The Late Hit Page 5

“How did he get off work?” I ask. “I thought they needed him to work all weekend.”

  “He found someone to fill in for him. He’s driving back Thursday night,” she answers. “He’ll be here sometime Friday morning.”

  I worry about my dad driving all that way with little sleep, and I know my mom is worried about it too. I can tell by her face. There is a deep crease between her eyes.

  “The bread is great,” I say to make her think about something else. Something other than my dad driving through the night without sleeping.

  “I could tell,” she laughs and points to the empty plate.

  I give her a hug, tell her goodnight, and walk down the hallway to my room. I wish my dad was home like he used to be. He was the one that first taught Anton and me how to play football, and he’s basically like a second father to Anton. He would know what to do.

  Chapter 26

  Mondays are film day for the football team, so we head to the science lab after school. This classroom creeps me out—there are glass jars filled with parts of different animals floating in liquid and a skeleton wearing a knit hat with the wolf mascot on it.

  “I feel like he’s watching me,” I say to Anton as he sits down on the stool next to me.

  “Who?”

  “The skeleton,” I say.

  “It doesn’t have eyes.” He sighs, putting his head down on his arms. “And Busby,” he turns his head and looks at me, “stop bouncing your leg up and down like that or you are going to end up in one of those pickle jars.”

  I’m not good at sitting still. Waiting. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’m bouncing my legs or tapping my fingers against a desk until someone tells me to cut it out. I look over at Anton. I don’t know what to do about him. He’s still not himself.

  “Do you still have a headache?” I ask.

  “I’m just really tired,” he responds, sitting up. “It’s Monday. I’m always tired on Mondays.”

  “Do you feel sick?”

  “Seriously,” Anton says looking at me. “When did you become my mom?”

  I’m caught off guard. I’ve always looked out for Anton just like he’s looked out for me. I’m about to reply when Coach walks in.

  “Gentlemen,” Coach Quimbley says, walking over to the projector screen at the front of the room.

  “Good game Friday night!” We start to clap, but he holds up his hands. We all get quiet. Coach doesn’t stand for any chatter on film day. “We won. Now we move on. We’ve got another team to beat. These guys have twelve talented seniors returning this year and a fast and powerful defense.”

  He looks at all of us sitting in the room and then his eyes stop on Anton.

  “How are you feeling, Anton?”

  “Great,” Anton says forcing a smile. “Ready to get to work.” But he doesn’t look great to me.

  “Good,” Coach says. “The only way we’ll win our next game is by passing the ball. Laterals. Long passes. Short passes. Sneak passes. The Hornets have a huge defensive line, so it’s going to be tough to run the ball. We have to find their holes and figure out how to get our receivers through.”

  Coach picks up the remote, and we watch Hornet film. They’re big and fast, and they know how to block, but they don’t look as strong as the Titans. They don’t have an Ellison Green or a number 23. I feel like we can beat them. I feel like we can take them down.

  “What are their stats?” I whisper to Anton.

  His head is down on his arms again.

  “I don’t know,” he mumbles. It isn’t like him not to know the stats of at least the starting lineup. He usually has all that, plus all of the good backups, memorized by Monday.

  “Anton,” Coach snaps. “If you can’t keep your head up to watch film, then how are you going to keep it up in the game?”

  Anton sits up, but when he looks at the screen, I see him squint against the bright light of the film.

  Chapter 27

  After film, we have practice. Coach has warned us that we have to build up our strength. He’s going to run us hard, and we’re going to scrimmage on the field.

  “You need to sit this one out,” I say to Anton when he starts to pull on his gear.

  “I’m fine.” He glares at me.

  “You need to talk to Coach and let him know you’re not feeling so great. Tell him you are still getting over the flu or a cold or something.”

  “Seriously,” Anton says, standing up and getting in my face. “I can take care of myself. I need to get out there and throw the ball. How can we scrimmage if I’m not there? The team needs a quarterback. Corbin is still out. Who else can throw the ball? We all need to get ready for Friday’s game. So don’t worry about me, worry about winning.”

