Alex nodded, turned to his teammates in the huddle, and simply said, “Victory.”
They lined up again. Alex started to drop to a knee with the ball when—out of nowhere—he felt a shoulder collide with his helmet. He felt a stinging pain in the side of his head and in his ribs because he had been punched there at the same time. He went down on his back and saw someone looking at him through a face mask.
“You tell your——coach that was for him!” was all he heard before someone pulled his attacker off him. Lying there, Alex could tell there was shouting and pushing and shoving going on all around. He knew he should get up so no one would step on him, but he was too stunned to move.
Then through the snarl of bodies above him, a Lion broke free and stood over him. “Wait for the trainer,” Matt Gordon said. “I’ll take care of you until he gets here.”
“How’s the head, Goldie?” Matt asked softly.
“I think I’m okay,” he said.
Buddy Thomas, the trainer, was kneeling in front of him, a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay?”
Instinctively, Alex nodded, but that hurt, so he stopped.
Buddy must have seen him wince because he said to him, “Head’s pretty sore, huh?”
“Yes,” Alex said, remembering not to move his head this time.
“What’s your name?” Buddy asked.
Alex almost laughed because he wasn’t sure Buddy knew his name. There was a reasonable chance that Alex could answer the question wrong and Buddy wouldn’t know.
“Alex Myers. But you call me ‘rook.’ ” All the freshmen were “rook” in Buddy’s training room.
Buddy smiled—the first time Alex had seen that—and Alex could hear some laughter from the players behind him.
“Very good.”
“What day is it?”
“Friday.”
“Do you remember who we were playing?”
“Mercer.”
“What was the score when you came into the game?”
“Seventy-seven to nothing. We had the seventy-seven.”
More laughter.
Buddy looked up at Coach Gordon, who Alex now noticed was standing off to his right.
The players from both teams were hovering around him quietly. He could see a number of security people in yellow jackets standing between the players from the two teams, just in case someone got angry again.
“I think he’s going to need some Advil, but he doesn’t have any concussion symptoms,” Buddy said. “At least not right now.”
“Good,” Coach Gordon said. “Alex, do you feel like you can stand up?”
It was the first time Coach Gordon had called him by his first name.
“I think so,” he said. “But my ribs are kind of sore.”
“We’ll take a look at that when we get inside,” Buddy said as he reached down to help him up. “Gordon, do me a favor and get his other arm.”
Matt Gordon took Alex by the left arm while Buddy Thomas got the right one, and together they got him on his feet. Alex felt some pain in both his head and his ribs, but nothing that made him want to scream. He looked around and saw that most of those still left in the stands were standing, and when he stood up, they started to clap. So did some of the players. One of the Mercer players walked up to him with his hand out.
“I’m really sorry, dude. I just lost it there for a second,” he said. “You didn’t do anything to deserve that.”
Even though he was a defensive lineman, he wasn’t a lot bigger than Alex. Which helped explain why the score had been 77–0. Alex shook his hand.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I understand.”
Actually, he did sort of understand. Coach Gordon had run up the score. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been in the game to take a knee on the final two plays. Alex had. So Alex was the one with the pounding head and the sore ribs.
“Come on, Myers,” Buddy said. “Let’s get a look at those ribs.”
Alex smiled. He guessed by the time they made it inside, he’d be back to being “rook” again.
Buddy Thomas examined Alex’s ribs thoroughly and told him he didn’t think he had anything more than some bruises. “If they’re still sore on Monday, we’ll send you to get an MRI,” he said. “But I suspect you’re going to be fine. How’s your head right now?”
The pounding had actually lessened by the time they got into the locker room, although Alex wouldn’t have minded if someone had turned down the postgame music that was pulsing through the room.
“Not too bad,” he said.
Buddy reached onto a shelf and pulled a bottle of Advil off it. “Take two now and two just before you go to bed,” he said. “If you’ve got a headache in the morning, take a couple more. If it still hurts after that, call me and I’ll get you in to see a doctor tomorrow. I suspect you’re fine. Your memory was clear out on the field, which is a very good sign, and you didn’t black out at all. Still, we have to be careful with any hit to the head.
“Got it?”
Alex nodded, and winced.
“All right, then. Go take a shower and get dressed. I’m going to go outside and talk to your mom.”
“My mom? She’s not here.”
Molly had a soccer game that she was actually playing in, so Alex had told his mom to go to that game and not bother trying to catch some of his game afterward since he knew he wouldn’t be playing. He was now especially grateful that she had agreed.
“No, she’s here,” Buddy said. “Coach Hillier called her. He didn’t want her seeing anything on TV or the Internet about you being knocked out and panicking. He also thought she should come pick you up. She just texted me a couple minutes ago that she’s outside with Ellington’s mom waiting for you guys.”
Alex nodded and was pleased to note that the pain wasn’t as bad as it had been a few minutes earlier.
He got down from the training table. He was still wearing his uniform pants but had taken off his jersey and pads. Instinctively, he looked around for them.
