Touchdown Kid Page 7

  “Yes.” Cory was so full of good intentions he felt like he’d burst. “Thank you, Coach. I won’t let you down. I swear on my life.”

  When they arrived at the Muillers’ gigantic house, Cory was surprised to see the driveway crowded with cars pulled off to the side.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I told you this is a big deal,” Coach McMahan said. “The Muillers are throwing a welcome party for you. It’s kind of an HBS tradition.”

  “Wow, I wish my mom could have been here.” The words escaped Cory before he could consider if they were rude or not.

  “It’s really a guys-only thing, and this is your new family, Cory. Your mom will always be there for you—she’s your mom—but these people will have your back, day in and day out. It’s like a bunch of brothers and uncles and cousins. Now, you won’t like them all the same, but they’ll stick by you for the next seven years. That’s one of the great things about being an HBS player. So, get your suitcase and head right in.”

  “You’re . . . not coming?” Cory felt a bit let down.

  Coach McMahan looked at his watch. “I got a coaches’ meeting, game film to break down. We play FM on Friday night. I just wanted to deliver you here and start you off right. Go ahead. You’ll be fine.”

  Coach McMahan made a shooing motion with his hand. “The Muillers will take great care of you. They want you here. Jimbo’s got some potential, but it’s a lot easier for college scouts to spot a kid if he’s on a championship team. The Muillers know you don’t win titles in high school football without a dominant runner.”

  “And . . . that’s me?”

  “That’s what we’re all banking on.” Coach McMahan stroked his concrete chin. “You’ll have to work hard, but . . . what I saw from you in that game when you took over for Liam? I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I never see it again. And that’s saying something, because I watch a lot of football. I mean, I’ve been calling you Touchdown Kid kind of for a laugh, but it’s not a joke. You’ve got a nose for the end zone.”

  Cory felt dizzy with pride. Only a little more than a week ago, he had a coach calling him Flapjack and saying he’d never be a real football player. Now this. People were counting on him, banking on him. The Touchdown Kid.

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  “You’re very welcome, Cory. Now get in there. It’s time to begin a new chapter in your life. Maybe the best you’ll ever have.”

  Cory shook hands with the coach and got his suitcase out of the back. He stopped at the front door to turn and wave to Coach McMahan, but all he saw were the taillights to the big white SUV disappearing around the last bend in the driveway.

  Cory rang the bell and Mr. Muiller answered the door with a big smile. “Hi, Cory. Welcome. You ready for this?”

  24

  Mr. Muiller had Cory put his suitcase beneath the watchful zebra mounted on the wall and then headed straight out onto the terrace. There wasn’t another person in sight. The trees dripped and hissed in the breeze. The tremendous view looked drab beneath the hurrying clouds. The granite terrace was still damp from rain, and the umbrellas were soggy. The only sign of life was the slowly smoking grill. It didn’t make sense. He’d seen all the cars, but the place was deserted.

  Mr. Muiller marched right up to steps leading down to the pool and stopped. When Cory caught up to him, the evening exploded with a shout:

  “Welcome to the HBS Football Family!”

  The words were followed by a storm of cheering and applause, all for him.

  Nearly seventy people—fathers and their sons—were crammed around the edges of the pool. The players wore their jerseys—like Cory—and the dads had on crimson-and-silver golf shirts and shorts; some even wore HBS crimson hats. Cory had to catch his breath. He looked up at Mr. Muiller, who grinned down at him. “Welcome, Cory. Or should I say Touchdown Kid?”

  Cory smiled wide. “Thanks.”

  Then Mr. Muiller shouted, “Okay, boys, let’s get these steaks on the grill!”

  There was another cheer and people began to file up the wide staircase from below. Each person made it his business to welcome Cory personally.

  “Great to have you, Cory.”

  “Welcome! You’re gonna love it!”

  “We’re so glad you’re one of us.”

  “Welcome to HBS.”

  “Glad the weather cleared up for you.”

  “Hey, Touchdown Kid!”

  “Congratulations.”

  Cory grinned and thanked everyone, shaking all the fathers’ hands. He was so happy, but he still wished his mom could have been there, not only to see how he was being treated, but so she could share his joy. It was a guys’ thing though, and it was hard not to have fun.

