He gives me a high five.

“Thanks, but it wasn’t all me,” I say, thinking of Victor Hodge, Sarah, and of course Tank. “Anyway, he’s going down. It’s just something I feel.”

Justin gives me a concerned look. “What about Tank and his wrestling?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, shrugging. “It’s a play I had to make, but something tells me Big Dale will find a way to protect his son’s future.”

“Yeah,” Justin says, nodding. “I have to agree with you on that one.”

I turn and leave, closing the door gently behind me and not bothering to tell him that he’s been leaving his door unlocked a lot lately.

Chapter_26

26

At seven the following morning, Mom drops me off at the coveted football locker room entrance behind Blaine Memorial High School. As stated in Coach Horton’s annual summer letter, players must arrive an hour early on the first day of practice for helmet and shoulder pad fittings.

A long wooden bench spans the width of the brick wall outside the locker room. As Mom drives away, I cross the asphalt road and see about fifteen players sitting on the bench. Some of them point at my battered face and snicker. I stop and turn, taking a good look at the well-manicured turf and impeccably maintained grounds of Hank Horton Stadium, arguably one of the finest high school football venues in the Midwest.

Approaching the bench, I notice Barry Deck’s son, Barry Deck, Jr., sitting at the far end, his hands clasped together in his lap and looking like he isn’t sure whether he wants to go through with this football thing. He’s tall and thin like his dad, and he gives me a look and a nod as I sit beside him. I wonder if his dad mentioned me.

“What’s up, Ramsey?” he says in a gravelly voice similar to his dad’s.

“Hey, Barry.” I realize he even looks a lot like his dad. “You’re giving this a try, huh?”

“Yeah. There’s not much else to do around here.” He stares at the stadium. “So how was your summer?”

“Eventful.”

“That’s nice. I was bored to death.” He coughs. “What happened to your face?”

“Skateboarding accident.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Look, I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Fine. My mom says she sees you working at Huey’s a lot.”

I find this interesting, because I have no idea what his mom looks like.

“Yeah,” I say. “I started this summer. It’s an easy job, great gig for senior year.”

“Word has it you sell beer.”

“Not anymore.” I pause. “Why, you interested?”

“Not really. I don’t drink. My dad’s a drunk. I’m worried it might run in the family.”

There’s an awkward silence.