“Don’t worry about the uniform,” Buddy said. “Taken care of. Mr. O’s got it.”
“Thanks,” Alex said.
“Anytime, ‘rook,’ ” Buddy said, smiling. “Next time you’re out there to take a knee, remember to duck.”
Alex laughed, which hurt a little. He walked into the locker room, which was already half empty. Some guys were still dressing, and he could hear the showers going. As he walked to his locker, several guys asked him how he was feeling or patted him gently on the back. Jonas was the only one left in the freshman area and he was putting his shoes on.
“So, you gonna survive?” he asked.
“Apparently, I’ll live to kneel another day,” Alex said, sitting down in front of his locker. He wondered if any football player in history had ever felt this tired after a game in which his role had been to kneel down twice.
“Coach Hillier called your mom,” Jonas said. “She’s outside with my mom right now.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ll go tell them you’re coming soon—okay?”
“Yeah, good idea. I won’t be that long.”
Alex undressed slowly—he was still sore—and headed for the shower room, which had emptied out. He showered longer than he should have, but the hot water felt so good it was hard to get out. He walked to his locker, towel around his waist, and was pulling his clothes out when he heard a voice behind him.
“Alex, I’m really sorry. That was my fault.”
He turned and saw Coach Hillier, dressed in what the players called his “civilian” clothes.
“How in the world could it be your fault?”
“Because I told Coach Gordon he had to get you on the field. That it was unfair for you to be the one guy in uniform not to play. I’m not sure what I was thinking, since all you were going to do was kneel. Then … this happens. I’m sorry.”
Alex thought about it for a moment. “Coach, you were trying
to do something nice.”
“Yeah, didn’t turn out too well. Thank God you aren’t seriously hurt.”
Alex brightened. “Can you do something for me to make up for it?” he asked.
“Depends what it is,” Coach Hillier said. “I don’t think I can make you the starter.”
Alex laughed. “I know that,” he said. “But can I throw the ball down the field every once in a while in scrimmages?” Coach Hillier hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Done,” he said. “I’ll deal with whatever comes with it. Get dressed and go see your mom.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Yes. And to your dad on the phone. She asked me to talk to him so he’d understand exactly what happened.”
“What’d he say?”
Coach Hillier smiled again.
“That you should be starting.”
Not surprisingly, Alex’s mom was very concerned—even after she had spoken with Coach Hillier and Buddy Thomas. She was also full of questions.
Twice, in front of Jonas and Mrs. Ellington and with other parents coming by to express concern, Linda Myers asked her son exactly what had happened.
“I’ll tell you later, Mom,” he said both times. He knew it would take him a while to explain that he had gotten crushed because his coach had run up the score.
When they were finally in the car, he walked her through it. First he had to explain the concept of a kneel-down. Then he had to make her understand why he would be put in the game just to do that when he hadn’t played all night. Then came telling her why his coach might run up the score on a weak team and why the players on that team might take offense.
“I don’t blame them for being upset,” she said. “That doesn’t sound very nice or fair. But still, what that boy did to you was inexcusable.”
Alex sighed. “He apologized. I’m sure he didn’t really mean to hurt me; he just wanted to send me flying backward. And I’m fine.”
Actually, his ribs were aching at the moment. But his head felt better by the minute. That was good. He had read enough about concussions to know that if he had one he could miss a lot of playing time. Then again, it wasn’t like he was going to be starting—or playing at all—anytime soon.
“Still, shouldn’t someone talk to his parents?”
Alex laughed—which hurt his ribs. “Mom, it’s football. You don’t talk to people’s parents about a late hit or even a semi-dirty hit.” He paused for a moment. “If they’re still alive, it might be nice if someone talked to Coach Gordon’s parents.”
Even his mom smiled at that one.
From the backseat he suddenly heard Molly’s voice. “Mom!” she cried. “McDonald’s!”
Those were the sweetest words Alex had heard all night. His mom turned on her signal and pulled into the drive-through.
Alex felt much better after he had downed two double hamburgers, a large French fries, and a vanilla milk shake. If loss of appetite was a concussion symptom, there was no doubt he was fine.
He took a couple more Advil before he went to bed and, after tossing and turning to find a position that didn’t affect his ribs, he fell sound asleep. He woke up only once, right around sunrise, after dreaming that Coach Gordon was trying to tackle him.
He quickly fell back asleep and awoke to his mother’s voice coming from downstairs. He glanced at the clock next to his bed and saw that it was 10:08. He had been asleep for almost twelve hours.
“Alex, can you hear me?” he heard his mom say—no doubt for the second time.
“Yes!” he answered.
“There’s a phone call down here,” she said. “Should I take a message?”
Alex didn’t have a lot of friends, especially these days, but the friends he did have would call him on his cell phone—which was sitting next to his bed.
“Who is it?” he called back.
“Don’t know. It’s a girl.”
That got Alex’s attention.
He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a second to collect his thoughts. His head, he noticed, felt fine. His ribs were still a little sore, but that was all—a little sore. Who, he wondered, could possibly be calling.…
“Alex?”
