by Ben Reeder
“I know that was Alexis on that bike, and where she goes…” I let it hang for a moment.
“Brad takes her,” Wanda finished.
“Right. I don’t know what they’re up to, but why are they on crotch rockets when Brad has a truck?” I asked.
“And a convertible,” Wanda supplied. Lucas and I gave her a look. “Well, he does, and it’s pretty nice. But, you’re right. Why go somewhere on a bike no one knows you have? I mean, Brad’s not one to keep something like that a secret. They’re up to something.” Lucas and I shrugged, sharing a moment of understanding. It wasn’t all about the car, but it helped.
“Point,” Lucas said, “but how do we find out where they’re going?”
“We don’t, not tonight. But I have a hunch; let’s go back by the school.” Lucas took another left turn that took us through some side streets, and a few minutes later, we emerged behind the school. He drove around toward the student parking lot, where Wanda pointed out Brad’s monster of a truck, and Alexis’ shiny gray Mustang.
“They must keep the bikes somewhere near here, then,” Lucas suggested as we pulled out of the parking lot and headed for Dante's. I nodded.
“Okay, then we see if they do the same thing tomorrow night. We hang out after school, and when they take off, we follow them.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Hell, yeah! The chance to catch Brad Duncan, All-American Asshole, in something fishy? You bet I am!” he crowed. “Besides, life is dull unless you put some adventure into it.”
“Tell me about it,” Wanda said. “This is the most excitement we’ve had since the American Idol season finale,” she said dryly.
By the time they dropped me off from Dante's, we had a pretty good plan. I would stay after school to talk to Dr. Corwin, and they’d come back after half an hour or so to pick me up, with the grownups given the excuse that we were going to Dante’s after school. We'd probably even end up there, so it was mostly true. We'd just leave out the part where we followed the popular kids to find out what the Wolf Pack was all about.
Chapter 12
~ Question everything. ~ Wizard proverb
Fridays during football season were on a different schedule. The teachers called it an assembly schedule, but the kids called it the pep rally schedule. All the classes were about ten minutes shorter than usual, and no one’s mind was really on schoolwork. Maybe it was because the varsity and junior varsity players wore their game jerseys, or, more likely, it was because the cheerleaders wore those little skirts.
I’d said I wasn’t interested in cheerleaders, but by the start of second period on Friday, I knew I was a liar. I was in heaven. Cute girls wandered the halls in short skirts, showing off miles and miles of leg. The whole school was in a sort of testosterone-fueled frenzy. Under it all, though, was a sort of desperation to forget, at least for a little while, that Mr. Chomsky had been killed only a couple of days before.
When I walked into the locker room for P.E., I saw my chance to learn a little more about Brad and the boys when I saw a big man beside Coach Stanley, in blue shorts and a white polo shirt that was the uniform for all coaches in the school, and a baseball cap that had the school’s howling wolf mascot on the front. When I read the name Brenner on his shirt, I knew that he wouldn't be able to pass up the shot to get me on the field for a little payback. After I resigned myself to a painful and messy fourth period, I went over to the pair of coaches.
“Chance,” Coach Stanley called out with a smile. I went over to him, dreading the next forty minutes of my life.
“This is Coach Brenner. The football team is holding open tryouts today. Would you like to give it a shot?”
“Sure,” I said with my best fake smile. This was too easy, I thought.
“Great. Today's an automatic A for anyone who tries out!” Coach Stanley announced, but no one else seemed ready to put himself in harm’s way.
“That’s gonna depend entirely on how Chance participates, Doug,” Coach Brenner boomed. “But I’m sure he’ll give it his best effort, won’t you, son?”
“Sure,” I growled.
“Good! C’mon, we’ll get you suited up and put you through your paces. Brad says you might be quarterback material.” He led me out of the gym and out one of the side doors, and across a grassy field to the football field house. It butted up on the school’s stadium. “Seeing as how you cost me a quarterback this week, it seems only fair to do your part, doesn’t it, son?” he added while we were alone. The menace in his voice gave me a moment of fear, but fear has always been a good friend of anger for me.
