smiles tightly. “Uh, I did not play football in my home country. I was not an athlete so much.”
Looking at his scrawny frame, I can understand that. “You’re the new exchange student?” I ask.
He nods. “Before coming here, I was studying in Estonia. You know Estonia?”
“Estonia? That’s, like, Lord of the Rings, right?”
“No.” He blinks and slowly shakes his head. “It is a very small country close to Russia. On the Baltic Sea? Next to Latvia?” Markus can see that I have no idea what he is talking about. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Most people don’t know where it is. You have lived in Marathon a long time?”
“All my life. Born and bred.”
“You like it? It’s a pretty small town, no?” Markus says.
“Well, it’s all right. Probably still bigger than Estonia.”
Markus laughs, which startles me. It’s a kind of a half snort, half wheeze with a hint of honk thrown in at the end. I see Markus look past my shoulder and nod. “That teacher wants you, I think.”
I turn around and see Mr. Pier hovering, a paper in his hand.
“Thank you, Markus,” Mr. Pier says. “Can I have a word with Replay, uh, Ryan?” The nickname is stuck onto me so bad even the teachers can’t help but use it.