He jogs forward a little, then sprints toward the opponent, his movements awkward, like a newborn calf learning what it means to run. There’s no skill to it. A painful lack of awareness. What is he planning on doing, ramming into Travis? I guess that might work, but there’s card potential there.
Travis, however, has some of the best footwork I’ve ever seen. He dribbles around Kellan and is on the other side without breaking a sweat. Kellan chases after him, kicking wildly at the ball, and misses. It’s painful to watch.
I’ve had enough. I know the lower classmen are probably going to score, and yep, they do. Frustrated with Kellan’s poor performance, I approach him, having to bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t lash out at him. “Dude, what is going on with you today?”
He shakes his head, looking miserable and exhausted. Sweats shines on his forehead. “I don’t feel so good.” He presses a hand to his stomach.
“Obviously.”
He looks sickly. Or tired? It’s hard to say.
Kellan notices me studying him. His gaze turns wary. “What?”
My spine snaps straight, and I step back. “Nothing. Get your act together, okay?”
It never happens.
At the end of the scrimmage, the score is seven to three. The lower classmen destroyed us. They saw a weakness in Kellan, and they exploited it, just like any good team would do. I can’t be angry over that. They followed their instincts. Kellan, however, never improved. If anything, he got worse, which is crazy, as he was horrible to begin with. It was mistake after mistake with him. It’s like he had forgotten how to play the game.
The freshmen and sophomores, of course, are ecstatic, because guess what? Winners don’t have to do circuits.
The upper classmen get rung out by Coach. Yipee.
Coach Wheeler’s expression is thunderous. Tendons stand out on his neck. He walks with purpose, as if ready to drag us to the gallows. I swallow, brace myself. Sebastian shoves Kellan forward as sacrifice.
When Coach reaches our group, he asks in a lethally quiet voice, “Anyone want to tell me what that was about?”
He’s referring to the shitshow.
Jason, ever helpful about such things, says, “Ask Kellan. He’s the one who fucked up.”
It’s too quiet.
“It’s true,” Javier chimes in, tossing Kellan to the wolves. I have half a mind to back him up, but itishis fault that we lost. To the underclassmen, of all people. We’re never going to live that one down.
Kellan squints at the ground. His mouth is pinched. He looks like he’s going to keel over any moment.
“Listen, Dumont.” Coach turns to Kellan. “I don’t know what the hell was going on out there, but I don’t want to see it happen again. Understood?”
Slowly, he nods.
“We’ll finish off the practice with circuits. Give me five of them. Kellan, you’ll do ten.”
Afterward, breathing hard and dripping sweat, we all pour into the locker room to shower and change. Kellan stands stiff as a board in the corner, gripping his towel with white knuckles. I wander over, shirtless, and say, “The guys are going over to Terry’s house to watch the game if you want to come.”
He peeks at my chest for a fraction of a second before he turns away and shakes his head, the ends of his dark hair fluttering outward from the motion. “No, actually. I h-have schoolwork.” The knob in his throat bobs.
What in the world?
“Schoolwork?” I ask, the faintest sneer to my voice. “Since when do you care about schoolwork?”
It’s the exact same tone he’d use with me if he knew I was choosing school over the game. If only he knew exactly how much time I put into studying. Most nights following practice, I’m up until the early hours of the morning. Programming is time-consuming, full of tedious work. “Aren’t you always saying what a waste of time it is? School is for tools, or something like that?”
Kellan drops the towel into his bag, works his jaw. “Right.” His voice is gravelly. “I do say that, don’t I?” His smile is sharp. “How about you just mind your own business, all right? Have fun watching the game, but it’s a pass for me.”
When he turns his back to me, I know I’ve gone too far. A sour taste enters my mouth. I didn’t mean to come off as an asshole. That’s the language Kellan normally speaks. So what’s changed?
“Oh, Kellan.” A soft chuckle comes from behind me as Sebastian slides up to his younger brother and squeezes him around the shoulders, giving him a little shake. Kellan shoots daggers at Sebastian. “What are you talking about? Of course you’re coming to watch the game. It’s what we always do.” The last statement is spoken like a threat. He narrows his gaze while offering one of his confident smiles.