  Someone handed him a Sprite and someone else offered him pretzels from a bowl. The smell and sound of sizzling steaks filled the air. When Cory turned his head away from the flaming steaks, a six-foot monster of a kid with a big wooly afro and an outstretched hand had appeared in front of him.

  “What’s up, bro? I’m Dana Gant. Everybody just calls me Gant.”

  “Hey.” Cory was awed by Gant’s size and amazed that he was only in sixth grade.

  “Guess you and me are the only ones without a dad here tonight,” Gant said. “Check this out, Mexican jumping beans.”

  Gant unfolded his meaty hand and, indeed, three small beans twitched in his palm.

  “Kinda neat,” Cory said.

  “Yeah, I won them at the fair.” Gant smiled down on his beans.

  “Is your dad away for work or something?” Cory asked.

  “No.” Gant snapped his hand shut and clenched his jaw. “No idea where the man is.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Cory felt dumb for asking and his mind spun, searching for a good way out. “My dad died, so I guess I could say the same.”

  “Naw, you could say ‘heaven’ if you wanted to, and people would feel bad for you. Me? He’s just gone.” Sleepy lids hid half of Gant’s big brown eyes, but his smile was bright and full of energy.

  “I mean, I guess you got Mr. Muiller and I got Mr. Trimble, but, you know . . .” Gant emptied the beans into his pocket and shrugged. “Either way, we’re both scholarship kids, so we gotta stick together. I heard you’re from the Westside.”

  “Right,” Cory said. “You?”

  Gant gave his head a shake. “The Pool. Liverpool. No way like here, where we come from.”

  “No way for sure,” Cory said, returning Gant’s smile.

  “I been here for a year already. Trimbles live a couple streets away. Big house—not as big as this, but big. First fifth-grader they ever gave a scholarship to.”

  “Coach McMahan told me about you,” Cory said.

  “Yeah, played on the youth team last year and went to HB Elementary to get ready. Lots of the kids here go to HB Elementary, but not all.”

  “Oh.”

  “Next thing they’ll do is recruit a couple wide receivers for ninth grade,” Gant said. “Then Jimbo’s gonna have everything he needs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Gant shrugged. “They got me to protect his blindside. You give us a run game to keep teams from blitzing all day. Once he has some receivers, your new brother Jimbo is gonna be ready for all-state.”

  Cory was surprised that the HBS people had things planned out so well, but all he had to do was look around to realize they meant business.

  “Well, steak time.” Gant lowered his voice. “And there’s no limit. They just keep feeding you here. These people are rich.”

  Gant patted his big belly and headed for the grill, where people had begun lining up with plates. Gant looked back at him and motioned to come on, but the excitement and the Sprite left Cory wanting a bathroom. He remembered seeing one near the zebra room. Signaling that he’d be back to Gant, he let himself back into the house. The big glass door muted the noise of the party, and Cory heard his own loud breathing as he marched across the
room.

  He used the bathroom and washed his hands.

  When Cory switched off the light and opened the door, someone grabbed a fistful of his new jersey and shoved him backward into the dark bathroom, slamming him into the wall.

  25

  “What are you doing?” Cory wished he sounded tougher than he did.

  Whoever held him switched on the light.

  Cory stood face-to-face with a boy he hadn’t noticed outside, a tough-looking kid with a jet-black crew cut and a thin, bleached scar on his upper lip. His pasty white skin burned with red blotches of fury.

  “You think you get to just waltz right in here and be the star?” the kid snarled. “Touchdown Kid—please. I’m the running back for HBS, this year and every year to come. They picked you out of the gutter and you’re supposed to be some tough guy from the Westside? Well, I don’t give a crap where you’re from, you’re not tougher than me. Mike Chester.”

  “I . . . I never said I was.” Cory swallowed and pushed at the boy’s hand, but his grip only tightened and he pressed Cory harder into the wall.

  “That’s right, you’re not.” The boy licked his lips. “And I don’t care what anyone says, coaches, players, parents . . . I know, and now you know, that’s my spot. If they try to give it to you, I don’t care. I’ll take it back. It’s mine.”

