The Walk On (13 page)

Alex thought about it for a moment. “Coach, you were trying to do something nice.”

“Yeah, didn’t turn out too well. Thank God you aren’t seriously hurt.”

Alex brightened. “Can you do something for me to make up for it?” he asked.

“Depends what it is,” Coach Hillier said. “I don’t think I can make you the starter.”

Alex laughed. “I know
that
,” he said. “But can I throw the ball down the field every once in a while in scrimmages?” Coach Hillier hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Done,” he said. “I’ll deal with whatever comes with it. Get dressed and go see your mom.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Yes. And to your dad on the phone. She asked me to talk to him so he’d understand exactly what happened.”

“What’d he say?”

Coach Hillier smiled again.

“That you should be starting.”

Not surprisingly, Alex’s mom was very concerned—even after she had spoken with Coach Hillier and Buddy Thomas. She was also full of questions.

Twice, in front of Jonas and Mrs. Ellington and with other parents coming by to express concern, Linda Myers asked her son exactly what had happened.

“I’ll tell you later, Mom,” he said both times. He knew it would take him a while to explain that he had gotten crushed because his coach had run up the score.

When they were finally in the car, he walked her through it. First he had to explain the concept of a kneel-down. Then he had to make her understand why he would be put in the game just to do that when he hadn’t played all night. Then came telling her why his coach might run up the score on a weak team and why the players on that team might take offense.

“I don’t blame them for being upset,” she said. “That doesn’t sound very nice or fair. But still, what that boy did to you was inexcusable.”

Alex sighed. “He apologized. I’m sure he didn’t really mean to hurt me; he just wanted to send me flying backward. And I’m fine.”

Actually, his ribs were aching at the moment. But his head felt better by the minute. That was good. He had read enough about concussions to know that if he had one he could miss a lot of playing time. Then again, it wasn’t like he was going to be starting—or playing at all—anytime soon.

“Still, shouldn’t someone talk to his parents?”

Alex laughed—which hurt his ribs. “Mom, it’s football. You don’t talk to people’s parents about a late hit or even a semi-dirty hit.” He paused for a moment. “If they’re still alive, it might be nice if someone talked to Coach Gordon’s parents.”

Even his mom smiled at that one.

From the backseat he suddenly heard Molly’s voice. “Mom!” she cried. “McDonald’s!”

Those were the sweetest words Alex had heard all night. His mom turned on her signal and pulled into the drive-through.

Alex felt much better after he had downed two double hamburgers, a large French fries, and a vanilla milk shake. If loss of appetite was a concussion symptom, there was no doubt he was fine.

He took a couple more Advil before he went to bed and, after tossing and turning to find a position that didn’t affect his ribs, he fell sound asleep. He woke up only once, right around sunrise, after dreaming that Coach Gordon was trying to tackle him.

He quickly fell back asleep and awoke to his mother’s voice coming from downstairs. He glanced at the clock next to his bed and saw that it was 10:08. He had been asleep for almost twelve hours.

“Alex, can you hear me?” he heard his mom say—no doubt for the second time.

“Yes!” he answered.

“There’s a phone call down here,” she said. “Should I take a message?”

Alex didn’t have a lot of friends, especially these days, but the friends he did have would call him on his cell phone—which was sitting next to his bed.

“Who is it?” he called back.

“Don’t know. It’s a girl.”

That got Alex’s attention.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a second to collect his thoughts. His head, he noticed, felt fine. His ribs were still a little sore, but that was all—a little sore. Who, he wondered, could possibly be calling.…

“Alex?”

“Coming!” he yelled back, and scrambled out of bed.

He padded down the steps, carefully sidestepping Papi, one of the two family cats. His dad had named him after David Ortiz because he was so big.

His mom was holding the phone in her hands when he came into the kitchen. “Someone named Christine?” she said softly, one hand over the receiver.

That
got Alex’s heart pumping a little faster.

“Hello?” he said.

“Alex, it’s Christine Whitford. I hope I didn’t wake you. How are you feeling?”

It
was
her. But why?

“No, I’m fine. I mean, I’m awake.…” He paused, telling himself to slow down. “It’s okay,” he finally added.