“I didn’t cost you a player, Coach,” I growled softly. “He came looking for a fight. I just defended myself.”
Brenner stopped me and spun me to face him with a hand on my shoulder. “No one, and I mean no one, hurts one of my players!” he hissed, sticking a finger in my face. “Those boys represent this school on the field! You’ll show them the respect they deserve, you little snot-nosed punk, or you’ll be a tackling dummy for the rest of the year!”
Ten minutes later, I was decked out in what felt like twenty pounds of plastic, with shoulder pads that felt like they were too big, padded pants that felt way too tight, and a helmet that seemed to squeeze down on my head. I stood under one of the goal posts while the coach introduced me.
Brad stood on the sidelines with his arm in a sling, looking smug and dashing. Off on one sideline, I could see the cheerleaders going through their paces, and I felt my face going red. Alexis was probably going to see me getting my butt stomped, and for some reason, that really bothered me.
“All right, men, I know you’re used to a light practice on Fridays, but I had you all get dressed out in full pads so we could hold open tryouts today. Some of you already know Chance. He’s made something of a name for himself already as being a scrapper. Today, we’re going to find out if he can live up to it. He’s going to be trying out for quarterback, but I think you can rest easy about starting tomorrow night, Jimmy!”
The rest of the team laughed before forming up on opposite sides of the football.
Coach Brenner came up to me and spoke quietly, “Greg there, number eighty seven, is going to run a post pattern; that means he’s gonna go out about ten yards, then turn and run toward the goal posts. You try to throw the ball to him.”
He backed up and handed me a football, then called out, “On one! Down, set, HIKE!”
On the last word, everyone began to move. The guy he pointed out started running down the field. The guys in front of me just stood up and stepped aside, and I had about a second to see the nine guys coming to tackle me. Then I was buried under an avalanche of pain and noise. After a few seconds, they got off me, except for one guy I recognized as one of Brad’s cronies.
“Your ass is grass, freak!” he said as he squatted over me with his finger in my face.
I got up slowly as the front line came back and got into the semi-circle around me, and Coach came up to me with a smile.
“What happened out there, Fortunato?” he asked.
“Your boys showed me why our team sucks,” I shot back.
“A good quarterback can motivate his linemen to block for him. Not their fault you haven’t earned their respect. Okay, now we’re gonna try the same thing again, see how quick you learn. Break!” The front line clapped and headed back up to the same place, and coach called out the same drill again.
This time, when the wall of pain came my way, I had a plan. As they made it past the linemen, I drew my arm back and threw the football as hard as I could at the blocker on the left of the center man. I got to see the ball slam into the back of his helmet and knock him off his feet before I went down this time. My magick-enhanced strength had made that throw hit him like a brick, and he was shaking his head when I came back up from under the pile of bodies.
“Not so tough now, are you asshole?” another one of Brad’s boys sneered as he got off of me. I ignored him as the lineman came up to me
and grabbed my facemask.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Throwing the ball. Block for me, and my aim might get better.”
“Screw you, punk,” another guy said. He was the one who lined up two men right of the center.
“Hey, he’s got a point, man,” the guy who was in the middle of the line said. He was a huge kid with coffee-colored skin, and a gentle face. “This ain’t cool. We’re supposed to block for the QB. Brad’s using us to do his fightin’ for him. If he ain’t bad enough to do it on his own, I ain’t helping him do it. Y’all be his bitches if you want, but I’m gonna do my job.”
“Thanks, man,” I said as they broke. He just nodded and went to his spot on the line.
Coach Brenner had the receiver do a pattern where he ran across the middle of the field from his spot, calling it a slant route. I nodded and waited for the call to come. Again, there was a rush of guys coming for me, and I drilled the ball into the back of the guy who had called me a punk. This time, instead of letting them hit me and knock me down, I chose the first guy coming at me, ducked my shoulder and charged into him. We went down as the rest of the guys intent on tackling me went past us. As luck had it, we also landed on the guy I’d nailed with the ball. Then a ton of pain came down on me again.