  I look at him and shake my head.

  “Come on, just tell Coach you’re sick. I’ll throw the ball out there, and we can work on your arm when I get home.”

  “So you can do everything now? Be the star of the team? Is that what you want? To play quarterback? To take my place?”

  I stare at him. I don’t know this guy standing in front of me.

  “You can’t afford to get hit or take a fall,” I say. “This isn’t about me or the team. It’s about that dumb brain of yours. Dr. Wilson said no practice or football until your headaches go away. Another hit could totally mess you up. It could kill you.”

  Anton puts on his cleats.

  “You aren’t going out there,” I say. “It’s just practice. Go home.”

  He ties his left shoe.

  “Tell Coach you are sick, or I’ll tell Coach what Dr. Wilson said.”

  Anton looks at me. He’s mad now.

  “Talk to him,” I say again. I wish Dr. Wilson were still in town. I wish he would’ve called Anton’s parents. I don’t want to be the one to say anything. I know I’d be annoyed and angry if it were the other way around—if Anton was telling me I shouldn’t practice. If he was bossing me around, telling me what I could and could not do. But I can’t help but be scared that the next hit could take him out for good.

  Anton kicks off his cleats and heads to Coach’s office in his bare feet. I hear him knock and then see him disappear inside. And I want Coach to see what I see—Anton isn’t right.

  Chapter 28

  I realize after practice that I have no ride home since Anton left like I told him to. I look around the locker room, but most of the other guys are already gone.

  I head out to the parking lot, hoping that, if all else fails, I can get a ride with one of the freshmen who haven’t been picked up yet. But as I open the door, I see a group of soccer girls clumped together chatting.

  “Ciara,” I call out when I see her curls bobbing up and down in the group. She’s got her soccer cleats in her hands and looks like she’s had a tough practice too.

  “Malcolm Busby,” she says coming over to talk to me. “How is Anton doing?”

  “He tried to go to practice today.”

  “What?” She sounds serious. “Is he nuts?”

  “I think he might be,” I say. “He really isn’t acting like the guy I know. He isn’t thinking straight.”

  “You stopped him, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But his parents and Coach still don’t know he has a concussion. He won’t let me tell them. He says he’s fine, but I’ve seen him. He’s not okay.”

  “You have to tell someone,” Ciara says. “He could get hurt if he takes another hit. He’s your best friend.”

  “I know. But . . .” I pause. “I don’t think he’d ever forgive me if I say something, especially if he has to sit out for a playoff game.” I’m a coward and I know it. I can’t bring myself to tell somebody about Anton.

  Ciara reaches up and hugs me. “I know it must suck. I don’t mean to add more pressure to you. I’m sorry,” she says.

  When she lets go of me she’s still standing close. “Call me tonight. Let me know how things are going.” I watch her walk away, almost forgetting why I came out to the parking lot in the
first place. It isn’t until she’s almost to her car that I remember.

  “Wait, Ciara,” I call after her. “Can I get a ride home?”

  She nods at this. Instead of going straight home, we stop at Pizza Barn and share a pizza. When she drops me off, I feel like we’ve been on a date, though I never really asked her out or anything. But I know it’s a date when she leans over and kisses me before I get out of her car.

  “Bye, Malcolm Busby,” she says.

  I stand at the end of my driveway as I watch her drive away, wondering what I should do next. I wish Anton wasn’t so annoyed at me, because I’d call him. But I don’t. I just go inside and try to do my homework. Then I call Ciara.

  When I hear her voice, I just start talking. I don’t have to think about what to say next. She’s funny and smart, and we laugh. We make a plan to hang out after school on Thursday. I ask her this time.

