First Team

by Tim Green

  “A hundred million?” Brock looked at his dad.

  His father nodded. “Boudantsev stole it from several European banks and I—we—took it from him, thinking we’d give it back until we realized something was wrong. There were bad guys on both sides who wanted the money for themselves.”

  “I knew they’d kill to get that money and, even more,” she said, looking at Brock’s dad, “they wanted to make sure you could never talk. There’s only one way they could do that. Kill you. I wanted so bad to find you, but I couldn’t take that chance. Do you understand?”

  She looked up with tears in her eyes. “I wasn’t ever going to let them. . . . So I got a job as a teacher in Fredericksburg, Texas, and I hid. But then you accessed our safe-deposit box. I had paid the bank manager a lot of money to call me if anyone ever did, and when you went into it, there was a dust I put there that let me track you.”

  “Dust?” Brock wrinkled his face.

  “Nanotechnology.” Her frown suggested the world was a better place without such things. “You can’t see it or feel it or smell it, but it gets in your skin and stays there. Anyway, I knew what was coming, with those arrests and deportations I read about in the newspaper. I waited for all that to happen before I started after you. But when I got here I realized they weren’t gone, not all of them, and they were following me.”

  “Boudantsev,” Brock said.

  His mother narrowed her eyes without looking at him. “Yes. Him. He was still after the money, and he’s known all along that your father was the only one who could get it.”

  “I saw him, Boudantsev.” Brock nodded, both relieved that he wasn’t losing his mind and frightened at the same time that he’d been so close to the man who struck fear into his parents’ hearts.

  Brock’s mother nodded too. “I thought I lost him, and I still don’t know how he followed me. When I saw him here, I just kept going to lead him away. I don’t know how many of the others he was still in touch with. I don’t know if they’re sending more. I have to believe they will, don’t you, John?”

  Brock realized by the tone of her voice that John must be his father’s real name.

  “I do,” his father said. “They’ll always send more, but if we leave the money alone, maybe we’ll be all right. I take it Boudantsev himself isn’t coming back?”

  She chewed on her lower lip. “I let him follow me to Cleveland and I took a boat across the lake into Canada. That’s where he is, in Canadian waters anyway, about two hundred feet deep. That’s where I . . . left him. He had one other with him. He’s at the bottom of the lake too. If there’s anyone else, they’re not in the States, or they weren’t yet.”

  A light went on in Brock’s head. “The Audi at the park. Was that you?”

  “That was careless.” His mother’s voice got quiet. “I shouldn’t have followed you like that, but I wanted to just watch you. You’re my son. We were trying to get out of the game, and that’s when they found out about the money and all the information we had. When you were born, we both swore we’d protect you, no matter what. For me, that meant being alone for the past five years. But, you know what? You were worth the wait.”

  She touched Brock’s cheek.

  “So we’re safe?” Brock’s father asked.

  “Yes.” Brock’s mother stiffened. “You have a new life, John. Both of you. And I know you thought I was dead. I want you to be honest; is there a place for me here?” Her tone wasn’t mean or angry, but the question made Brock think she must have known about Laurel’s mom, must have seen them together when she was watching them.

  His father brushed a strand of hair from her face. “There’s never been a place for anyone else. Isn’t that right, Brock?”

  “Do you like the name, Brock?” She touched his cheek with the backs of her fingers.

  “I chose it,” Brock said.

  “You deserve to choose it.” She rubbed his head. “I think a boy needs a mother. Better late than never, right?”

  Brock let her pull his head into her shoulder.

  “Yes,” he said. “Much better.”

  77

  The story they would tell the few people they knew in Calhoun was that Brock’s parents were never married. They had separated when he was young and his mother had gone to South America. Recently, they had reconnected on the internet and . . . here she was. Brock had told enough stories during his life so that it was easy. He knew from experience that the key was to keep things short and simple and not to talk too much.

