The Outlaw: No Heroes Page 2

  Yes, it’s true, a few of our receivers broke their fingers catching my passes.

  I’m not sure how far I can throw a football. I’d guess forty yards.

  Yes, I’m really looking forward to playing Patrick Henry in our final game.

  No, I haven’t seen video of their big monster linebacker.

  “Okay, scrubs,” Andy said, standing beside me at the hopper. My hand rested on a football heated hot from the sun. The team’s six receivers had closed around us, their shoulder pads almost touching. It was show-time. “Those are reporters and scouts over there, here to evaluate us. Rank us. See how we stack up.”

  “Let’s do what we do,” said Jon Mayweather, a five-foot eleven big talking senior, nodding and shifting his weight with the nervous pent up energy of a pit-bull. “Come on, baby.”

  “They want to know if you’re fast,” Andy said, and they howled with pride, starting to bob and sway. “They want to know if you can catch.” More calls and war cries. “And they want to know if I can throw. So I’m going to be firing the ball today. I’ll put one through your facemask if you’re not ready, got it, punks? Standard passing drill, let’s go,” he said and we all clapped in unison. “Try to keep up, Ballerina. Don’t make us look bad,” he growled under his breath to me.

  The six receivers split and lined up on either side of the field, flanking Andy and I, with the hopper of footballs between us. We all stood on the goal line, facing the pristine green field and the spray painted yard marks that marched away from us like ladder rungs to greatness. Silence descended into the stadium. Our offensive coordinator, Coach Keith, held up the imperial stopwatch and waited. A local photographer gathered himself behind a digital camera, his finger poised above the shutter. The defensive players ceased their training and sat on their helmets to watch us.

  “Set,” Andy said, and it was the only sound for a hundred yards in all directions. The two receivers on the line dug in and crouched.

  “Square out!” Coach Keith roared and squeezed the stopwatch.

  Speed. The equipment manager shoved a warm football into my eager palms. Josh Magee, a short but promising sophomore, tore up the right side of the field. I spun the ball until the laces slipped under my fingertips, planted evenly on both feet, pivoted, and threw a rocket straight at the back of Josh Magee’s jersey. Andy threw the same pass to a different receiver on the other side of the field.

  “Hot route, inside slant,” the offensive coordinator yelled, and another football hit my hands just as Josh caught the first one. Speed. Faster. Jon Mayweather came cutting across the field into my peripheral vision from the left. I tossed it ahead of Jon, leading him across the field, and heard the satisfying smack of the pass hitting his gloves.

  “Ten yard out,” was the next route. Faster. Another football, another receiver, another pass. Again. Another route. Another ball. “Hook! Come back! Quick out!” Throw. Smack. Route, ball, throw, smack. Route, ball, throw, smack. I was throwing a pass every six seconds.

  “Let’s go, move your butt!” Andy barked when he noticed a slackening of the pace. I kept firing footballs all across the field to receivers whether they were ready or not, forcing them to sprint. My arm was on fire for the final throw, the eighteenth throw, the local favorite.

  “Go route!”

  Adam Mendoza, one of the school’s track stars, flew up field, hitting a blazing speed only trained sprinters can reach. Fifteen yards. Twenty. Twentyfivethirty. He was a blur.

  I gathered and launched a tight spiral high up into the limitless azure sky. Beside me, Andy threw a similar pass. All eyes followed the silent path upwards and upwards towards the sun, farther, becoming a smaller and smaller dot before it plummeted and fell effortlessly into Adam’s hands. Jon caught Andy’s ball too.

  Light applause broke out on the sideline.

  We were an efficient speed machine of muscle and sweat, and we had cycled through all six receivers three times, running eighteen unique routes. We moved so quickly that the guys had to return to the line at a run for their next assignment, and I had to throw the successive pass before the first pass was completed.

  The drill was impressive for high school students but not unheard of.

  “One minute, fifty four seconds,” was the time. “No drops.”

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead and looked eagerly at the stands. Katie Lopez, one of my closest friends, would often come to watch me practice. I always looked for her reaction after a passing drill but she wasn’t here today. I fought away a frown. Teresa Triplett was clapping on the sidelines. She laughed and gave me two thumbs up.