  Chapter 29

  On Tuesday, Anton has made an excuse not to drive me to school. The two of us have driven together every day since the day he got his truck, and before that we rode the same bus. My mom has to drive me, and I feel like I’m back in first grade. Anton continues to ignore me—dodging me in the hallway and avoiding our lockers.

  I finally see Anton in science class. I sit right behind him, but he barely talks to me. When we get our tests back, I see that Anton has failed. The kid has never failed a test in his life. There is red all over the page and at the top written in all caps the words: see me.

  After class, I see Ms. Jenkins talk to him. She knows something is wrong, but he won’t tell her what it is. I watch him shake his head. When he comes out of the room, I want to say something to him, but I can tell he’s upset he failed the test, and I know saying anything will just set him off. I don’t know when to confront him, but I know now isn’t a good time. I think about it all day, but Anton manages to continue to ignore me. For a guy who is supposed to be my best friend, he’s really good at pretending he doesn’t hear me call to him in the hallway.

  ***

  “Anton!” I finally catch up with him after school as we head down to the locker room.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Big game Friday night,” he says. “We’re going to win it. I can feel it.”

  “So you’re good?” I ask.

  “Fine,” he says. He doesn’t look at me. He just heads straight into the locker room.

  “Seriously,” I say, grabbing his shoulder. “Are you still having headaches?”

  He turns and looks at me.

  “No,” he says. “If I were seriously injured, I wouldn’t be at school. I wouldn’t be here. But I’m walking and talking and going to practice today. Now drop it. There isn’t anything wrong with me.”

  I believe him for a moment.

  But when we are in the locker room, I see him taking more aspirin. He winces as he puts his shoulder pads over his head. I look around at the rest of the team. Most of us are banged up: the guys on our defensive line have bruises all up and down their arms; Corbin’s hand is wrapped in a big cast; my right shoulder aches. But that doesn’t stop the rest of us from going out there. Except I’ve realized, another hit to my shoulder won’t kill me. Another hit to Anton’s head just might put him in the hospital or worse.

  Chapter 30

  Instead of getting dressed, I go to Coach’s office.

  “Busby,” he looks up from his playbook. “What do you need?”

  “I need to talk,” I say, sounding much more confident than I feel.

  “Sit down,” he points to the chair on the other side of his desk. I take a seat and my leg starts bouncing up and down nervously. I don’t know if Anton will see it that way, but I’m doing the right thing. Coach needs to know, so I tell him about Anton’s hit in practice and the hit at the end of the game and everything I can remember that Dr. Wilson said.

  Coach takes out a pack of gum from the drawer of his desk and offers me a piece.

  “Thanks,” I say as I remove the foil and shove the stick of gum in my mouth.

  “It’s good you’re telling me this,” Coach says leaning back in his chair. I fold the gum wrapper over and over again until it is a tight, tiny square in my hand. “But you should’ve told me the first time Anton got a hit.”

  “We would’ve lost without him,” I say.

  Coach nods at this and then leans across his desk.

  “Look at me,” he says. Reluctantly, I meet his eyes. “I want to win a football game more than anyone, but my players come first. They always come first. On this team we take care of one another. We protect one another. We keep each other strong.”

  I nod at this.

  “But we don’t have another quarterback,” I say.

  “Maybe one of those freshmen has an arm we haven’t yet seen.” Coach shrugs, standing up. “There’s always a player who surprises me, who steps up when we need him most. Thank you for stepping up. Thank you for putting your teammate first.”

  I watch Coach turn to the door. I feel guilty. I didn’t put Anton first. I talked him into playing even when I knew he was hurt.

  “Busby,” he says, “I want you to be here when I talk to Anton. It will be better that way. He needs to know that you have his back not only out on the field but here—in this school, in life.”

  “He’s asked me not to say anything to you. He’s going to be mad.”

  “We’ll talk to him,” Coach says. “Together.”

  I nod my head at this.

  Coach steps out of his office and I hear him call Anton’s name.