  The next day they all went to Burr Oak State Park. Sun shone down on them, warming the air enough for Brock to wade into the water. His parents acted like they’d never been apart over the last ten years. They were affectionate toward each other, but they weren’t mushy, so Brock felt really comfortable hanging out with them on a blanket all day, reading, hiking around, and tossing Frisbees and a football.

  For dinner, they stopped at a Cracker Barrel off the highway. Brock ate fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy and drank lemonade. His mother watched him the whole time he ate, her eyes occasionally welling up with tears that made him study his food.

  When he’d finished and wiped his mouth on a napkin he said, “Dad says he was the cook.”

  His parents looked at each other and laughed.

  “That’s one thing you didn’t miss,” his mom said. “Trust me on that. No, your dad’s the cook, if either of us is.”

  “What does that mean?” His dad broke into a grin and tickled her.

  She screeched.

  “Guys.” Brock looked around, but no one was paying attention, and his dad didn’t stop acting like a kid until their waitress coughed and asked if they’d like dessert.

  On the car ride home, Brock sat in the back with his head against the window. He didn’t know how he felt about it all. He was glad his mother was back, but as much as he wanted to feel something, he honestly didn’t. It was like a flashlight in the dark; he could see it, he knew it was there, but he couldn’t feel it. It had no warmth. He looked at his father’s eyes in the rearview mirror, thinking of the way his father could sometimes be so cold and distant, and wondering if that was the way he was doomed to be too. Who didn’t get excited about his mom?

  They were driving through town, his parents chattering back and forth about all kinds of things, when his dad pulled over into an empty spot along Main Street.

  “How about ice cream?” His father looked at his mother. “Maple walnut?”

  “Of course,” she said. “And your butter pecan?”

  “Of course.”

  Brock sighed and got out. His mother smiled and hugged him to her, kissing the top of his head. “Did I tell you that I taught fifth grade? Well, I’d always watch the boys around me and wonder all the time which ones you were like. And now, to see you and you’re so grown-up. My baby.”

  Brock tried not to struggle to get free, but her bones felt like iron angles against his face and chest and she smelled like the kind of coconut soap Brock didn’t like because his fourth-grade teacher in Petaluma, California, had used that kind of soap, and she’d been a witch.

  It seemed like she sensed his hesitation because as they walked, she held his father’s hand, but allowed Brock to walk on the other side and avoid holding her other hand.

  As they headed down the sidewalk toward the ice cream parlor, her face glistened with happiness. Just as his father reached for the handle, the door to the ice-cream shop jingled open.

  Brock and his parents stood face-to-face with Laurel, Taylor, Gracie, and Laurel’s mom.

  78

  Laurel looked beautiful. Her hair was pulled back so that it dropped from behind her head in a thick hay-colored tail. She wore a pink summer dress that made her skin look smooth and golden as toffee. Her pale-blue eyes were icy crystals circling wide round pits that made Brock think of black holes in space, matter so dense their gravity sucked everything in.

  Brock’s eyes went from Laurel, to her mom, to his own dad.
His father wore a blank stare that told nothing.

  It was Laurel’s mom who spoke first. “Hello, Peter. Brock . . .”

  Laurel’s mom turned her eyes on Brock’s mom and extended a hand. “Hi. I’m Kim Dahlman.”

  Brock watched his mom’s face turn instantly into a blank screen. She took Kim’s hand. “Audrey Fallon. I’m Brock’s mom.”

  Laurel’s mom’s jaw went slack, then she recovered and forced a smile. “Brock goes to school with Laurel, my daughter. Say hello, Laurel.”

  Laurel did as she was told, then flicked her eyes at Brock with disapproval. Brock could only shrug.

  “And my son, Taylor. He’s our football player. He’s been helping Brock learn the Calhoun offense. Are you a football fan?” Laurel’s mom cocked her head.

  “No, but it’s very nice to meet you all. Thank you for being so kind to Brock.”

  Brock’s parents both stared until Laurel and her family gathered themselves up, filed out of the ice cream parlor, and marched down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

  “Who was that?” Brock’s mom asked.