  The boy moved his face even closer to Cory’s, so that their noses almost touched. “And you don’t even look at Cheyenne. You got that?”

  “I didn’t,” Cory squeaked.

  “And don’t. Not even from the corner of your eye.”

  After one final shove, the boy turned and shut off the light, slammed the door, and left Cory standing there in the dark feeling foolish.

  26

  Cory’s hands shook as he reached for the door handle to let himself back out onto the deck and into the gut of the party. People were talking and laughing and sitting or standing around cocktail tables, plates heavy with big, thick steaks they cut with sharp, wood-handled knives and then chewed with open mouths. Cory glanced here and there for a sign of Chester, remembering the taunts between Jimbo and Cheyenne about him. Cory wondered—and it would make sense, he thought—if Chester had simply waited for his chance to get Cory alone and wasn’t staying for the rest of the welcome party.

  He found Jimbo with a couple players whose names he didn’t remember and fell into their conversation, nodding and laughing on cue.

  Jimbo turned to him. “Hey, get some food, superstar.”

  Cory studied Jimbo’s face for signs of a conspiracy with Chester, but saw none. It had sounded like Jimbo didn’t have any fondness for Mike, and now Cory knew why. What kind of teammate would ambush Cory—the guest of honor—in the bathroom? A creeper, wasn’t that what Jimbo had called him?

  The mystery was Cheyenne. Could she really be connected to someone so awful? It didn’t seem possible. That would devastate him.

  “I’m no superstar.” Cory spoke softly and cast his eyes at the floor.

  “Aw.” Jimbo slugged his shoulder. “You gotta get used to that. We are going to rule the league, sixth grade, seventh, eighth, freshman, and varsity. State title. That’s what this whole thing is about, and you’re gonna be a huge part of it. Every defense in the game knows they gotta stop the run. When they load up to slow you down, the passing game is gonna open up for me like a set of double doors at a Christmas sale.”

  “I’m sure you guys have more than one person to run the ball.” Cory watched Jimbo carefully.

  Jimbo looked annoyed. “Don’t tell me. Did Mike Chester just give you an earful?”

  “Uh, you could say that.”

  “He’s an idiot.” Jimbo looked around for Mike. “Don’t listen to him. He’s in love with himself, but no one else is.”

  “Not Cheyenne?”

  Jimbo studied Cory’s face. “Oh, don’t you fall for that, too.”

  “Fall for what?” That’s what he said, but he knew just what Jimbo meant. He could see her big blue eyes and that pretty smile framed by golden hair without even closing his eyes.

  “My sister. She smiles and people get goofy, but she’s not what you think and you’ll just make a fool out of yourself.”

  Cory felt himself blushing because even though he wanted to protest, he couldn’t deny he’d already fallen for Cheyenne. To hide his feelings, he loaded a plate with food and sat down at the big table. Suddenly he remembered sitting and eating there with his mother over a week ago.

  “Can I sit here?”

  Cory looked up at a husky kid with big white teeth and tight curly blond hair. “Sure.”

  “Parker Leikam,” the boy said, taking a seat. “I’m Jimbo’s backup. You like the Patriots?”

  “I’m a Falcons fan.”

  “Falcons?” Parker scrunched up his face. “NFC South? Well, as long as you’re not a Ravens fan . . .”

  “What’s wrong with the Ravens?” A thick, neckless boy introduced himself as Garrison Green and sat down as well.

  “What’s right with them?” Parker asked.

  Gant appeared and sat as well. “Don’t get these two going on that junk. They’re best friends, but they’ll argue all night if you let ’em.”

  “You play middle linebacker or something?” Cory asked Garrison, cutting into his steak.

  Garrison grinned. “You got it. Fullback, too. I know we’re gonna run mostly spread, but when you get into the red zone? You gotta run the ball there, and I’m the guy who’s gonna lead you to pay dirt.”

  “He doesn’t need a fullback,” Gant scoffed. “Coach McMahan says this here’s the Touchdown Kid. You think he needs you? You should be joining me on the line. That’s the spot.”