This time, I got to listen to the groans of the two guys beneath me. It was music to my ears. This time, there wasn’t any trash talk. The tackler I’d charged rolled off my lineman and stumbled away, and my lineman limped slowly back to the huddle after me. I looked over to the sidelines to see Brad scowling, and I touched my fingers to the front of my helmet in a mock salute.
“What the hell is wrong with you, son?” Coach Brenner yelled at me as he came up. “Can’t you throw a football?”
“Just making a point, sir. If I can’t earn their respect, then fear and pain will have to do. Besides, I figure they’re just doing what you told them to do. Not their fault I’m a vicious bastard. Name your play, coach, let’s get on with this. I’m starting to have fun!”
“Okay, fly pattern, on two!” he yelled.
I stepped up to the huddle. “Guys, all I’m asking for is three seconds. Keep them off me for that long, and I’ll put the ball somewhere else. Okay?”
“Man, you do that again, and I’ll kick your ass!” the guy I’d beaned the second time snarled.
“If I do that again, you’ll be pissing blood for a week. I don’t like doing this, but if you’re gonna play for the other side, I’m gonna treat you like one of them.”
“Gabe, shut up and do your damn job,” the center man drawled. “Just block for the guy for a few seconds.”
“Piss off, T,” Gabe spat.
“Hey, you didn’t see me on my ass just now. Ain’t none of them worth taking those kinda lumps for. Brad’s an asshole. You gonna be his bitch?”
“C’mon, guys, three seconds. Let’s go!” We broke up the huddle and headed for the line, and the coach called the cadence again. This time, T led the line, and I had a lot more time. The receiver ran for the end zone, but after three seconds, Gabe let his guy through, and I found myself facing a raging tackler while my receiver was still too close to the guy covering him for me to throw the ball. So I turned and drilled the ball into the helmet of the guy running at me. His feet flew up into the air as he fell, and then another half dozen guys were headed my way. The next guy jumped at me, and I ducked under him, only to come up when he was right over top of me. He flipped onto his back and skidded for a few feet, and then I was down again, face first into the turf this time, with a line of fire down my forearms as I skidded across the turf. I got up slowly, aching and winded, and made my way back to the huddle.
“Aren’t they supposed to stop trying to tackle me once I get rid of the ball?” I asked wearily.
“Yeah,” T answered with a smile, “if this was a game. Coach Brenner, he’s just trying to get some back for you hurtin’ his boy Brad.”
“Shut it, T!” one of the other players whispered.
“Man, you shut it. Y’all the ones doing all the work for him.”
“Hey, it’s all good. You guys gave me my three seconds, I’m good with that. Let’s do it again, okay?” I looked at the circle of faces, and saw a change in their eyes.
“You sure?” another one asked.
“Yeah. I'm not gonna let the Coach win. So we run the fly pattern again. This time, I’ll actually try to throw it down field, okay?” There was a chorus of assent, and we broke the huddle.
When the call went, I stepped back, and the line held. I took a couple more steps back and found my guy, just getting past the man covering him with his arms up. I drew my arm back and let fly, hoping I’d got it right. The ball wobbled a little, then settled into an almost-smooth spin that Greg ran under and snatched out of the air. He tucked it under his arm and sprinted for the end zone.
Just as I was about to give a victory cry, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and saw one of Brad’s boys sprinting at me from the end of the line with his head down like a bull. I took a step back and saw T move to try to block him. He shoved the big center aside like a toy and kept coming, and all I could think to do was set myself to take the hit. I hunkered down with my feet planted and waited for him to get close enough, then I lunged forward with a yell. The world disappeared in a white flash, then I was standing over the other guy, my facemask cracked, my head spinning and hurting, but still up. I staggered over to find T. The big guy was picking himself up as I stumbled up.
“Sorry about that, man,” he said as I offered him a hand.
