Stick (20 page)

L
ewis and Clark was the oldest high school in the city, and its gothic walls were set in the downtown hub of Spokane. Right across the street from the school were dozens of massive pillars that held the freeway up over the student parking lots. I got out of my car next to one of them. The lot was half-f at six in the evening, and people were heading across to the gymnasium for the Tigers pep rally. I wore my new jersey, and as I walked across the street, I saw Ben Lynch standing at the curb, waiting for me.

“Hey,” he drawled, giving me a crooked smile. “You ready to be adored by the masses?”

I laughed. “If it's anything like Hamilton, I'll take a pass.”

He shook his head. “It ain't. Most people come just to hang out, dance, and eat.”

“Fine by me.”

We walked in, and the band was already playing. Ben was popular, and I could see why. He had an easygoing way about him, and when he talked, he made you feel like he knew you, even if he didn't. “So,” he said, “tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow,” I replied as we walked up to the stage and sat with the other athletes.

“You think we can take them?”

I watched the crowd. It was different. More like a party than a church where players were worshipped. “I know we can take them. They've got a better defensive line than us, but you're better than Killinger.”

He laughed. “And we've got you and Jordan.”

“They're going to play dirty.”

He laughed again. “Can't see the forest through the trees, Stick?”

“What?”

“Hamilton has always played dirty. Guess you never noticed it, being one of them.”

I remembered Coach Williams talking one day after practice, jokingly telling a few linemen how to sneak a facemask grab in without the ref seeing. The further away I got from it, the more I knew that Coach Williams
was
a coach I couldn't respect. “I guess you're right.”

Just then, Principal Everson walked up to the microphone and officially started the rally. After fifteen minutes of announcing the players, along with applause for several accomplishments by the drama club and the debate team, he stepped down, the lights dimmed a bit, a disco ball began revolving, and the music kicked in.

With a cup of punch and several cookies in my hands, I stood on the sidelines, watching people talking and dancing. Jordan, along with his girlfriend, broke away and came over. “Hey, Stick, this is Monica. Monica, Stick. You can call him babyface if you want, though. I think it's better on him.”

She laughed, holding out her hand. “Jordan has talked about you.”

“My rep is already bad enough. Thanks.”

Jordan flashed perfect white teeth. “It's all good,” he said, then pointed to a girl standing with some friends. “Megan Forsythe. Hottie. Heard her talking about you. Somebody got an eye on somebody.” He laughed, and Monica slapped his arm, telling him to shut up.

I looked at Megan, and she glanced back. She was pretty, but I wasn't in the mood to do anything much other than go home and think about the game tomorrow. “She looks nice. Hey, I'm heading out, huh?”

Jordan looked at his watch. “Seven-thirty and babyface needs to get to his crib. You got a wet diaper, too?”

“Just got the game on my mind. I want to go over the playbook again.”

“You got the game on your mind; I got something else on mine,” he said, leaning over and pecking Monica on the cheek. She blushed. “We'll catch you later.”

After saying goodbye to some of the guys, I headed out, walking through the doors and under the streetlights. At the curb, I looked into the shadows under the bridge. I wasn't stupid. If there was a time and place that I'd be ripe for the taking, it would be here. Killinger knew I'd be at the rally.

I almost turned to go back in, then made my decision. Stepping from the curb, I took my keys from my pocket and trotted across the street. I hopped the low brick wall lining the lot and beelined it for my car, looking left and right.

As I walked closer, my chest tightened, and I was tempted to run. Unless they tracked me down tomorrow before the game, in broad daylight, this had to be the time they'd come after me. I clenched my teeth, speeding up.

Reaching my car, I unlocked it, then noticed. My front left tire was flat. Looking back, I saw the rear left tire was flat, too. Slashed. “Shit.”

“You are an idiot.”

It wasn't the voice I was expecting. I opened my eyes, and there, next to the pillar, stood Preston. In full costume, complete with lightning-strike tights, boots, chest plate, cape, utility belt, and mask. I gaped at him, then glanced around. “What are you doing here?”

“This is the most opportune time to find you alone. They might be stupid, but not that stupid.”

I stepped toward him. “Yeah, no shit. You've got to leave, Preston. Now.”

He looked over my shoulder. “Too late.”

I turned toward the rear of the parking lot as figures materialized out of the darkness. As they neared, I saw Killinger, Tilly, Nathan Thompson, Perry Hogsett, Jeff Lions, and last but not least, Mike. I faced them, waiting, and Preston stepped up beside me. I whispered, “Get out of here, Preston. Now.”

Preston actually laughed as he squared his shoulders and stuck his thumbs in his utility belt. “My superpowers will protect us. Just stay within my protective shield and you won't be harmed.”

I tried to steady my breathing, but it felt like somebody was beating my lungs with a pipe—which in the next few minutes probably wouldn't be far from the truth. “Fuck, Preston, I'm serious. They're serious.”

“So am I.”

