Bridge to a Distant Star (13 page)

She’d just told herself,
You
can
do
this.
You’re
perfectly
safe
, when a jagged arm of lightning flashed across the sky, eerily highlighting the grace and beauty of the Skyway’s arched cables. The dazzling light show was still sending out sparks when it was joined by a crack of thunder. Maureen was momentarily startled. She felt the car move but wasn’t overly concerned. Dismissing it as a vibration from the thunder, Maureen focused more intently on the car in front of her.

But suddenly all reality of sky above and solid road below evaporated into thin air. She felt the car launch out into—nothing. The last thing Maureen clearly saw was her headlights shining into the Mercedes, the beams acting like a spotlight on a beautiful woman’s face staring out from the back window. Reacting instinctively, Maureen reached back toward Aubrey with one hand … and toward the woman with the other. Just before the car hit the surging black waters, Maureen asked herself a puzzling question.

Why
is
the
woman’s
mouth
open,
her
face
full
of
wonder?

Book Two

Pick Up Your Cross

March 2009

Glen Ellyn, Illinois

It was the semifinal soccer game, and the stakes were high. The score: one to zero. Only three minutes remained.

To the Glen Ellyn Flames, the team in the lead, those three minutes loomed like an eternity. Coach Paul Henry had lectured his twelve- and thirteen-year-old players to never stop attacking, never subconsciously shift to “protecting the lead.” But with the championship game within sight, the Flames succumbed to temptation. Their lack of aggressive play in the last ten minutes was obvious: They were merely trying to hold on to the one-point lead.

However, from their opponents’—the Raptors—perspective, those three minutes meant remaining opportunities. They played like a team possessed: heading, dribbling, passing, attacking. The ball lived on the Flames’ end of the field, the threat of a goal imminent.

Fans from both teams had risen to their feet when there were ten minutes left to play. Nearly as much adrenaline coursing through them as the players, the spectators stood shouting in support, urging their favored team on.

One of the most notable voices on the Flames’ sidelines belonged to Charles Edgar Thomason, the father of the team’s scoring star, Charles Junior, or as everyone called him, Charlie. The imposing man’s autocratic instructions were accented with a force that made him heard above all others—causing the consternation of the coach, but not likely to draw censure. For the team’s shirts, shorts, and socks—including the goalie’s, whose uniform was the envy of every goalie in the league—were donated yearly by Charles Senior’s law firm. It was a quid pro quo that benefited everyone, especially the players. During a game, they kept one ear attuned to Coach Paul Henry’s instructions. And the other to Mr. Charles Thomason.

The ball still hovering dangerously at the Flames’ end of the field, Charles Senior focused his attention on Erik—sweeper, a player who needed lightning-fast reflexes because his job was to defend the critical area between the goal line and fullbacks. “Stay on the ball, Erik! Be
sharp.
Watch for the breakaway pass.”

Next to Charles stood Charlie’s mother, Francine, hands clasped in front of her, every muscle tense as she leaned slightly toward the field. She didn’t yell, gesture, or command attention in any way. Not one to be demonstrative, Fran exhibited absorption in the game by more subtle means: Her eyes rarely left her only child. No matter where the ball was, she focused on one thing only. Charlie.

The fullback—Charlie’s closest friend, Grant—stole the ball from a Raptor and controlled it with ease, confidently kicking it back to his fellow player, Bryce, the goalie. The Flames’ fans breathed a temporary sigh of relief, knowing Bryce would kick the ball a good ways down the field. Assuming the ball would move in that direction, the Flames positioned themselves to run that way.

Bryce took his time, using more seconds off the clock. When he reached down for the ball, he scanned the entire field to locate his fellow teammates. Decided to give it to Charlie, their best ball handler. Odds were the ball was safest at Charlie’s feet.

But for whatever reason, the kick was not the direct shot he’d intended. Nor was Charlie as quick to react as Bryce expected. At the last moment, a Raptor cut in front of Charlie; the ball hit him in the chest and the Raptor allowed it to fall toward his feet, expertly trapping it. Charlie had been taken off guard, and the Raptors took advantage of his lack of movement to seize the opportunity. They passed the ball to their star center forward, a blond with nimble feet.