  Then I noticed who was standing adjacent to her: two uniformed cheerleaders, in their red and black uniforms. One of the cheerleaders was Hannah Walker. The Hannah Walker. Andy Babington’s girlfriend.

  Or maybe Andy Babington’s ex-girlfriend?

  “Hey Andy,” Teresa called, her hands cupped around her mouth like a megaphone. “I heard you can do this drill blindfolded!”

  Uh oh. That wasn’t going to make Andy happy.

  I’d made a terrible mistake over the summer. I told Coach, after a long day of passing drills, that I had thrown these passes so many times I could do it with my eyes closed. Prove it, he told me. So I did. Andy tried it too, but he wasn’t as good. He was clearly a better quarterback, but for whatever reason I could complete more passes blindfolded than he could. Drove him mad. So Coach made us practice blind, every Thursday from then on. The results were mixed, but through weekly accretion we’d been improving. Word had gotten around, I guess.

  “Ah shoot,” Andy grumbled under his breath. “Damn it, Ballerina, this is your fault.”

  I stuck my hand into the back pocket of my shorts, where I kept my bandana. Practice was technically finished, but… The players watched to see what Andy would do. So did the assistant coach with the stopwatch. So did Coach Garrett. Everyone waited.

  While he debated, I kept my eyes on Hannah across the field. I hadn’t spoken to her in years; we’d had a math class together in sixth grade. She looked…sad. Could she and Andy really be finished?

  That settled it. I withdrew a red bandana from my pocket.

  “Let’s do it,” I said, encouragingly to Andy. “It’ll get more attention, right?” The six receivers standing with their hands on their knees sucking air all groaned. The rest of the onlookers watched this new development silently. Before Andy made up his mind, I started tying the bandana around my head, covering my eyes to create a blindfold. “Again.”

  “Gonna kick your butt, Ballerina,” Andy growled, and he pulled out his own bandana.

  An expectant hush fell suddenly across the field like a blanket of disbelief. I shook my right arm, shaking out the accumulated fire within. The hopper rattled as the balls were reloaded. The receivers lined up, and the assistant coach’s watch beeped as he reset it. I hoped Hannah Walker was watching. I briefly tilted my head up to peer under the blindfold in order to acquaint myself with my position on the field.

  “This is stupid,” Andy whispered. I wiped the sweat from my palm on my shorts. “Set?” he asked.

  “Set,” Josh Magee and Jon Mayweather said.

  “Square in!”

  A ball was pressed firmly into my waiting hands as cleats began churning up the field. The ball had been inflated to thirteen pounds and I could feel the minute pebbles beneath my skin. In my mind’s eye I could see Josh running straight, digging in and crossing at fifteen yards out. I knew from experience that I needed to throw higher than I thought I did, so I heaved a pass that felt too high and too far. This time assistant coach Todd Keith waited until I heard the smack of football hitting gloves before calling the ensuing route.

  “Post!”

  Route after route, we repeated the process. A little slower and more deliberate. When I missed, I’d take a peek under the bandana to reorient myself. I threw to ghosts, to phantoms that I trusted to materialize where they should. Faith in my muscle memory and their legs powered the dril
l.

  There was nothing like this drill that I’d seen. It was original and had a certain cinematic flair. It was impressive. It would get us attention.

  My arm was dead for the last throw. I was spent, and in my mind’s eye Adam Mendoza looked about two miles away. I’d be lucky to chuck it halfway to him. I ground my teeth, called upon every ounce of strength I had left, and whirled the ball as hard as I could, hoping for a miracle.

  I pulled the mask off. Andy’s mask was already gone. Jon had to slow down to catch his pass. I spotted Adam Mendoza, my receiver. He stopped running. Was my pass really that bad? But Adam wasn’t looking at the ground. He was looking up. I followed his gaze up to the sky and caught a glimpse of the football as it sailed into band’s section at the far end of the stadium. Eighty yards away? Ninety?

  …wow.