  His dad ordered ice cream over the counter and only answered when both the young girls behind the glass were hard at their scooping. “Long story. Let’s save it for later.”

  “We can.” His mother accepted her cone. “She’s very pretty.”

  “Later.” His father paid.

  They took a stroll through Bank Park, walking along the river and circling back around the gazebo. Brock tried to stay out of the conversation. It was a bunch of remembering on his parents’ part. He had no recollection of any of it, and besides, he was distracted by the look Laurel had given him. It kept popping up in his mind. As he walked—and maybe it was the affection his parents had for each other—he realized that Laurel meant more to him than an opportunity to be on the first team.

  He missed her and the idea of her being there, rooting for him, caring about him . . . liking him.

  Now, in a state of almost total confusion about everything, Brock felt an ache in his chest and knew that it was a longing to somehow get her back, at least as a friend, despite everything else.

  79

  When they returned to the house, it was already getting dark. Mak’s bicycle stood on its stand at the edge of their driveway. In the dying day, Brock could make out Mak’s bulky shape sitting on their front steps with his face supported by two hands braced against his knees. When they pulled up alongside the bike, Mak stood and stretched like a bear emerging from hibernation. Brock wondered if his friend was sore from the game. He tensed a bit, knowing he would have to introduce his mother, but one look at his father’s blank face inspired him.

  Brock let his own face fall. They got out and Mak met them on the broken concrete walk between the house and the driveway.

  “Hey, Mak. This is my mom.”

  Mak’s frown grew confused, but he held out a thick hand to Brock’s mom. “Hello, Mrs. . . .”

  “They’re not married,” Brock said, “but she’s my mom.”

  “Wow.” Mak shook her hand anyway.

  “Please, call me Audrey.” Brock’s mom smiled.

  “Mak.” His father nodded a friendly hello, but his empty stare kept Mak from asking questions. “It’s pretty late.”

  Without further explanation, Brock’s parents carried the things from their picnic inside.

  When the door closed, Mak turned to Brock. “You wanna tell me—”

  “Who we playing this week?” Brock asked.

  “Who we . . . Okay, I get the icy stares. I’m good. Hey, that’s kinda why I’m here anyway, who we’re playing, I mean. I know you don’t text half the time and I wanted you to hear this from me.”

  Brock narrowed his eyes. “Hear what?”

  “Look, you know I’m on your side, right?” Mak said.

  “My side of what?” Brock asked.

  “Everything.” Mak’s hands flew up in the air before they fell with a slap to his legs. “So I want to say that I kind of get it. I don’t think you should feel that bad.”

  “Mak, you better stop and tell me.”

  “Good news first?” Mak asked. “Or do you want the bad news?”

  80

  Brock stared at him for a moment, trying to read his eyes. “Good news first.”

  Mak nodded. “Wally Van Kuffler is out for four weeks with that concussion.”

  Brock’s heart soared. This might be his chance. But, if it was his chance, why did Mak wear a frown? “So what’s the bad news?”

  Mak puckered his lips. “You know who Asa Pagano is?”

  Brock knew he knew the name; it was an unusual one, but he couldn’t place it.

  “Sixth-grader?” Mak cocked his head. “Quarterback?”

  Brock had a sinking feeling. Part of him said it shouldn’t matter, not football, not school, not Laurel, none of it. He had his mom back. How could he care about anything else?

  But he did.

  His missing mom was like a wet match. He kept striking it, but nothing happened. Not even a spark. Not even close. Brock searched his soul for the gaping hole that left him so empty. He had to be empty, didn’t he? A boy who worried about football when the mother he thought was dead turned up in the night, and she was wonderful.

  “What about Asa Pagano?” he asked to fill the silence.

  “He’s not bad, and he’s big for his age, like us.” Mak nudged him. “He has to pass some kind of physical or something, but I thought you should know, so when that dork Van Kuffler throws it in your face, you’re ready.”

