Boys of Blur by N. D. Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

Charlie made the catch, or mocking Charlie like a sportscaster when he failed.
    But this was different. This ball was coming from more than forty yards away. This ball was coming in like a rocket. This ball was coming in while an entire high school football team and dozens of scattered observers were all waiting to see if Mack’s boy—if Bobby Reynolds’s boy—could catch.
    Charlie hopped up, slipped on the grass, and slammed his back against the wall. His first instinct was to coverhis head and dive out of the way. In one burst of motion, Charlie pushed off the wall, stepped forward in a crouch, and then jumped. He stretched his arms above his head, straining to snag the nose of the tightly spinning ball.
    He had jumped too soon. Charlie began to drop just as the ball reached him. It folded back his fingers and sprang up into the air. Charlie leaned backward, grabbing at nothing, watching his failure spin away behind him.
    He landed on his back in the grass and his breath exploded out of him. His eyes were on the sky. The ball hopped on the corner of the locker room roof and bounced back off. Charlie kicked himself toward it. He stretched out one arm and felt the ball slap against his palm.
    It rolled off into the grass.
    Groans washed across the field from the players and laughter trickled out of the stands. He shut his eyes.
    “Charlie Boy!” The voice was Mack’s. “Get on over here!”
    Charlie didn’t want to. He didn’t want to get on over anywhere. He wanted the grass to eat him, to erase him from this scene completely.
    “Charlie!”
    Ignoring Mack was going to make it worse. Charlie rolled over and stood. He snatched that stupid ball up from a little nest of grass and jogged onto the field toward his stepfather.
    The players were all stripping off their shoulder pads and dropping them onto their helmets. Sugar shot Charlie a smile.
    “Nice effort, Charlie,” Mack said, and he held out his hands for the ball. Charlie tossed it to him hard and tight—harder than he needed to. Mack caught it and laughed.
    Mack pointed away across the field, over the top of the cane, toward the swamp. Brown sugar smoke rose up in a jagged tower, slow and stiff at the base, torn and feathered by wind hundreds of feet up. Behind the smoke, gray clouds on the horizon were hatching a change in weather.
    “Time we ran some rabbits!” Mack said.
    A few boys whooped. A few boys groaned.
    Sugar crossed his arms. The sleeves were missing from his sweat-soaked shirt. His arms were purple and green with old bruises above the elbows.
    “Seriously, Coach?” he asked. “Rabbits? I mean, I know you’re old school, but that’s kid and tourist stuff now.”
    “Tourists? In Taper?” Mack laughed, tucked the football on his hip, and walked toward Sugar. Charlie could see sparks growing in his stepfather’s eyes. His voice was part drumbeat, part growl. “Old school? Son, it’s as old school as going undefeated and wearing rings, old school as quickness and toughness and white stripes on grass.”
    Sugar worked hard to meet his coach’s stare, but Charlie saw the boy’s Adam’s apple bobbing. Mack leaned his face close and let his words roll.
    “Now, I know my team captain isn’t standing here whining like a pussycat at a granny’s back door. What is it you need, son? A little scratch behind the ears? Or would you like to win some games?”
    Sugar said nothing.
    Mack grinned and thumped Sugar on the shoulder.
    “Nah. You’re no pussycat. Wildcat, maybe. But when this coach tells you something, you don’t open that gap-toothed mouth of yours unless a
yes, sir
or a
yes, coach
is hopping out.”
    Sugar nodded. Mack turned back to the whole team. “Time I saw some speed, boys! And, you know, my wallet’s a little heavy. Think you all could lighten it for me?”
    “Yes, sir!” the boys shouted.
    “I’ve got a five for every muck rabbit,” Mack said. “A twenty for any cottontail. Practice is over when the team has