  “Holy crap, Ballerina,” Andy said. “What the heck?” The spectators on the sideline were silent, staring in awe at the impossible distance of the final pass. A throw that far would be hard even for a professional. It was absurd, beyond belief.

  “Sorry, Adam,” I called. “Must have got caught by the wind?” We both shrugged. Andy was glaring angrily at me. The length of the throw was ludicrous. What other explanation was there?

  At the time, it never occurred to me that I was sick.

  Practice was over and I was late.

  “Chase, can we get one final picture with Andy before you go?” the reporter with a digital camera asked me as I turned to jog off the field. “We need a cover photo for the story.”

  “Real quick,” I said.

  “Right over here,” he said, walking me towards the end zone. “Son, I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I wasn’t even aware something like that was possible.”

  “Took a lot of practice,” I said.

  “Not the passing drill, kid,” he said. “The throw.”

  “Oh right,” I stammered lamely. “Yeah that was weird.”

  “Right here,” he said, “Next to Andy.”

  Andy stood between two bright, perky, and smiling cheerleaders. One of them had her hand around Andy’s arm. The other cheerleader was Hannah Walker. All the air left my body.

  “Here,” he said again, and tossed me and Andy each a football. “Hold it and the girls will stand on each side.”

  Hannah Walker was purposefully not looking at Andy, and I might have imagined it but her eyes looked red. She stepped up beside me and each wrapped their hands around my arms. My skin burned white hot under Hannah’s fingers and my knees turned weak when she gave me a squeeze.

  “Smile,” he said.

  Way ahead of you, pal.

  I rushed home and not because my arms still tingled from her fingertips. I was late. Again. I was always late. This time, I was late picking up my father and taking him to physical therapy.

  Dad used to be a police detective in Glendale but hurt his back in a car accident. Now he worked as a toll booth attendant while waiting for his back to heal. He could drive himself to therapy but might not manage the return trip.

  My old faithful beat up Toyota was squealing off Glenoaks Boulevard when the headache hit. My right arm started pulsing painfully and suddenly POW, agony exploded behind my eyes. I cried out and squeezed them shut against the awful pressure. Ooowww!! My right arm was throbbing. I steered with my left hand and peaked through my squinted left eye. So much pain! Where was this coming from?? I had never had a migraine before, but this must surely be one. Another wave of discomfort contorted my body. My muscles all tensed and I involuntarily stomped on the gas pedal.

  The car surged forward, out of control. I started to apply the breaks and force my eyes open but then…CRUNCH. The whole car shuttered. I felt the impact vibrate up through the steering wheel. I pushed against the brake as hard as I could. Oh jeez, I hit something. Dad was going to be super pissed.

  I pried open my eyes. A street sign. At least it wasn’t a person.

  HONK HONK!

  Andy Babington roared by in his luxury SUV, laughing and waving his arm out of the window.

  Chapter Two

  Monday, September 3. 2017

  When my mother died a few years ago we’d collected on a big life insurance policy that my father used to purchase our townhouse in cash. He wanted us to remain in our highly ranked school district so we could get the best education. Our three bedroom townhouse is newly built and very modern, sitting in a charming townhouse neighborhood on the outskirts of Glendale.

  Despite the fact that our home is nice and we reside in the sunny suburbs of the Greater Los Angeles Area, we are broke. Dad comes home from work, takes powerful medication and sits in his reclining chair watching television. Every day. He says things will get better when he returns to work as a detective. We are probably the poorest people at my very wealthy school.

  The second poorest family might be Katie’s, my best friend. Her mother is a divorced middle school math teacher, and they live in a first floor apartment at the entrance to our neighborhood. Katie is mixed; her mother’s parents are from Puerto Rico, and her father is white. I’d never met him.

  The night before school started I walked to her house, as I often did. Her bedroom had sliding doors so I could get in and out easily. Her mom knew I visited and didn't mind.

  I went around back, knocked on the glass, and went in, pushing through her lacy pink curtains. Her room smelled like flowery lotion, and looked like a tidy sanctuary of pink and white kittens and angels. Katie sat on her bed, her knees tucked up under her chin, ankles crossed, staring at her laptop. She wore jeans and a t-shirt like every other day.