“Coming!” he yelled back, and scrambled out of bed.
He padded down the steps, carefully sidestepping Papi, one of the two family cats. His dad had named him after David Ortiz because he was so big.
His mom was holding the phone in her hands when he came into the kitchen. “Someone named Christine?” she said softly, one hand over the receiver.
That got Alex’s heart pumping a little faster.
“Hello?” he said.
“Alex, it’s Christine Whitford. I hope I didn’t wake you. How are you feeling?”
It was her. But why?
“No, I’m fine. I mean, I’m awake.…” He paused, telling himself to slow down. “It’s okay,” he finally added.
“I’m actually calling because the Weekly Roar assigned me to write a story about what happened to you last night. It’s one of the sidebars.”
Alex had no idea what a sidebar was, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking Christine to explain.
“So … you want to talk to me about last night?”
“Yes. The paper doesn’t come out until Wednesday, but we need to turn in our stories by Monday.”
“So … you want to talk to me now?”
Now it was her turn to pause. Or at least Alex thought there was a pause.
“I was thinking we might meet somewhere. Mr. Hillier assigned me the story. He said it would be better if I could describe how you look today … that I’d get better details in person than over the phone.…”
Her voice trailed off at that point. Alex didn’t want to sound too eager. Even so, he answered quickly.
“Where could we meet?”
“How about Stark’s? Do you know it? It’s not too far from school.”
Alex had no idea what Stark’s was or where it was. That’s why Google Maps existed. If it wasn’t far from school, he could probably get there on his bike.
“I can find it,” he said. “What time?”
“Noon?”
Alex looked at his mom, who was cracking eggs into a bowl and trying to look very busy. They had made a deal before the school year began: as soon as Alex finished his weekend homework, he was free to do pretty much whatever he wanted and she would try to drive him if he needed a ride. There was no way he was going to finish his homework by noon. But he suspected he could talk her into this one—especially if he showered right away and at least knocked off one subject before he had to leave the house.
“How about twelve-thirty?” he said, in part so as not to appear too fired up about having lunch with her but also to give himself a little more wiggle room with his mom.
“That’s fine,” she said. “Did my number come up on your phone? That’s my cell in case you have any trouble finding it.” Alex looked at the phone and saw a number with a 610 area code on it.
He nodded. “Yup, got it. Stark’s at twelve-thirty.”
He hung up and could feel his heart pounding. Excited—yes. Hungry—almost as much.
The negotiations with his mom went pretty well. Since he promised to get one subject of homework out of the way before he left, she was willing to make the deal. She did—naturally—want one thing in return: some information on Christine Whitford.
“She’s a girl in my French class,” Alex said. “And she works on the student newspaper. I guess Coach Hillier suggested she write something called a sidebar about me since I got hurt.” He smiled. “I told you I’d take this town by storm.”
She laughed. “Well, I’m glad to see your sense of humor is still intact.” She put her hands on her hips, the move his dad always said made it impossible to say no to her. “So, tell me, is she pretty?”
Alex shrugged, hoping to sound casual. “Yeah, I guess so.”
The look on his mom’s face told him she wasn�
��t buying the casual act.
“Alex …”
“Yeah,” he said, finally. “She kind of looks like Emma Watson.”
For a moment his mom looked confused. Then her face lit up. “Hermione?” she said. “Wow. She’s that pretty?”
Alex thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s that pretty.”
“You better shower,” his mom said. “I’m assuming you feel okay, right?”
“Feel great,” he semi-lied. His ribs were still a little sore. But everything else felt good right now.
Stark’s was, according to Google, 3.7 miles from the Myers house. Alex raced through his shower, did most of his math, and was on his bike at 11:55. He didn’t want to be late, but he didn’t want to be early either.
He parked his bike at a rack that was around the corner from the big sign that said STARK’S—GREAT BURGERS SINCE 1964 and walked in the front door at exactly 12:32. Christine Whitford was sitting in a booth about halfway back and waved when he walked in. She got up to greet him and gave him a very businesslike handshake. She was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, cutoff jeans, and flat, strappy sandals. Her long dark hair was tied back into a ponytail. She looked spectacular.
“Thanks for doing this,” she said. “I hope it’s not too big a pain. It’s just that Mr. Hillier really thought the story would be better this way and it’s only my second assignment.”
Alex put up a hand as he slid into the booth opposite her. “It’s fine,” he said. “I have to eat anyway, don’t I?”
She laughed.
“I talked to Mr. Thomas this morning and he said getting your appetite back would be a good sign. Do you feel hungry?”
“Actually, I’m starving,” he said.
“Good,” she said as a waitress approached. “Why don’t we order right now and then get to work? I mean, you can look at the menu”—she glanced down at the closed menu sitting in front of Alex—“but if you’ve never been to Stark’s before, you should definitely have a burger.”
Alex nodded. “Sounds good to me.”
They both ordered a hamburger, French fries, and a milk shake—his vanilla, hers chocolate. Alex noted that, like him, she didn’t want cheese on her burger.
The Walk On Page 8
