Chapter 24: When I Saw Her There Again

Jake gave me a ride after our respective practices on Wednesday and Thursday. We would stop and pick up Luscious Kayla on our way over to my house, where the three of us would spread our homework out on the family room floor. My family quickly got used to seeing us working in there. By Friday I was really tired of dragging my mummified arm around. Besides, it was itching so badly it was driving me crazy, so I unwound the wrappings and threw them away. I spent a few minutes in absolute ecstasy, scratching my tortured skin until it was an angry red. Even the stitches itched, which I took to be a good sign.

When I came down the stairs that morning, my mom almost had a cow when she saw that I had taken the bandages off. After examining the arm, however, she reluctantly agreed that maybe getting some air on it wasn't such a bad idea, so she helped me put a smaller bandage on the stitches, and she rubbed some moisturizing lotion into my arm.

At lunchtime that day, I decided that fresh air would probably do my lip some good too, so I got Kayla to gently peel the bandage off. She flinched a little when she saw the stitches in my mouth, but she quickly recovered, and she softly touched the swelling to make sure it wasn't too tender to go without being covered. She still sat on my left, protective as a mother hen, and held my hand in her lap.

The soccer team was playing a home game that evening against the Lakewood Huskies. I hung around the locker room with my teammates as they dressed for the game, laughing and joking. Rich Ingrams was so nervous his hands were shaking as he laced up his shoes. I sat down next to him.

"How's it going, Rich?" I asked.

He shot me a look of nearly pure terror. "I'm scared shitless," he admitted. "I've never been a starter in my life, Sean, not even when I was playing rec soccer when I was a kid. I've always come off the bench."

"It's no big deal," I said.

"Not for you, it's not," he replied. "You've been the kind of kid who's been a starter your whole life."

"I didn't start at all my freshman year, or the first half of last year," I reminded him.

"Doesn't matter," he dismissed. "You're a great player, Sean. You always started, and even when you didn't, everybody knew it was just a matter of time before you got into the lineup. Me, I'm a role player. I ain't never started. Don't get me wrong, I don't really mind, you know? I like to watch the game a little before I go in. It's how I've been trained to play. I'm gonna be cold out there, and slow, and they're gonna blow right past me into the goal."

"Try this," I suggested. "As soon as you get out onto the track, ask Eric to jog around the track a couple of laps with you, to help you loosen up. He likes to warm up that way anyway, he'll be glad for the company. And he'll talk to you, tell you jokes and shit, take your mind off the game."

"Yeah, okay, I can do that," he said.

"Then, when you're listening to Coach's instructions, just sit on the bench, like you normally do. Pretend the game's already started. When you hear your name being called, you'll think you're just going in to substitute for somebody, that's all."

"Hey, that's a good idea," he said. He looked a little less nervous, a little more in tune. "Thanks, Sean. I appreciate it."

"No problem, Rich. Have a great game." I thumped him on the back, and then went over to talk to Eric. I needed to fill him in on Rich, and make sure he talked him up as they did their laps around the track. The kid was a basket case. On our way out to the field, I walked out with Mikey Evanson and Kevin Soranno, and told them about my conversation with Rich.

"Just try to clear anything before it gets to him until he starts to look a little more comfortable out there, okay?" I looked at each of them, and got a confirming nod in return.

I would have loved to at least jog a couple of times around the track, but my ribs still were too creaky, so I contented myself to walking back and forth on the sidelines, dribbling a ball, right foot to left foot and back again, as I paced. The desire to get out onto the field was almost tangible.

Eric and Rich started out on their laps. Eric looked as relaxed as he nearly always did, but Rich was tensed up, taking very short strides. I watched as Eric slowed down a little, adjusting to Rich's pace. Eric's arms were waving as he talked, and apparently he was encouraging Rich to pick up speed a little, as they started moving out just a little more. By halfway around the first lap Rich looked a lot less tense, even though he was nowhere in the vicinity of relaxed. It was an improvement, though. As they passed me, starting their second lap, Eric shot me a look, never a pause in whichever joke he was telling to Rich at the time. That one glance contained one part irritation, one part bemusement, and a dash of worry. I shrugged, letting Eric know that I sympathized, but there was nothing more I could do, given the situation. He gave me one last sour look over his shoulder, and then concentrated on jollying Ingrams.

I was bored, so I took to looking in the stands to see if anybody I knew was watching. Matthew Hartigan, the sports reporter from our local paper, was sitting in the front row, writing in his notebook. I knew that by the start of the game he would be in his customary seat, top row center. Just up from Hartigan was another group I knew. Coach Bill was there with a few kids from the Warriors, along with some parents. I saw Justin, Davey, Kip, and Joey, and another group, sitting on the row right above the kids, consisting of parents. Lori and Wendy were there, and there were a couple of other men and women I didn't know sitting with them. I waved to them all, and Davey and Kip came running down to the fence.