  “They’re bringing him up?”

  “He’s got good numbers, Brock, and the sixth-grade team is crushing everyone.” Mak fumbled with his fingers. “It’s not certain yet, but his dad’s the treasurer of the booster club and the word is he’s kind of pushing it. Hey, you’re still gonna be the future of Calhoun. You and me. Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Bonnie and Clyde were bank robbers.”

  “Yeah, but heck, they were tough guys, though.” Mak gave him a thumbs-up. “Bad hombres.”

  “Bonnie was a girl.”

  Mak crunched his eyebrows. “No.”

  “Yup.”

  “Batman and Robin? I mean . . .” Mak glanced at the yellow light leaking from behind the curtains of the big front window. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but is your mom . . . is your dad . . . are they, like, together?”

  “They are.”

  Mak’s face really fell. “What about Laurel’s mom?”

  “Nope.” Brock clamped his lips and shook his head.

  “Her brother? Is Taylor still gonna help you out? Teaching you the offense?”

  “I have no idea, Mak. Why would he?”

  “I know the romance angle dried up, but you didn’t ditch Laurel did you?” Mak asked.

  “No, I didn’t ditch her.”

  “’Cause then maybe there’s still a chance. I mean, he’s a good guy, Taylor, and you didn’t ditch her. Right?”

  Brock huffed. “I said I didn’t.”

  “So, hypothetically, you could be schooled up by next year no matter what Van Kuffler does. You got all spring and summer, next year.”

  “I’m gonna play baseball next year.”

  “But football too? I told you, this is a football town, buddy. You gotta play.”

  “It’s not doing me much good right now. Is it?”

  “Well, but you gotta try.” Mak put a paw on his arm. “It’s all new for you. You’re gonna be first team, I know it.”

  “What is first team, Mak?”

  Mak blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “What is it?”

  “You know. You’re the starter. You’re tops. People respect you.”

  “Who? People like Wentzel?”

  Mak shrugged. “Everybody. I’ll let you get inside. I just . . . I was trying to help. My dad says you’re only as good as you think you are, and I didn’t want you to think you aren’t . . .”

  “Hey, Mak.�
�� Brock spoke quietly.

  “Yeah?” Mak was quiet too.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  Mak brightened. “Want me to pick you up on my way?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Mak put his hands on the bike’s handles and kicked up the stand before he looked at Brock. “My dad says sometimes things seem better in the morning.”

  Brock doubted it. “Yeah. Maybe they will.”

  Mak took off, pedaling steady, but wobbling ever so slightly until the shadows of the Flatlands swallowed him whole.

  81

  The next day Brock’s mom planned on setting out to find a job of her own. The three of them had a quiet breakfast, and when his mom hugged him, Brock did his best not to shy away.

  When they separated, she took him by the shoulders. “It’s okay, Brock. It’ll take time, I know, but we’ve got time. Lots.”

  Brock’s face flushed and he avoided those dark-brown eyes of hers, fearing he might cry and not even know why. “Thanks.”

  Brock rushed out of the house just in time to see Mak chugging up the street.

  In school, Laurel acted like Brock didn’t exist. He waited for her outside her English class, but when she almost bumped into him, her eyes never wavered. She looked right past him and kept on going. Brock clenched his teeth and fumed through the rest of the school day, determined to ignore her as well.

  When the final bell rang, Brock marched toward the locker room to change for football.

  The idea that Coach Van Kuffler was about to spring Asa Pagano on him only added fuel to the fire in his gut. Without thinking, he turned down the hall that led to the main entrance. He saw Laurel’s blond ponytail bobbing down the steps and he caught up to her in the crowd.

  “I have to talk to you.” Brock grabbed her elbow.

  Laurel yanked free and screwed up her face into a nasty snarl. “You don’t touch me.”

  “Laurel, please.” He hated the begging sound of his voice and could feel the eyes of everyone on him.

  “Don’t ‘please’ me. Why would I talk to you?”