The Raptors had maneuvered a breakaway.

The fans could sense optimism in the Raptors’ movements. The quick shift of power.

Parents, siblings, friends, all the fans on the sidelines felt the mounting tension as they pressed forward to watch the footrace. Though Erik ran neck and neck with the potential scorer, everyone knew the outcome likely depended on one person: Bryce. At that point, it was as though the charging Raptor and the goalie were the only two competitors on the field.

These few seconds seemed like an eternity to the Flames’ fans. Even more so, to Charlie. His body—which usually responded with abnormally fast reflexes, making him an exceptional soccer player—seemed to react in slow motion. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs, couldn’t breathe right. And then as he turned to his left, an annoying dull ache in his right shin became a stabbing pain. In that moment, no matter how hard Charlie
willed
it to happen, he simply couldn’t move his body as quickly as he desired. Rather than running alongside the opposing team’s forward and giving his own fullback and sweeper the defensive support they needed, Charlie was a full stride behind.

You
should’ve
been
the
first
defender,
he told himself, panicking.
Catch
up.
Get
there.

But Charlie couldn’t catch up. And one step was all that was needed.

For though Bryce placed his body in the best position possible, the Raptor expertly used the inside of his foot to kick the ball wide to the left. At the last moment, Bryce sensed he’d guessed wrong. In one final, futile effort, he leaned the opposite way, his splayed hand reaching out as far as possible. But the blur of the ball merely brushed his fingertips.

It sailed into the net. And the opposing team—along with their fans—went wild.

Bryce lay on the ground a moment, angry with himself. But even more so—bewildered.
How
had
they
let
that
happen?
Looking accusingly at Charlie, he saw him leaning over, winded, grabbing the front of his shorts.
What’s
up
with
him
anyway?
Bryce wondered.

But the Flames didn’t have time to lament the tying goal, nor the Raptors to celebrate. With only one minute remaining, Charlie called his team to get ready for the kickoff. Sloughing off any signs of insecurity or fear, Charlie determined one thing: As leader, he would make sure they saw nothing but confidence in him. “Execute!” Charlie yelled out, pumping his fist and making eye contact with his forwards.

They all knew what he meant. As did most well-coached teams, the Flames had practiced a set play for just such an occasion. The Flames realized they now had to give it their best effort to score. It was a long shot, but they set their jaws with determination and sprinted to their positions on the field.

Charlie provided one last encouragement. “We can do this!” he yelled at them, repeating it again. “We
can
do this!”

The referee placed the ball on the center mark of the field. Blew the whistle. Signaled for time to start.

With calm aplomb, Charlie put his foot on top of the ball. Barely nudged it toward his right midfielder, Austin, who immediately burst into a sprint and passed it to the right wing, Riley. Taken somewhat off guard, the Raptors tried to adjust defensively. But the Flames had gained a step on them by maneuvering the ball toward the sideline.

The ball passed from Riley to Austin to Jason, who performed the move they’d practiced over and over—a deceptive flick pass, using the outside of his foot to send the ball to Charlie. Setting it up so Charlie could execute yet another flick pass to punch the ball toward the goal. It sailed past the duped goalie into the waiting net, and as the last seconds ticked away, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

End of game.

As a roar broke out in the stands, the Flames swarmed around Charlie, lifting him onto their shoulders. Though Charlie grimaced at first, the look of joy on his face won out, and he pumped his fists in the air, shouting, “
Flames! Flames! Flames!”

Fans ran onto the field too, gathering around the players, joining in the jubilation. But Charles Senior had moved next to Coach Henry. “Seems to me they ought to be thinking more about the
next
game,” he pointed out. “They pull off that one,
then
they’ve earned the right to celebrate.”

“Agreed,” was all Coach Henry replied, nodding his head.

The Flames met the Raptors on the halfway line, ready for the end-of-game ritual of shaking hands. The Raptors’ heads were down, mostly, with the exception of the blond center forward who had scored their lone goal. Noticeably holding his chin high, he didn’t merely slide through extended hands, but took time to firmly shake each one. When he came to Charlie, he looked him squarely in the eyes.