“Hey, you tried to stop him. It’s more than I asked. Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about it.” We watched as a skinny guy with a blue bag ran out to check on the guy who’d rushed me. He was still on the ground, and he was barely moving. While he tended to him, Coach Brenner stormed up to me.
“Get off my damn field, boy,” he said venomously. “I’m not gonna let you hurt any more of my boys.”
“He came after me, Coach,” I told him as I took off the busted helmet. “You’re the one who brought me out here to get pummeled. Not my fault it didn’t work.” I tossed him the helmet and limped off the field feeling pain in places even Dulka hadn’t been able to reach. I’d had enough of the macho bullshit. The sudden silence made its way past the fog in my aching head, and I noticed the cheerleaders looking at me as I made my slow, painful way toward the field house.
It took me a couple of minutes to figure out how to get the shoulder pads off. The pants were pretty easy, once I figured out the belt. For a minute, I just sat there on the wooden bench, hurting. My arms looked like hamburger, and felt like someone had poured hot coals over them. My ribs felt like someone was hitting them with a stick, and my head felt like someone else was using a hammer to pound their way out of my skull.
The door opened, and I watched the rest of the football team come trooping in. My heart started pounding as I realized I was deep in their turf, on my own, and there were no witnesses. And I was in a lot of pain. T was one of the first guys in, and he went over to the canvas-covered cart that said “Linen” on the side of it, and grabbed a handful of white fabric. One of the towels came flying across the room at me, and landed in my lap.
“Man, you need a shower. You smell somethin’ awful,” he joked.
A few of the other jocks laughed as they went to their own lockers and began stripping out of their gear with an efficiency born of long practice. Most of them carried bruises or scrapes somewhere, and a couple had ankles or wrists covered in tape.
I took the towel T threw me and looked over at him, then shrugged out of my t-shirt and headed over to the showers. Midway across the open room, it got quiet.
“Holy shit,” someone whispered as I walked past.
A quiet buzz started behind me as people got a look at the road map of scars on my shoulders and back. I turned on the shower, and the hiss of hot water drowned them out. For a few minutes, I could pretend
I was ignoring the comments and stares. I winced as the water hit a set of scrapes on my lower back I didn’t know I had. Muscles began to loosen up under the spray of warmth, and I began to feel a little closer to human again.
“Man, what happened to you?” T asked from beside me.
“A lot of stuff,” I said. “I got into a lot of fights.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. Surprisingly, he let it drop at that.
I finished showering and went to get dressed, and noticed the rest of Brad’s little group eying me from across the locker room. There was hostility there, like before, but now it was laced with something new. Fear. I kept my back to them while I put on my clothes, and I made sure my shirt went over my head quickly.
“You did pretty good out there today,” Gabe said quietly from the locker next to where I was.
“Thanks,” I replied. “Sorry about beaning you.”
“Forget it. T was right; Brad was just trying to get us to do his fighting for him. But you were cool about it. No hard feelings, man?” He held out a hand, and I took it without having to think about it.
“Forget about it.” We shook hands, and he got up and left.
The rest of the players were at least decent when they walked past. It was like I’d just passed some secret jock initiation, and even though I wasn’t one of them, I was a person to them now. Except for Brad and his little group of boot-lickers. I glanced across the room at them, all huddled together. Yesterday, they’d been the ones walking around like predators. Maybe having me lay them out on their butts had taught them not to mess with me.
As I walked out, I had to go past them, and I noticed something that made them stand out from all the other jocks. Of eight football players, including the one that I’d just knocked on his ass, not a one of them had a bruise, scrape or an inch of tape on them. Even T had some scrapes on his forearms, and he was bigger than two of me. I walked across the field to the rest of the school, and my brain began to piece together something else. When I had taken that last hit, he had hit me so hard that my facemask broke, and he had shoved T aside like a guy half his size. Brad wasn’t the only jock into someone for special upgrades. The whole first string had them. Damn. My life just kept getting better and better.