Stick (10 page)

He stopped, and just like in every movie I'd ever seen, he faced them, hands on hips. I couldn't hear what he was saying. I did, however, hear them laugh.

They walked toward him.

Just as the first man shoved Preston, I ran. I ran harder and faster than I ever had on the field. Faster than with any football tucked in my arm heading toward a championship. I ran with my teeth clenched, fear in my heart, tears gathering in my eyes, and panic coursing through every fiber of my body.

When Preston slammed into the ground, I lowered my shoulder and hit the first guy harder than Tilly had ever pounded an offensive lineman into the turf. I
felt
the air leave him, heard his teeth crunch together, saw his feet leave the ground, and heard his ribs snapping.

The guy flew backwards, then skidded across the pavement. My momentum carried me on top of him. His head snapped back and hit the pavement, and he went out like a light. I stared into his slack face, wondering for an instant if I'd killed him. Then I heard a scream.

It wasn't Preston. I twisted, turning to look back, and there was Preston, sitting on his butt, calmly spraying a canister of pepper spray into the face of the second man. The guy sprang away, writhing, clawing at his burning eyes, screaming bloody murder as he inhaled the fire.

With the canister empty and the third guy coming at him, Preston scrambled at his belt, fumbling for something.

“Stop!”
I heard the word coming from my throat, a bellow more than a scream, before I knew I said it. The man did stop. He looked at me. He was big. Bigger than me. Around twenty or so, he had a scraggly goatee and wore a Harley Davidson shirt, and his eyes were dark discs in the shadows cast by the streetlight. He glanced at his buddies, one still writhing on the ground, slobbering pepper spray and mucus, the other laid out cold on the concrete.

Anger replaced my fear, and just like the lightning bolts running down Preston's costume, it struck me. I stomped toward him, fists balled, ready to take the beating Preston had taken for me.

The guy blinked, looking from me to Preston, who sat calmly, staring at me. The man shook his head. “You're crazy.” Then he ran.

The pepper-sprayed man groveled on the ground, rubbing his eyes. Preston frowned at me. “What are you doing here, Brett?”

I walked over to him, reaching down and offering my hand in the semi-darkness. The stars still glimmered, the rage faded, the street was quiet, and I looked into his masked eyes. “I guess I'm helping a…superhero.”

“Y
ou're not Batman.”

He'd put his pants and hoodie back on, and I almost felt like what had just happened was normal. He adjusted the backpack on his shoulder. “Batman isn't real, Brett.”

I stopped, remembering the black eye, the bruises. Those guys would have torn him apart tonight. Then again, when I'd turned back to him after the guy ran away, he'd had a Taser in his hands. “Preston, this isn't a joke. You're not a superhero.”

When he'd gotten back into his regular clothes, his usual demeanor returned. Slump-shouldered, hands in his pockets, and passive, he looked at me. “You are, though.”

“What?”

His eyes pierced mine. “You dress up in a colorful costume and pretend you're something you're not every Friday night to play a game. I do the same thing, but there are two differences between us.”

“What?”

“The first is that when
you
dress up like an idiot and beat the crap out of your opponents, thousands of people think you're sane. They cheer and they clap and they wish they were you.”

“And the second?”

His expression hardened, and his voice was like a viper's hiss. “The second? The second difference is that what you do is completely useless. It's idiotic. You play a game for points on a scoreboard. There's no value to it, and therefore, there's no value to you.”

“This is your way of thanking me?” I pointed back the way we came. “I might play a stupid game, but I don't go out risking my life for a stolen stereo! You're the idiot, Preston.”

He spoke quickly, anger and contempt lacing his voice. “I wasn't thanking you, and perhaps you didn't know it, but there are two million high school sports injuries a year in this country, thirteen point two percent of which are head injuries. Anybody with an ounce of logic would realize that suffering a head injury for no reason is the definition of being an idiot, but I didn't call you an idiot. I called football idiotic, which is different, but you wouldn't know that because your brain can't handle anything more complicated than how many steps to run in a pattern so you can catch a ball.”

“Well, that doesn't matter anymore because I quit—remember? And besides, even if football is useless, what you're doing is useless, too.”

He swung his backpack at me full-force, and in the next second he was on me, flapping his arms, slapping me, trying to hit me. I felt like I was being attacked by a herd of sixth-grade girls. Hunching over and putting my arms over my head, I waited until he was finished.

Finally he stood back, panting, his eyes wild, staring at me.

I peeked at him through the crook of my elbow, expecting another flurry. “Are you done?”

He kicked his backpack, sending it into the street. “I know I'm not a superhero! I know I'm not strong or tough and I can hardly walk down the street without tripping over my own fucking feet, but if I'd just been able to do something when—” He stopped suddenly, swallowing, and I saw tears in his eyes.