I jogged over to them, and knelt down so I could be face to face with them.

"Hey, guys, how are you doing?" I asked.

"We're good, Sean," said Davey.

"What happened to your arm, Sean?" asked Kip.

"Oh, I hurt it a few days ago. It's okay, though, the doctor said it was going to be fine," I told them.

They both looked at the bandage covering my cut with big eyes.

"Oh," breathed Davey. "Mom told us you got hurt and that you weren't going to be able to play today, but we said we wanted to come and see you, anyway."

What a pair. These kids were the best.

"Thanks, guys," I said. "It means a lot to me that you came. Tell your mom thank you for me, okay?"

"Yup," agreed Kip.

I glanced up into the stands. "Say, who are those other people with your mom, Davey?"

Both of them looked up to where Lori sat with the other grown-ups.

"You mean Mrs. Marcus?" asked Davey.

"No, goof, you know I know her. What about those others?" I pointed.

Davey and Kip both started giggling, looking at each other conspiratorially.

"Can't tell you," said Kip.

"Can't tell me? Why?"

"'Cause," was all he answered.

"Okay, guys, I've got to get back," I said. These kids always put me in a good mood. "Enjoy the game."

"See you later, Sean!" "Bye, Sean!" And they both raced back up the stands to be by their friends.

As I was walking back toward the bench, I looked back into the stands once again, curious to see who was here. I was a little surprised to see that Kayla was there, about halfway up the stands, sitting with a couple of girls I didn't know. I thought she would have been at the football game, watching her brother play. I was also a little surprised at who I didn't see, and after warm-ups, as the team was gathered around getting their gear packed up and drinking some water before going out to play, I knelt down next to Jorge.

"Hey, where's your sister?" I asked.

He looked at me a little sourly. "I think she gone to the J-V game to watch Paco play, man," he said.

That stabbed me a little, even though I really couldn't blame her for going out with somebody else.

"Papa, he still pretty pissed at you, Sean," he continued. "He still telling Kristina that she got to stay away from you, whenever your name come up. I fixed her up with Paco, just so she have somebody to go to the dance with, you know? But he really likes her, and he's been moonin' over her ever since she agreed to go to Homecoming with him. It's gettin' on my nerves, I got to tell you, but she's kind of digging it, you know?"

"Yeah," I said disgustedly. "I know."

"Besides," he said, looking at me critically, "I t'ink some other little muchacha is workin' on putting her mark on you." He glanced up into the stands to emphasize his point.

While that news didn't really surprise me, I was startled to know that others had recognized it. Oddly, it didn't displease me at all. In fact, it felt kind of good.

The announcer's voice came out of the loudspeakers with the starting lineups, and Rich started looking a little green again. He was sitting on the bench, like I had told him, but he was sweating as he anticipated hearing his name. Finally, the announcer said, "Playing right defense, a junior, Richard Ingrams!" Rich stood up quickly, intending to run out onto the field to join the starting lineup. He took two steps and tripped over a gear bag. He tumbled to the ground, rolling in a heap. He leapt up and ran as fast as he could out to his teammates, never looking back. The rest of us, the substitutes and the equipment manager and me, groaned over poor Rich's bad luck.

Unfortunately, Rich's troubles were far from over. By the end of the first half, he had been pummeled by our opponents, who had been able to penetrate from his side almost at will, even with Mikey's and Kevin's help, and they had capitalized on their opportunities twice. On the other hand, their defensive players were also fairly weak, so Eric, Javier, and Trent were able to keep us in front on the scoreboard, 4-2.

Rich slumped down on the bench at halftime, panting nearly uncontrollably. Exhaustion oozed from his pores, flowing out with his sweat, as he sat there, arms resting on his knees as he leaned forward, head down. There was no way he could go back on the field for the second half, and everybody, Rich included, knew it. Adam Prince was pacing back and forth, anxious for Coach Neville to give him the word that he would be going in. He was smart enough not to press things by bugging Coach, but his attitude of anticipation was obvious.

Finally, just before the referee blew his whistle to get the teams back on the field for the start of the second half, Coach gestured for Adam. He jogged over to Coach, who quietly told him to prepare to join the starters. Weasel was so giddy he was practically jumping in place. He hopped and jigged over to where the rest of the starters were standing, preparing to run out onto the field. Kevin, Mikey, Brett, and Jorge surrounded him, and started haranguing him about how to play the position. With the four of them in his face, he had no choice but to stand there and take it, but even from where I was standing, I could see he was mad about their instructions.

I walked over and sat down next to Rich. "Tough game," I said, by way of consolation.

He glanced up at me, misery in his eyes. "I fucking blew it, didn't I?"

"Don't worry about it," I tried to reassure him. "They saw a new player in that position, and they attacked. Nothing you could do to help that."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," he said with some heat. "Don't try to sugarcoat it, Porter. They blew right past me, and there wasn't nothing I could do about it."