Pop (3 page)

This time the exercise was very different, and the completion rate was one hundred percent. It was obvious that the quarterback wannabe had an accurate throwing arm.

Troy watched the whole thing, his complexion darkening with every catch. Marcus knew there was trouble coming when he saw Number Seven whispering from ear to ear along the informal formation lined up for the drill.

When he took the snap, the defensive line was upon him in a full blitz. His own protection melted away like butter on a hot knife. Panicking, Marcus released the ball too soon. It was everything a pass shouldn't be—soft, sickly, and nowhere near the intended receiver.

The rushers veered off at the last second, never even touching him. He was left standing there, awkward, embarrassed, and thoroughly schooled.

Barker shook his head wanly. “When something looks too good to be true, it usually is.”

Marcus was devastated. Had he blown his chance?

The coach's bobblehead swiveled toward Alyssa. “Can you get Marcus a playbook and a practice schedule?”

“I'll hook him up,” she promised with a mischievous smile.

To Marcus, he said, “You're going to ride a lot of pine this season. We're deep, and we're a unit. I'm not going to jeopardize that, no matter how good you are.”

“I'm just happy to be on board,” Marcus assured him.

Alyssa ran to the scorer's table and returned with a thick manila envelope. “You have to sign for this. In blood.”

He scribbled his signature and accepted the packet. “Are you security, too?”

“I've been known to get physical.”

“Hey, Alyssa,” called Troy. “The cheerleaders are practicing in the end zone.”

“They'll wait for me,” she replied serenely. “I'm walking Marcus to his car.”

She didn't try to bully her way inside the locker room while he was changing this time. He wasn't sure whether or not he was grateful.

When they reached the parking lot, the sight of the Vespa made her laugh out loud. “What's that, a Barney-Davidson?”

“It gets me where I'm going,” he said defensively.

“You're making it really hard to be blown away by your manliness.”

“What does Troy drive?” he challenged. “An M1 tank?” He climbed on and started the motor.

“Where you going?” she protested. “Aren't you going to offer me a ride?”

He shook his head. “Only one helmet.”

She unzipped his duffel, pulled out his football headgear, and jammed it down over her lustrous brown hair.

As they tooled around the block, her warm breath tickling the side of his neck, Marcus was very much aware that her eyes never strayed from the football field where her on-again, off-again was practicing—and probably watching just as intently.

“Should I be insulted that you're only paying attention to me to stick it to him?” he asked.

She shrugged airily. “You can find gravity insulting. It won't help you levitate. Good workout, by the way.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Especially that water balloon I heaved out on the last play.”

He felt her shrug across his whole back. “It's not rocket science. When you're throwing at targets, you're Tom Brady. Put a blitzer in your face and you fold up like a lawn chair.”

All the sexual tension of the moment evaporated like steam. In a single comment, she had completely articulated the sum total of his self-doubt as a football player. If even the head cheerleader could see that, he was in big trouble.

G
un-shy.

That had always been the knock on Marcus. He'd even read it about himself in the Olathe paper. He had all the right tools, the full range of weapons—and none of the guts. Comrade Stalin had been all over him about this. What was the point of playing high school football if it wasn't the direct road to NFL millions? Nothing was worth doing if it didn't lead to world domination.

The pass was a bullet, sizzling past the Paper Airplane and whistling dead center through the dangling picture frame. When it hit the ground forty yards away, it took out a divot. But Marcus drew no satisfaction from being able to throw such a perfect ball. He could launch one half a mile and have it swish through the eye of a needle, but it wouldn't do him any good if he fell to pieces every time a linebacker got close. All the practice in the world with picture frames wasn't going to change that—not unless the frames learned to hit back.

He was heading to retrieve the ball, dragging his feet, when a familiar tall figure hopped the hedge and jogged into Three Alarm Park.

A blizzard of thoughts swirled around Marcus's head:
He's a weirdo who doesn't have friends his own age. He broke a window and stuck me with the blame
. His internal voice was drowned out by Charlie's words from their last encounter:
I love the pop
....

The old guy packed a wallop like a pile driver.

If I can take a hit from him, I can take one from anybody
....

He turned to the newcomer. “Tackle me.”

If Marcus had been expecting the question “Why?”—it wasn't going to come. The man was up to full speed seemingly in the first step, a look of unholy glee on his middle-aged features. In a heartbeat, the gap between the two of them had vanished, and Charlie was airborne, his body parallel to the ground. Marcus didn't even try to get away—not that he could have if he'd wanted to. Powerful arms clamped around his midsection just as the tackler's shoulder struck, a battering-ram shot that knocked him both up and back. He hit the ground hard, but not half as hard as the impact when Charlie landed on top of him, a full-body hammer blow.

Dazed and grass stained, Marcus scrambled up, unable to imagine how so much pain in so many places could all come from a single collision. He struggled to assemble a string of curses, but the wind was so thoroughly knocked out of him that he mustered no more than a rasp. Without waiting for his breath to return, he launched himself at Charlie, hitting him low and sending him sprawling.

“Clip!” Charlie roared. “That's a ten-yard penalty!”

“No rules!” Marcus managed to wheeze.

The ball lay ignored a short distance away as the two traded tackles for the next forty-five minutes. Marcus knew he was taking the brunt of the exchange, but he was getting his licks in as well, never allowing himself more than a gasp or two before running back at his opponent.

