It was nearly dark and the lights had come on with big, echoing thumps by the time the coaches called practice and the boys all packed it in. Carter hadn’t meant to stay so long – he really did have club work to do – but he’d been lulled into a sort of trance by the ebb and flow of practice: reminiscing, wishing.
He felt nearly loopy with it; endorphins, he thought, vaguely. He’d gotten a contact high just from watching people play. That was what he chose to blame his sudden burst of forwardness on.
As the team trooped past, chatting, complaining of sore muscles, and playing with their phones, Carter spotted the first-string quarterback and said, “Good arm.”
The kid froze and lifted his head, gaze already suspicious when it landed on Carter. Most of his teammates continued on, but a few stopped, glancing between the two of them.
Belatedly, Carter realized that maybe the older guy lurking in the bleachers with a Lean Dogs cut didn’t look like welcome company.
“Uh, sorry,” he offered. “I was waiting for my girlfriend, and I watched you guys practice.”
“Dude,” one of the other players said. “Your girlfriend goes to this school?” Two others laughed.
“No, not like – she’s getting her GED. Evening classes.” He gestured over toward the building.
“Didn’t that let out, like, an hour ago?” another kid asked. “Why are you still sitting here in the damn dark?”
“Dude, are you a pedophile or some shit?”
Another player struck a fake scandalized pose and fanned his hand dramatically over his crotch.
Carter wished he hadn’t said anything, now. He’d forgotten how tricky it could be talking to teenagers, and now he felt old, and creepy, and wrongfooted. “I didn’t – I’m not–” he tried, as laughter swelled among the group. He sighed. “I used to play here, in high school. Wanted to go pro. Sorry. I won’t come by again.” He stood, and started down the bleachers while the players feigned terror, screaming, and covering themselves. Something bounced off his forehead: a wadded-up paper cup, he saw, as it landed on the grass.
The quarterback hadn’t spoken a word through all of this, standing tall and rigid, phone clenched in his hand. When Carter reached the bottom row of bleachers, he said, “Knock it off.”
The other players went silent, cutting off mid-laugh, mid-taunt. They froze. True authority had rung in their QB’s voice, and it was obvious they respected him as a leader, going by their reactions.
“Go on,” he said. “Go on and wait by the cars. I’ll be a sec.”
Some doubtful looks were thrown, but the rest trooped off toward the parking lot.
When they were gone, Carter stepped down onto the grass and turned to the quarterback. “Thanks. I wasn’t trying to start shit. I won’t come back.”
The kid’s next words froze him in his tracks. “You’re Carter Michaels.”
Carter turned back to face him. He was a little taller than Carter, and with his head tipped back, his gaze low-lidded, assessing, guarded, he regarded him with a regal sort of judgement that so many teenagers played at, but never possessed. He was built a little thicker than the average quarterback. His sweaty t-shirt and shorts clung to thickly muscled shoulders, biceps, and thighs. This kid spent a lot of time on weight training, and it showed. Carter had watched passing drills today, but he could see the speed in him; knew that, if given a run play, this quarterback could put his head down and bull right through the defenders. Light on his feet, he’d be hard to sack; give him a gap, and he’d be dangerous headed for the endzone.
“I am,” Carter said, not bothering to hide his surprise. “How did you recognize me?”
His voice carefully modulated, the quarterback said, “Your picture’s on the wall in the weight room. Y’all won state that year.” His gaze tracked deliberately down to Carter’s boots and back up; his lip twitched, not a sneer, but not a smile, either. “You look a little different now.”
Carter plucked at the front of the cut. “As you can see,” he said, dryly, “I really hit the big time after college. You want a ‘stay in school’ poster? I’m your man.”
Another lip twitch – a reluctant smile, this time. The kid had a stern face, but his smile, a glimpse of bright teeth in the dark, softened him; gave truth to the fact that, despite looking like he could bench press Carter, he was still just a teenager.
“Coach said you went to Texas A&M,” he said, tone a little easier now.
“Yeah, and then I ruined my shoulder.” Carter touched it, phantom pain flaring. “Now I’m a creepy-ass biker.”
The kid laughed. “Nah. Just…I mean. A little.”
Carter winced. “Yeah, sorry. I just miss it, sometimes.” He gestured out across the field. “You know?”
The quarterback nodded, expression growing serious again. “I know.” He glanced out across the expanse of grass, profile limned a moment by the lights. With a little notch pressed between drawn brows, Carter could see it so easily: theSIcover. The country was full of good, talented ball players, but this kid – this kid had that ephemeral something special. It clung to people, radiated off them like stardust. It didn’t always mean that success was guaranteed, but Carter hadn’t seen it up close and personal like this in a long time.
That old thrill again.
When the quarterback faced him again, he tipped his head, braids rustling against the back of his shirt. “You caught that pass.”
