I spotted my own football a few feet away and picked it up, but my PT had drifted off to join another group. They weren’t passing so much as handing each other the ball while gabbing a mile a minute, probably about Ezra Lynley’s favorite brand of socks or something equally irrelevant.
I resolved to stay solo rather than be at the mercy of any conversation in that vein. I held the football so I could at least aim it in the direction of one of the groups if Mr. Sellers looked over, meanwhile edging my way around the other pairs to get closer to where Foster and Ezra stood.
Ezra knelt with the new ball and gestured Foster forward. “Try it again.”
This time the ball nicked the left goalpost and bounced off into the sidelines.
“Closer.” Ezra eyed Foster. “Again.”
He lined up another ball. This one did the trick.
That same powerhouse blast, the same cannonball force of Foster’s accidental punt, launched this ball cleanly between the goalposts.
“Shit,” I heard a freshboy next to me murmur. He punched the arm of the guy next to him. It was Kenyon, the kid Mr. Sellers had called “our new up-and-comer,” who received the blow. Kenyon, broader than two Ezras or three Fosters, was standing with his mouth wide open. “Shit, d’you see that?” the freshboy said again.
Foster kicked four more times, two rogue shots and two that nailed it. Then Ezra demonstrated a proper punt. Foster copied his movements, and his ball landed ten yards past where Ezra’s own had fallen.
I watched shamelessly for the rest of the period. It was oddly disconcerting … like learning that your dog could tap-dance. After dismissing us for the day, Mr. Sellers, Ezra, and Foster began to conference.
“What did he say?” I pounced on Foster after class. He was the last one out of the locker room. Even Ezra had strolled out with his duffel bag flung over his shoulder a good ten minutes after the freshboys had dispersed and a good five minutes into fourth period. He didn’t give me a second glance.
Foster stooped down to pull up his socks. His backpack slid forward over his head as far as the straps would allow, giving him the appearance of a turtle retracting into its shell. “He said with some practice, I have a shot at varsity.”
Shock and surprise were words too weak to describe it. “Varsity? He said varsity?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But Mr. Sellers doesn’t even coach varsity.”
“Not Mr. Sellers. Ezra.”
“Ezra? Why would Ezra say that?”
Foster shrugged. “Maybe I’m good.”
He didn’t say it with any sort of indignation, and I felt a little pang, knowing that I would be pissed if someone were that incredulous about me. “I didn’t mean … it’s just that freshmen don’t usually make varsity.”
“Mr. Sellers said to go to the C team field after school and he would talk to the coaches about me playing.”
C team. That made more sense. Well, as much sense as any of this could make.
“Are you excited?” was all I could think to ask.
“Nobody at home cared that I could kick stuff.”
I frowned. “But Mom and Dad don’t even…” Foster was looking at the wall. I trailed off, and when I spoke again, my voice was a little too bright. “How’d you learn to kick like that?”
Foster looked back at me, and the moment was over. “I had a soccer ball. Sometimes I would try to kick it over our garage. I couldn’t get it every time. Ezra said if I practice, I’ll become consistent.”
“Well … you’re good at it.”
Foster smiled. “Apparently.”
6
One by one, the players launched themselves at the tackling dummies, shouldering hard with all their weight behind them. There was no denying it—these were freshmen.
Foster watched with round eyes.
“I think they’ll start you off as one of those,” I said, gesturing to the dummies, just to be stupid. He didn’t crack a smile.
Temple Sterling’s freshman team played on the field behind TS Junior High, just across the street from the high school. Foster hadn’t asked me to go with him after school, but when he showed up outside my eighth-period science class, I figured the invitation was implied.