Page 24 of Hard to Hold

“I—uh—uh,” I stutter. “I did no such thing. It’s on the ground. You can’t prove it was me.”

“What seems to be the problem, Officer?” Mr. Matheson asks. As nerves course through me, I forget what he does for a living, but I’ve heard Rory say shit about him here and there during training. What I do know is from what I’ve heard—he seems to have enough influence that one word from him to the academy and I can watch all my chances vanish.

Every single one.

“This boy here”—the policeman grabs my bicep and tugs my arm, “has been caught stealing several times from shops around here.” He turns to me and starts to drag me with him. “Let’s go down to the station. I can’t look the other way since the owner is askin’ me to press charges. He’s ignored your sticky fingers before and now wants to teach you a lesson.” He tugs on my arm again. “C’mon. You know the drill.”

“No.” The word is a strangled cry filled with panic. “I can’t go. It’s the last week of tryouts. If I go, I won’t be able to train. I won’t be able to—”

“He did nothing wrong, Constable,” Mr. Matheson says in that baritone of his that has both the policeman and me whipping our heads to look at him. Mr. Matheson puts his hands on his son’s shoulders and pushes him forward. “It was my son, Rory, who did it.”

I think the look on Rory’s face mirrors mine—shock, disbelief, confusion—but mine also holds something else, hesitation.

Why would Mr. Matheson do this? Why would he offer up his son to take my place? Why would a rich man step in for a nobody like me?

“Sir,” the policeman says as he pulls me back to where the biscuits and banana litter the ground, “you and me both know your son didn’t do this.”

Mr. Matheson’s chuckle is long and low. “But I do know.” He takes a step forward as Rory stares at him, doe-eyed and confused. “I can see how it’d be easy to mistake the two of them for each other. Why, with the same training gear on, same hair and height, anyone could do it, but I assure you it was my Rory here. In fact, I was just lecturing him myself. I was telling him that actions have consequences and lo and behold, you came along to reinforce just that.”

The policeman looks from Mr. Matheson to me and then back again as his grip loosens ever so slightly on my bicep.

“But, Dad—”

“Nonsense, Rory. You and I both know it’s not fair for Rush to take the blame for your mistakes.” He pushes him forward some more. “Now go on. Go deal with the consequences of your actions. Go with the constable.”

“But what about the school trip I’m supposed to leave on? What about—”

“Nonsense. We Mathesons take responsibility for our mistakes.”

I watch the exchange, feeling like I’m not a part of the situation, but rather a balloon floating around its edges. Nothing of this makes sense to me and yet, even at the age of fifteen, I know I’ll never forget this moment as long as I live.

Partially because it feels like it’s the first act of kindness shown my way in so long that I struggle with how to accept it. And if I do accept it, that means I have to remain quiet and let Rory take the fall for my crime.

A boy that will be on my team if I get the scholarship.

My eyes dart to the food on the ground again as my internal struggle rages over how I can casually pick it up and salvage it before the rest of it is ruined. With a sigh of resignation, the officer releases my arm, takes a step forward closer to Mr. Matheson, and lowers his voice. “It’s quite all right. We can keep this between the four of us. Why don’t you just go on about your way like this never happened and—”

“Why the difference, Constable? Shouldn’t both boys be held to the same set of laws and standards?”

“But, sir.”

“Constable, it’s Inspector Matheson,” he says and reaches his hand out as both the policeman’s and my lips fall lax.

Inspector?

I stare at him again with eyes wide. Why is he doing this?

“Go on,” he continued, giving them a shooing motion. “I’ll be by the station shortly to sort everything out.”

Rory gives his dad one last desperate, pleading look before turning and following the policeman, his shoulders slumped, his feet shuffling.

“So, Mr. Rush McKenzie,” Inspector Matheson says, as I look over my shoulder to where Rory had been before moving back to his imposing dad. “You from around here?”

I shake my head. “We’ve moved around a lot.” It’s the half-truth, because when my mom was alive, we did move a lot. Promises to live with distant family members had them buying us train tickets, taking us from one side of England to another more than once. This just happened to be the place we took root in the few years before she became sick and died. The place she promised we’d live so I could be closer to my dream. “But I’m here for good now.”

“I see.” He studies me in the most intense way. “You’ve got quite the talent on the pitch, son. I’ve heard your name mentioned in the right circles. How come you’ve never formally played with a club before?”

Because food comes before club fees.