Six guys who wanted to beat me to a pulp stopped in front of us. Lance studied Preston. “Holy shit. Are you joking, kid? A superhero?”

Preston held up his hand to them, and his cape waved slightly in the breeze. “Leave the area immediately.”

Lance and the guys laughed. “Ooohh, I'm scared now. Are you going to freeze us with your ice beam or trap us in your web?”

I stepped forward. “This is between you and me, Lance. You gave your word.”

Lance stared at me. “I can't help it if fruitloop here wants his ass kicked. Maybe you can have hospital beds next to each other.”

“The deal is off if you touch him.”

Lance grinned. “There was never a deal. There was only you thinking there was a deal. You're not playing in the game, man. In fact, when we're done with you, you're not playing for the rest of the season.”

“And you have to bring five guys to do your job for you. How about you and me? Just us. Then we'll see who ends up in the hospital.”

“I don't need to prove anything. You screwed us over, and now you pay.”

I looked at Mike. “Really, Mike? This low?” I said.

He shifted on his feet, hands in his pockets, but he wouldn't answer me.

My chest and shoulder muscles tightened. “Okay, then. Do it.”

Just as Lance took a step forward, two shapes materialized on either side of us. Then two more to the sides. Lance stopped, looking as more shapes appeared, making a ring around them. Eight in total.

I stared.

Eight superheroes.

Preston's enclave.

There was Tiger Man. Frogger. Red Hammer. Superguy. All of them. Lance looked around. “What the…,” he began, then laughed. “You're kidding me.”

Preston leaned close and whispered, “Protective shield.”

Lance regained his composure, taking in the scene. “Whatever, man. This doesn't change anything,” he said.

But as I looked at Mike and Tilly, they shifted uncomfortably on their feet, glancing left and right. The rest of the guys did, too.

Preston stepped forward, holding the Taser. He pushed the trigger, and blue light, accompanied by a zapping sound, glowed in the dimness. Lance stared at it, then at Preston. “You're a joke, kid. And I promise you this: I'm going to get you. I'm going to make you wish you were never born.”

“You hear that?” a whiplike voice said. “He's gonna pick on some kid like a big bully boy.”

Everybody turned, and Jordan stood there. Along with just about every other Tiger on the team; their black-and-orange jerseys flashing from the streetlights. Lance froze. Jordan came forward, through the enclave of superheroes, and walked up to Preston. “Yo, man. You were right. Thanks for the heads-up,” he said, then held his hand out for a slap.

Preston awkwardly tried to, failed, then shook his hand.

Jordan laughed. “You're good, man. You're good.” Then he faced Lance, his smile wide. “You got something to do, boy, do it.”

Lance clenched his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes twitched. “This is between Patterson and me. You don't have anything to do with it.”

I stood, amazed. Speechless.

Jordan shook his head. “Aw, come on, bully boy. If you're good with six guys against one, you gotta be even better with twenty-seven against six.”

Mike was the first to speak. “I don't want any part of this. Brett, I'm sorry. This got way out of hand.”

I turned to him. “It wasn't out of hand when you came here.” Then I turned to Lance. “We had a deal. We settle this on the field. You win, I quit the team. We win, it's over.”

Lance, looking for any way out that wouldn't completely ruin his reputation, nodded. “Yeah. That was the deal. Okay.”

“No, no, no,” Jordan cut in. “You got yourself a deal with this assclown, Brett, but I got my own deal.” He pointed at Killinger.

Lance swallowed, and a tic twitched under his eye. “What?”

Jordan went on. “Here's
my
deal. You look sideways at Preston here, and you'll have every Tiger on your ass like nothing else. Not that he couldn't take you down anyway with that Taser and his buddies, but same difference. He helps a Tiger, that means he's a Tiger. And that means we got his back.”

Lance bit his lip. “Yeah. Sure. I never had a beef with him anyway.”

Jordan grinned. “Man, you're a piece of work. Now, why don't you and your buddies get out of here before we have some fun with you.”

In the next minute, the Saxons faded away, tails firmly between their legs. Jordan looked at me, his face serious. “You're going to stick to that deal, aren't you?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “I guess you got that name for more than one reason, then.”

A moment later, he, the Tigers, and Preston's enclave were filtering away, disappearing into the night. I looked at Preston. “I can only say that was surreal.”

He just looked at me, giving me that frog smirk under his mask. “I know. But even more surreal is that you said ‘surreal.' ”

I
could hear the crowd outside as I laced up. I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes before kickoff. My dad was in the stands, sitting next to Mr. Silvia, who had arrived earlier in the day from California. We'd met briefly after school, and he'd wished me luck.

Nervous excitement coursed through me.

As I took my helmet from the locker, Coach Larson yelled my name from the office. Hustling down the aisle, I came to the door. “Yessir?”

He motioned me in. “I heard you had some trouble last night.”

“It was nothing, really.”