  “Line? I’m too athletic for the line,” Garrison said. “You ever see me dance?”

  “Yeah,” Parker said. “I know you like to dance, but you gotta stop dressing up in that pink tutu.”

  They all laughed.

  The four of them ate and then sat talking football until darkness overran the sky and people began to bleed away. Jimbo appeared and gripped Cory’s shoulders. “You guys making my main man feel at home?”

  “He’s the secret to your success,” Garrison said, “so you better keep rubbing his shoulders.”

  “That I won’t do, but I’ll grace you mopes with my presence.” Jimbo sat down and cracked a soda, and they had a discussion about what position was the most important to a football team. Each of them argued for his own position and it made for some good laughs.

  Cory warmed to his newfound friends. He sensed that they respected and liked him already, and he felt he could trust them. He waited for a pause in the chatter before he asked, “Hey, what do you guys think about this Mike Chester kid?”

  Garrison narrowed his eyes. “He put raccoon poop in my sleeping bag on our Cub Scout overnight. He said it wasn’t him, but I know it was.”

  “He does seem to like poop,” Cory said, giving Jimbo a knowing look to remind him of the toilet last week.

  Garrison nodded and continued, “Back in fourth grade, he beat up Parker when he wouldn’t share his Skittles.”

  Cory raised his eyebrows, because even though Parker was a quarterback, he was no wilting flower. His legs were thick as tree trunks.

  Parker nodded his head, then blushed and studied the tabletop. “I shared, but not the red ones. He’s got a black belt, you know, and he’s pretty crazy.”

  “Bet you got all kinds of crazies on the Westside though, right Cory?” Jimbo looked and sounded eager, like he meant no offense.

  A quick replay of real crazies flashed through Cory’s mind: the kid who cut his own sister with a razor, the kid who lit fire to the back seat of his grandfather’s car, the kid who hung people’s cats from their porch railings. He was pretty sure fights over Skittles were as common as cockroaches, but all he said was, “Nah, not really.”

  After the last guest had departed, and Helga was busy cleaning up, Mr. Muiller produced two sports mouthpieces and hel
ped Cory and Jimbo mold them for the next day.

  “We start right out hitting at HBS,” Mr. Muiller said. “Because we’re a private school, we can do things our own way, and these guys have been doing drills all summer. You should be fine. You’ve been practicing for weeks now, right?”

  Cory nodded. He took the U-shaped rubber piece Mr. Muiller removed from a boiling saucepan and chomped down on it so it molded to his teeth. Peppermint flooded his mouth.

  “Wow. Tastes good,” Cory said, speaking around the rubber guard, amazed at how good rich kids had it.

  “Keep your teeth closed,” Mr. Muiller said.

  When they had finished, Mr. Muiller ushered them into the zebra room, where he covered up a yawn and asked Cory if he needed anything.

  “I think I’m set.” Cory held up the peppermint mouthpiece, then hoisted his suitcase off the floor.

  “Oh, let me show you something.” Mr. Muiller put a finger in the air and motioned with it for Cory to follow him down the hall and into the grand entryway. Jimbo followed along too. On the wall beside the front door was a glowing touch pad.

  “Alarm system. You’ll need the code.” Mr. Muiller tapped out four numbers. “Four fours, simple, then press the Arm button to set it before you leave. Four fours again and Disarm to shut it off. You’ll have thirty seconds if you come in the house to disarm it, plenty of time. You’ll hear it beeping, so don’t worry about forgetting it, and you really won’t have to arm it. We’ll take care of that.”

  Mr. Muiller yawned again and smiled sleepily. “Got it?”

  “Sure.” Cory stared at the red light telling him the system was armed. “Four fours.”

  “Then Disarm,” Jimbo said.

  “Yes,” Cory said.

  “Four, like a lucky four-leaf clover,” Jimbo said. “It’s also the street number of our house.”

  “I got it.” Cory tried not to sound impatient, but he wanted to be alone.

  “Great. Well, you know where your room is. Make yourself at home.” Mr. Muiller turned to his son. “Jimbo, you get to bed too. Big day tomorrow. Middle school. Big, big day.”