In the next breath, he snatched up his pack and ran. His footsteps echoed down the street as he disappeared into the darkness. And as I watched him go, I knew I'd hurt him. This
wasn't
a game to him, and it wasn't pretending. I felt like a fool. There was nothing for him to win, I realized, because he couldn't win his father back to life.

I
cut the headlights and coasted to the curb in front of my house. Thank God there were no lights on, and as I opened the car door, I hoped my dad was beer-sleeping. A tornado wouldn't wake the guy up when he fell asleep with a beer in his hand.

I knew I was in all kinds of trouble. I'd stolen back my car, which he knew about now for sure; I'd quit the team and declined a scholarship; and at one-thirty in the morning I was way past my curfew. A week ago if I'd ever thought of doing those things, I'd have thought I'd be better off slitting my wrists and jumping off a bridge.

As I tiptoed up the porch stairs, I grunted. Tiptoeing? It was like sneaking back into prison. Straightening, I opened the front door. It banged into something. Pushing, I moved whatever it was and poked my head in, looking down.

There, barely glinting from the moonlight, was a box full of every trophy I'd ever won. I smiled. At least it was a big box.

“Those are yours.”

His voice came from the recliner. His words were slurred, but not like the usual drunk-and-half-asleep slur. I stepped inside. He turned the lamp on.

I shut the door. “I'm sorry I'm late and I'm sorry I took my car. I should have told you.”

He pointed to the box. “You earned those. Keep them. Nothing else, though.” He held his hand out. “Keys.”

I looked down at the box, then back at him. “What's going on?”

“It means you no longer live here. You take your trophies and get out.”

“Dad, come on. I said I wa—”

“GET OUT!” he boomed.

He was half drunk, but this wasn't just the booze talking. The football drilling my chest flashed through my mind. I wondered for a second if he'd turned into a total jerk or if I'd just gotten old enough to know he'd always been one. “Okay. I'll pack my clothes and leave.”

He shook his head. “You take the clothes on your back and that box full of wasted dreams. Get out.”

“Dad, come on.”

“You screwed up, Brett. You've thrown away everything you've been given, and this is what happens to people like that. Give me the keys.”

“No.”

He stood, his eyes boring into me. “Now!”

“Or what? You got a football you want to hit me with? Maybe grab me and shake me? That's one of your favorites, right? Throw me up against the wall? Slap me again?” I stared right back at him. “You know what I did tonight? I tried to help a kid who lost his dad. Murdered right in front of him. He goes out and tries to make the world a better place because of it. You know what I do? I catch a fucking ball. That's all I'm supposed to do, right? And now your poor little world is ruined.”

He came at me, his eyes flaring, and as he did, I raised my hands and shoved him. Hard. He flew back, crashing against the recliner and falling to the floor. His expression showed that he was as stunned as I was. I swallowed, then shook my head. “You're never going to touch me again. All I wanted was a dad. Just a dad. Not a coach or mentor or teacher. Just a dad.” I looked at the box of trophies, then kicked. They flew across the room, scattering. “I'm keeping my keys,” I said.

He blinked, staring.

I slammed the door shut on the way out.

B
ack in my car, I drove to the nearest parking lot and sat. Then I dialed Mike. I got his message, then called again. He answered on the fifth ring. “Hey, Brett,” he said, his voice sleepy.

“Hey,” I said, uncomfortable. “What's up?”

“Well, it's two a.m. I was sleeping.”

“Yeah. Sorry. You mind if I camp out at your house tonight? My dad and I got into it.”

He hesitated. “I heard about today with Tilly and Killinger. Your new friend went apeshit on them.”

“If that's what they say.”

“He's the one with the eggs, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Both of them are gunning for you now. You know that, right?” he said.

“It doesn't matter anymore. I'm done.”

“You're not coming back to the team?”

“No.”

He paused again. “I can't believe you're doing this, Brett.”

“You know why I am, Mike. And I figured you'd get it.”

“That's funny.”

“What is?” I said.

“For the first time, I agree with your dad and Coach more than you.”

Our friendship flashed through my head. Years of backyard campouts. Playing ball in the street. Riding our bikes down to the pond and chasing ducks. Joining Boy Scouts and quitting at the same time. Checking out girls downtown. “Don't do this, Mike.”

“Do what? Be pissed that you're fucking everybody over, including your best friend?”

“If the only thing I am to you is a way to get something you want, I guess so.”

“Killinger was right.”

“Right about what?”

“He said you couldn't cut it. That this is how they cull the weak from the strong.”

“So I guess this is it, then? All this for nothing.”

Mike didn't answer, and the silence was deafening.

“You're better than them, Mike. You are,” I said. Then I hung up.