I could see him standing in Mr. Schultz’s office through the big glass window. Mr. Schultz left the weight area and greeted him. Buck’s older brother, town legend Randy Schultz, was also there. Someone had once explained to me the odds of becoming a professional athlete. In short, they are close to zero. Kasselton is a pretty big town. I read somewhere that in our New Jersey county, for every three thousand boys who start playing organized basketball in third grade, only one will eventually play college on some level—Division One, Two, or Three. So think about it. In our town alone, the league started with five hundred kids. That meant one kid every six years would play any college basketball on any level. The odds of going pro from there?

Forget it.

In the history of the sports-crazy town of Kasselton, there had only been one professional athlete out of the thousands of kids who’d participated, though injuries prevented him from playing more than a game or two.

You guessed it. Uncle Myron Bolitar.

Now, for the first time since Myron’s career came crashing down two decades ago, Kasselton had another potential professional athlete—a football tight end named Randy Schultz, Buck’s older brother. After breaking every receiving record at Kasselton High, Randy had gone on to stardom in the Big Ten, was named MVP of the Orange Bowl, and was currently waiting for the NFL draft. The experts had Randy pegged to go somewhere in the first two rounds.

Kasselton was poised to have its first professional football player.

But right now Randy Schultz, future professional tight end, looked grim and serious—and he was talking to my uncle. The conversation was animated, at least on Randy’s part. I looked over, trying to catch Myron’s eyes. Buck’s father spotted me. He frowned and pulled down the shade.

What was that all about?

“Mickey?”

It was Danny Brown.

“Next station.”

The squat rack. I loaded on the weight and spotted Danny. We finished up and headed back to the locker room.

“A couple of us are going to hang out at Pizzaiola after practice. You want a ride? I can take you home afterward.”

A flush of joy rushed through me. “Uh, sure, thanks.”

He gave me a crooked smile. I showered and tried to suppress the smile. It had been a good day. There had been painfully few in the past eight months. I wanted one night of being normal. I wanted a night where I could go out for pizza with my teammates.

Was that so wrong?

Ten guys ended up at Pizzaiola. I would tell you what we talked about, but it was just guy talk. We complained about the local pro teams. We poked gentle fun at some of the teachers. We talked about girls, though I didn’t really know any of them. They asked me questions about myself.

“Where did you live before this?”