“I’m actually calling because the
Weekly Roar
assigned me to write a story about what happened to you last night. It’s one of the sidebars.”

Alex had no idea what a sidebar was, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking Christine to explain.

“So … you want to talk to me about last night?”

“Yes. The paper doesn’t come out until Wednesday, but we need to turn in our stories by Monday.”

“So … you want to talk to me
now
?”

Now it was her turn to pause. Or at least Alex thought there was a pause.

“I was thinking we might meet somewhere. Mr. Hillier assigned me the story. He said it would be better if I could describe how you look today … that I’d get better details in person than over the phone.…”

Her voice trailed off at that point. Alex didn’t want to sound too eager. Even so, he answered quickly.

“Where could we meet?”

“How about Stark’s? Do you know it? It’s not too far from school.”

Alex had no idea what Stark’s was or where it was. That’s why Google Maps existed. If it wasn’t far from school, he could probably get there on his bike.

“I can find it,” he said. “What time?”

“Noon?”

Alex looked at his mom, who was cracking eggs into a bowl and trying to look very busy. They had made a deal before the school year began: as soon as Alex finished his weekend homework, he was free to do pretty much whatever he wanted and she would try to drive him if he needed a ride. There was no way he was going to finish his homework by noon. But he suspected he could talk her into this one—especially if he showered right away and at
least knocked off one subject before he had to leave the house.

“How about twelve-thirty?” he said, in part so as not to appear too fired up about having lunch with her but also to give himself a little more wiggle room with his mom.

“That’s fine,” she said. “Did my number come up on your phone? That’s my cell in case you have any trouble finding it.” Alex looked at the phone and saw a number with a 610 area code on it.

He nodded. “Yup, got it. Stark’s at twelve-thirty.”

He hung up and could feel his heart pounding. Excited—yes. Hungry—almost as much.

The negotiations with his mom went pretty well. Since he promised to get one subject of homework out of the way before he left, she was willing to make the deal. She did—naturally—want one thing in return: some information on Christine Whitford.

“She’s a girl in my French class,” Alex said. “And she works on the student newspaper. I guess Coach Hillier suggested she write something called a sidebar about me since I got hurt.” He smiled. “I told you I’d take this town by storm.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m glad to see your sense of humor is still intact.” She put her hands on her hips, the move his dad always said made it impossible to say no to her. “So, tell me, is she pretty?”

Alex shrugged, hoping to sound casual. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The look on his mom’s face told him she wasn’t buying the casual act.

“Alex …”

“Yeah,” he said, finally. “She kind of looks like Emma Watson.”

For a moment his mom looked confused. Then her face lit up. “Hermione?” she said. “Wow. She’s
that
pretty?”

Alex thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s that pretty.”

“You better shower,” his mom said. “I’m assuming you feel okay, right?”

“Feel great,” he semi-lied. His ribs were still a little sore. But everything else felt good right now.

Stark’s was, according to Google, 3.7 miles from the Myers house. Alex raced through his shower, did most of his math, and was on his bike at 11:55. He didn’t want to be late, but he didn’t want to be early either.

He parked his bike at a rack that was around the corner from the big sign that said
STARK
’
S
—
GREAT BURGERS SINCE 1964
and walked in the front door at exactly 12:32. Christine Whitford was sitting in a booth about halfway back and waved when he walked in. She got up to greet him and gave him a very businesslike handshake. She was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, cutoff jeans, and flat, strappy sandals. Her long dark hair was tied back into a ponytail. She looked spectacular.

“Thanks for doing this,” she said. “I hope it’s not too big a
pain. It’s just that Mr. Hillier really thought the story would be better this way and it’s only my second assignment.”

Alex put up a hand as he slid into the booth opposite her. “It’s fine,” he said. “I have to eat anyway, don’t I?”

She laughed.

“I talked to Mr. Thomas this morning and he said getting your appetite back would be a good sign. Do you feel hungry?”

“Actually, I’m starving,” he said.

“Good,” she said as a waitress approached. “Why don’t we order right now and then get to work? I mean, you can look at the menu”—she glanced down at the closed menu sitting in front of Alex—“but if you’ve never been to Stark’s before, you should definitely have a burger.”

Alex nodded. “Sounds good to me.”