  I stare straight ahead at the wall behind Coach’s desk. There are a dozen trophies on a shelf and a framed picture of our team taken early in September. I’m standing in front of Anton. He’s just behind me in the back row. I don’t look away from the picture until I hear Anton’s footsteps just outside the office.

  “Take a seat,” Coach says when Anton comes to the door.

  “I’m fine,” Anton bursts out, not moving an inch past the doorframe, as if coming in would mean admitting defeat. “I don’t know what Busby told you, but I’m all right. I took a hit, but I got back up; I had a little headache, but I’m totally fine now. I’m good. I saw a doctor and everything!”

  Coach nods at the chair next to me.

  “Take a seat.”

  Anton hesitates, but he knows not to question Coach. He walks past me, but he won’t look at me. He sits in the chair, hands folded on his lap, looking straight ahead.

  “You have a concussion,” Coach says. “Possibly the second one in a week.”

  Anton looks down at his hands.

  “I can’t let you play,” Coach says. “The risks are too great. Your health comes before anything else.”

  Anton nods at this, but he still won’t look at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Anton. “But your headache has been really bad. You’ve seemed tired all the time. You aren’t yourself. If we lose Friday’s game, if our school closes down, we will all be okay. But you,” the words catch in my throat, “if you take another hit, you might never recover.”

  Coach looks at me and then at Anton.

  “Busby is absolutely right. You need to take care of that brain of yours. You need to protect it.”

  Coach then tells Anton that he’s going to speak to his parents and that Anton can’t practice or play until he gets a note from a doctor that says it’s safe for him to take the field again.

  Anton and I head out of Coach’s office and back to the locker room in total silence. When we get to our lockers I’m about to say something when Anton sits down on the bench, takes off his jersey, and throws it at me.

  “I hope you’re happy,” he says. “We could’ve won this game. I would’ve been just fine out there. Now I’m done! This team is done! You and I are done! I trusted you to keep your mouth shut. Now my mom is going to freak out and haul me into the doctor and get a huge bill she can’t pay. If you could have just shut up I would’ve been fine in a couple days. I can take
care of myself. I don’t need you talking about me behind my back!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know how else to explain to him that in my gut I knew he wasn’t going to be okay if he played again. I don’t know how to tell him that I wasn’t going behind his back, but that I had his back. I promised his mother I’d watch out for him. I promised myself.

  Anton gathers up his clothes and slams his locker shut.

  When he’s gone, I gear up and join the other guys out on the field, but there is a huge hole out there without Anton. I try to fill it by working twice as hard and getting the rest of the team pumped up, but I know it isn’t enough.

  Chapter 31

  After Friday’s playoff game, I stare out the car window as my dad drives us home. I replay the game in my head. I keep going over every mistake I made. I missed a block in the third quarter that let the Hornets get a touchdown, and without a real quarterback, we could barely move down the field. We lost 24–3 and I’m glad Anton wasn’t there to see it.

  “You played a tough game tonight,” my dad says. “But you looked good out there. You looked strong. You’ve grown a lot since last year.”

  I just nod my head at this. I feel bad that he missed work and drove through the night to just watch our team lose.

  “Next year,” he says.

  “There’s not going to be a next year,” I say too fast. Too loud.

  “You aren’t giving up,” my dad says looking over at me. “You love the game.”

  “This town is giving up on us,” I say.

  My dad has heard the news. I see him grip the steering wheel and stare straight ahead.

  “Not everyone has given up,” he says. “Your great-grandfather helped build that school. I’m not going to just watch them shut it down.”

  “There’s no money to pay for all the repairs and keep it open.”

  My dad looks over at me and then back at the road.

  “When the mine closed down, it left a hole in this town. It sucked a lot of hope and pride out this place. I’m not going to let it take anything more. The mine owes this town something. They owe us at least some money to repair our schools. I’m going to make some calls when we get home. We can put pressure on the company. I’m not giving up without a fight. If the mines won’t step up and take action, I will.”