He adjusted his cap. “You know, one of the hardest things to do when you're emotional about something is to stay focused.” He pointed out toward the field. “Every player on that defense will be gunning for you, Brett. Every one of them wants to hurt you.”

“Yessir.”

He raised a finger to me, waggling it slowly. “You, on the other hand, are going out there to play a game. A game, Brett. A game that could give you a bright future, but still a game.”

“I know.”

He looked down to his playbook. “Good. Because everything you do in this life, one way or another, is a game. It's all in how you play it that makes you a good man. Keep your head clear, trust yourself, and get out of my office.”

The stands were usually a little over half full for most regular-season games, but tonight, word had spread, and even the announcer was dubbing us the Saxon-Tiger rivalry. When we took the field, I looked around the stadium. We all did. There wasn't a seat open. Ben slapped my shoulder. “You can draw a crowd, can't you?” he drawled.

I gawked. “I don't think they're here to watch a football game. More like a brawl.”

He laughed over the cheers, pointing up to the bleacher section. “Check it.”

I looked, and smiled. Preston and the enclave had come—in costume. I strapped my helmet on. “Let's play some ball, huh?”

Ben did the same. “You got it.”

We lost the coin toss and ended up with the ball first, and after the kickoff, we took the field. Jordan on the left and me on the right. Ben called Swipe 280, which would put the ball in my hands.

As we lined up, I saw Tilly glaring at me. I ignored him. What I couldn't ignore was Mike, who was guarding me.

Ben called the snap, and I bolted. Just as I reached Mike, intent on getting free of him, he grabbed my face mask with both hands and yanked hard, driving me headfirst into the turf. Penalty flags flew and the crowd booed and cheered at the same time. Ben swung wide, scrambling for an opening, but was swallowed by Tilly and two other guys. The Hamilton side went wild.

I was still on the ground when the whistle blew. I rose, and Mike stared at me. I dug grass and dirt from my face mask, finally understanding. Mike might hate me, but he didn't play that way. “Coach have a little talk with you before the game, Mike?”

“Doing what I have to do, Brett. Just like you.”

From there on out, Mike played the dirtiest game I'd ever seen. The entire team did, but not so blatantly as the first play. That first face mask was meant to send a message. A personal one, directly from Coach Williams.

And so it went. The Saxon line talked constant trash, pulling every dirty trick they knew if they thought they could get away with it, and Tilly was the leader of it all as we pounded our way down the field. With every huddle, Ben reminded us to play the game, not the opponent, but it wore thin. Even as we fought on, we were getting hammered. Tilly was punishing our line, and I'd never seen him so focused on not just playing hard, but hurting people.

With no score on either side and halftime two minutes away, we were third and goal. Kody Morse and Jason Ward, who'd been taking the brunt from Tilly, finally had enough. On the snap, Kody backed up, letting Tilly in, while Jason came around his side. Jason clipped Tilly low and hard from behind while Kody suddenly charged, hitting him high.

Tilly found himself somersaulting backwards in midair when another lineman launched into him, slamming him unmercifully to the ground. Flags flew even as I scrambled around Mike and Ben threw. I caught the ball, completely open in the end zone.

Just as the whistle blew and the play ended, Jason hurled himself at Tilly, who was moaning on the ground. I heard the crunch of his shoulder pads slamming into Tilly's rib cage from fifteen yards away, and even I winced.

In the next second, both benches cleared, and it was on. It took me a second to realize that yeah, it was on, but it was mostly on me. Half the Saxons charged directly at me, with Killinger sprinting in the lead.

I had a split second to decide. Every fiber in my being screamed to fight him. To play as dirty as him. To pay him back. I knew I could, too. I could pound him into the ground, and I'd enjoy every bit of it.

I squared myself as he barreled toward me, and guys were going at it all across the field, hitting, tackling, wrestling. Whistles shrieked, and coaches yelled. Just as Lance reached me, I ducked and drove to the side. He flew by, and the next thing I knew, I was swallowed by red-and-white jerseys.

It took ten minutes to sort out the casualties, and the penalties. Tilly was taken from the field on a stretcher, no doubt with broken ribs. I was full of bruises, but then again, so were most of us. Coach Larson was a screaming hurricane of rage. He benched Jason and Kody, promising they wouldn't see another play for the rest of the game, if not the season. He'd also benched three other players who had received unsportsmanlike conduct penalties.

Coach Williams stood on the sidelines the whole time. Silent, and with his arms crossed.

We were fourth and long. Coach called for a field goal. With five of our best guys benched, he summoned me, Jordan, and three other defensive linemen in for the play. I'd never taken the field for a field goal.

As we lined up, our kicker called the play. I blinked, surprised. With the snap, the holder got the ball, but suddenly he rose, just as I dodged past my man and pivoted. The holder threw the ball, and it hit me square, just like the playbook called for.

Caught off-guard, the defensive line scrambled, but they had no chance. I scored, untouched.

At the half, we were up, 7–0.