“Good game,” he offered. He nodded down toward Charlie’s lower right leg. “Better take care of that.”

Charlie gave him a quizzical look in return. “What?”

“Better have your leg looked at. You’re favoring it, you know.”

And with that, he moved on to the next Flames player in line.

When Charlie walked over to the sideline, his dad was waiting for him. “What was that about?”

“What?”

“The exchange with their star player. What’s his problem?”

Charlie shrugged. “Nothin’. He just said it was a good game.”

“Darn right it was. Good job, sport, although you did look winded out there. You and I need to start jogging.” He put his arm around Charlie’s shoulder as they walked toward the gathering of Flames players.

The boys flopped down onto the grass, suddenly spent. The adrenaline rush had calmed, leaving them drained physically and emotionally. But they were still active boys with energy in reserve, poking at one another in their happiness. High-fived each other until Coach Henry demanded their full attention.

“Listen up. Great game today, guys. I’m proud of you.”

Amid the resulting voices and chaos, Charlie raised his hand, like in class.

Some of the players pointed it out and laughed, always amazed at his squeaky-clean image. Popular as Charlie was—due to his athletic ability, sense of humor, and striking good looks—his unfailingly polite demeanor stood in sharp contrast to most boys his age. His affability wasn’t an act but simply who he was, a genuinely nice kid. A good person who had good things happen to him. Even those who were envious had to admit Charlie earned the rewards that came his way. Honor roll for top grades. Adulation from girls. Captain of the soccer team.

Coach nodded his head toward his star player. “Yes, Charlie?”

“I just wanted to say thanks to Jason for that fantastic pass.”

Cheers broke out again, and several reached over to punch Jason in the arms. He grinned shyly, ducking from the pounding he was taking.

Charlie continued, “I would never’ve scored without his assist. I think we all oughta thank Jason. ’Cause on account of
him,
we won.”

They clapped and whooped a bit more, Coach Henry joining in. He reiterated how Jason’s pass was a perfect example of playing as a team—and how the entire team benefited from his unselfish play. “But as great a win as this was, I need you to put it aside. Focus on the next one. This game,” he glanced from boy to boy, attempting to capture their attention, “this game was a
means
to an end. Like a pregame. It’s the next one we need to set our sights on now.”

Several heads nodded and shouts of “Yeah.
Bring it on
” echoed through the ranks.

“Well, we’ll find out who our opponent is—either the Comets or the Apaches—in the very next game.” The coach glanced at his watch. “Starts in about fifteen minutes. If any of you can, I’d like you to stay to scout the players. See who their big scorers are, see what trick moves they’ve got. Who can stay?”

Several hands went up. Charlie glanced over at his dad, saw him nod in agreement. Charlie’s hand went up too.

“Okay. Listen up. The game’s tomorrow at ten. I want you here for practice by eight sharp. We’ll do some warm-ups, stretch. By then we’ll know who we’re facing and we’ll talk strategy.” The boys began standing up, chatting excitedly. “Charlie? I want to see you a minute.”

Coach waved a hand at Charlie, motioning him to follow as he walked toward his car. Charlie had to run to catch up with him, and once again he felt the now familiar ache in his right leg, in and just below the knee. Charlie concentrated on his gait rather than the pain, determined that Coach wouldn’t notice.

“Give it to me straight up, son. You sure you haven’t pulled a muscle? I can’t take the risk of you seriously hurting yourself, Charlie. How bad is it?”

“It’s nothin’, Coach.
Honest.
”

“Well, I want you to go on home now.”

“But I—”

“No, I mean it, son. Go home and ice that leg. Make sure you rest it good before the game tomorrow, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Charlie hung his head, but Coach Henry put his arm around his shoulders. Gave him a reassuring pat. “Son, we need you tomorrow, at a hundred percent. Now, off you go. And don’t forget to ice that leg.”

“Sure. See you tomorrow, Coach,” Charlie called over his shoulder as he jogged over to his dad. Too late, he remembered to not favor the hurting leg.

“Hey, why aren’t you heading over to watch the game?” Charles leaned casually against his bright red convertible, arms folded across his chest. “And what’s with the limp?”