  Katie is pretty. I’ve always thought so, but recently it was becoming undeniable. She has thick brown hair that makes other girls envious, beautiful skin, deep brown eyes and a wholesome heart shaped face. She used to be just Katie, my friend down the street. Now she’s…Katie the Knockout. She’s out of my league; I’m scrawny, she’s perfect. I have no chance with her. In fact, I’m not sure why she hung around me at all.

  “Hiya, stranger!”

  “Stranger?” I asked, sitting in her swivel chair. “I was over here last week.”

  “That’s too long. You used to be here every other night.”

  “I know,” I said. “Sorry. I’ve been practicing every day, and spending time with Matt at night. What are you looking at?” I picked up one of her stuffed animals and tossed it in the air. I had won her the stuffed animal at a carnival when we were younger.

  “Nothing. Commenting on pictures and reading tweets,” she sighed. “The riots are getting closer.”

  Racial tensions had recently boiled over in Los Angeles. A new controversial law in California made life harder for illegal immigrants. I didn’t know all the details. But considering how closely we lived to the Mexican border it wasn’t really surprising when the Latino community revolted, started staging protests and eventually rioted. Parts of Los Angeles burned and the country watched.

  “What do you mean ‘closer’?”

  “There are fires near Silver Lake now,” she said, her face an angelic white from the glow of her screen.

  “That’s just south of here,” I said.

  “Plus, there’s a lot of looting nearby. Couple kids at our school got mugged.” She closed the monitor. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Me too,” I said. She missed my friendship, nothing more. “What classes do you have? First semester I have Trig, Spanish Three…I mean Espanol Tres, Advanced Conditioning, and English.”

  “I have, let’s see...” she said and she glanced down a paper retrieved out of her satchel. “Calculus One, Espanol Tres, AP History, and Photography.”

  “Are you still on the Debate Team?” I asked. I spied some Hersey Kisses on her desk. She kept them there for me so I took a handful.

  “Of course. I’m hoping to be nominated as Chair,” she said gravely.

  “And you’ll still participate with the model U.N.?”
/>   “Obviously.”

  “Jeez, you’re an over achiever.”

  “You would be too if you didn’t spend your whole life practicing football,” she smiled. “Who is your Spanish teacher?

  “Seniora Richardson.”

  “Me too!” she cried and threw her hands up in the air. “We have a class together!”

  “Good. You can help me study,” I said.

  “You’ll do fine,” she said. “You’re as smart as I am.”

  “You’ll probably be our class’s valedictorian, Katie. We’re not on the same level.”

  “Because I work at it, silly.”

  “I might work at school more if I wasn’t playing football. It’s all-consuming,” I sighed. “It never ends. I’m exhausted and I hurt all over. We practice all day then I come home and throw passes until midnight.”

  “Well that’s your own fault.”

  “I was interviewed on Thursday.”

  “Wow!” She smiled really big. Genuine excitement and pleasure flushed her face. I grinned in return. Katie was the first person to be happy for me. Coach Garrett told me not to screw up, and my father had only grunted. “That’s great! The newspaper?”

  “And Channel Four news.”

  “Even better,” she said. “Television is a more pervasive medium. When does it air?”

  “Last Friday.”

  “What? And you didn’t tell me?” she pouted.

  “I didn’t even see it,” I said. “I was at the hospital with dad. I heard it’s online though. It’s mostly an interview of Andy, of course. I don’t know if I’ll even make it on the screen.”

  “Well, let’s watch now.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket, sat on the arm rest of my chair, and started browsing the internet on her device. I could smell her perfume.

  Just friends, just friends, just friends.

  She found the two-minute video and we watched it. The section about my family lasted twenty-five sections. Andy was the star. The final shot was of us standing with the cheerleaders.

  “I need to cut my hair,” I noted.

  “No you don’t. It’s perfect, slightly shaggy. The hair barely reaches your eyebrows. You look so good on camera, with your pretty blue eyes. And your cheekbones look great.”