How was it possible for a man of fifty plus to wipe up the park with a kid less than a third his age? And not just to do it, but to love doing it! Whenever Charlie was making bone-jarring contact, the expression on his face was nothing short of bliss. Like Mozart at the harpsichord or Edison tinkering with some invention—it was something he was just meant to do.

By the time they took a break, Marcus was one deep, penetrating ache from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. The only thing preventing him from limping was that both legs were equally bruised. He felt a distinct throb from each individual rib. Ditto his arms, his shoulders, and his back. If there was a spot on his entire body that wasn't in agony right now, he was too exhausted to find it.

He watched in amazement as Charlie scampered effortlessly up a steep groove in the Paper Airplane and relaxed in one of the granite folds. “You're a lightweight, Mac,” he said disapprovingly. “You pack a pop like Tinker Bell.”

“My name is Marcus.” The misfire brought Marcus back to their previous meeting—more specifically, to how it had ended. “You know, you really stiffed me last week. The guy hasn't called yet, but that broken window is going to cost at least a couple hundred bucks.”

“A lot of windows get broken around here,” Charlie said airily. “Hard to keep them all straight.”

Marcus bristled. “So that's how it's going to be. You throw the ball, and I pick up the tab for it?”

Charlie looked offended. “You know I'm good for it.”

Marcus regarded the man stretched out on the sculpture. He was well dressed and groomed—definitely not a homeless person. This was the second time he'd appeared in the park in the middle of the afternoon, so he didn't seem to have a day job. But some people worked odd shifts, or nights. Teachers had summers off. If a sixteen-year-old kid could afford to pay for half the car window, there was no reason to believe a grown man couldn't pick up the other half. The question was, would he?

“Well, how do I get in touch with you when the guy calls? Can I have your phone number?”

Charlie looked amazed. “You don't know it?”

“You never gave it to me. You took off the minute we heard the crash.”

The man sat up, perching precariously on the angled granite. “Later. We'd better get some ice for your elbow or it's going to swell up like a balloon.”

Lost in his extensive résumé of aches, Marcus hadn't really focused on the condition of his passing arm, which was turning black and blue. Now it consumed all his attention.

Luckily, Charlie knew exactly what to do. He led Marcus out of the park and up the street to the gas station on the corner. He stepped into the mini-mart, opened the freezer, and helped himself to a bag of ice. Then, in full view of the cashier, he blithely left without paying.

“Okay, let's see that arm.”

Marcus waited for the clerk to follow and demand payment. Instead, the woman just chuckled and waved at the shoplifter.

“Friend of yours?” Marcus asked.

Charlie seemed distracted. “What?” He manipulated the bag, forming it into a compress for the injured elbow.

Marcus accepted it gratefully. “That feels good. I wish I could get my whole body in there.” He sat down on a bus bench and turned to his companion, who was gone. He twisted around and found that Charlie was perched atop a seven-foot chain-link fence, looking like a bird on a wire.

“What is it with you?” Marcus blurted. “How come you can only relax in places where you can fall off and break your neck?”

Charlie grinned at him. “If you can't break your neck, it's not worth sitting there.” But within thirty seconds, he was down again. “Gotta hop. See you tomorrow.”

Marcus was taken aback. “Where? What time?”

“The usual,” he called, loping down the street with easy, powerful strides that only pointed at the contrast with Marcus, who could barely move.

What “usual” was Charlie talking about? Both times they had met, it had been in Three Alarm Park, so that was probably the place. But the time?

Nothing was usual about Charlie.

Before returning to the park to reclaim his Vespa and gear, Marcus poked his head into the mini-mart. “I need to pay for the ice. My friend—uh—forgot.”

The woman laughed. “He didn't forget. That's just Charlie. Don't worry about it. It'll get paid.”

He remembered Charlie's words about the broken window:
You know I'm good for it
. Apparently, the mini-mart thought he was good for it too.

Who
was
this guy?

C
oach Barker's philosophy of keeping your mouth shut applied to players only. His own cavernous maw was in constant motion, and he seemed to have words of wisdom for every occasion, both on the field and inside the locker room.

“In football, your head is either in the game or up your butt!”

“If you think you're too good to block, you're not good enough to put on this uniform!”

“Only God knows more than the coach, and He's not the one wearing the whistle!”

“Your mommy can't help you on this field; your only family is your team!”

If the last one was true, Marcus was definitely the black sheep of the clan. His teammates looked right through him, and spoke to him hardly at all. He was a part of the drills only when Barker directly ordered it. And after the whistle, when the players were hauling one another upright, Marcus was left on the grass like a discarded tackling dummy. They took their lead from Troy. To Number Seven, Marcus was an escapee from a leper colony.

Of all the Raiders, Ron Rorschach was the most sympathetic, but even he was unwilling to cross his quarterback. “You've got to see it from Troy's perspective. You're a big threat to him.”

“A threat?” Marcus repeated bitterly. “Troy's like God in this place. If Coach tried to bench him, he'd be lynched!”

Ron shook his head. “Not a
football
threat.”

Marcus followed Ron's gaze to the sidelines, where Alyssa was practicing with the cheerleaders. There was something about the way the uniform hung on her. It was exactly the same as what the other girls wore, yet it
wasn't
—almost as if sheer attitude could fill out a sweater and miniskirt. Spying Marcus, she winked and waved.

Marcus turned back to Ron. “Alyssa said they broke up.”

Ron snorted. “You could set your watch by their breakups.”