“Wow,” I said, but it wasn’t the revelation about Ezra. “For someone who hates football, you sure know a lot about it.”
“Well, you can’t really oppose something until you’ve researched it properly, can you?”
She turned back to her computer and didn’t speak for a few moments. I finally had to clear my throat. “So … about the photography stuff…”
Rachel blinked at me like she had forgotten I was there. “Yeah. Well, JV and C team are already covered, but I think I could work something out for you with varsity. See me at lunch tomorrow and I’ll get you a sideline pass.”
“Really?”
No one got sideline passes unless you were an equipment manager or something.
“Uh-huh.”
“Cool. Thanks.”
Rachel had already resumed typing, and it was like I had never been there at all.
9
There was a C team game scheduled for Thursday afternoon, but as a new player, Foster wasn’t eligible to play for his first two weeks of practice. As I watched the Freeport players warm up, I figured the longer they could keep Foster from being steamrolled under those guys, the better.
My mom had begged me to go—neither she nor my dad could leave work. I didn’t bother telling her that I probably would’ve gone anyway. I wanted to see if they made uniforms small enough for Foster.
Apparently, they did. C team players didn’t get personalized jerseys, but I’d recognize Foster anywhere. He stood on the sidelines, bouncing up and down as the rest of the team warmed up.
The teams took the field and circled up for jumping jacks and stretches, and I let my eyes wander to the crowd. Turnout for C team games was scant compared to that of varsity, but it was funny to think that in just a few years, a lot of these guys would be playing under those famous “Friday night lights” instead of the glaring Thursday afternoon sun.
I was starting to wish I’d brought a soda or something when someone plunked down next to me. Lindsay Renshaw held out a bottle of water.
“You thirsty?”
She really was perfect.
“Oh, thanks, but—”
“We’ve got a whole bunch of them.” She gestured to a spot a few rows behind us, where a woman and two elementary school–age girls sat, holding umbrellas and resting drinks on a huge cooler. “Woo-ee, it is hot out here.” Lindsay wasn’t sweating.
“Yeah.” I twisted the cap off the bottle and took a long swig. “You, uh, you got a brother on the team?”
“Yup. Number twelve, that’s Parker.”
“What’s he play?” Down on the field, the team finished up calisthenics and circled up around the coaches.
“They’re trying him as a safety, but of course he wants to be quarterback. More glory. How about you?” Her eyes widened. “Is your cousin here? Does he play?”
“Uh, yeah. Number twelve.”
“Awww, he’s adorable!”
Huh. I searched Foster for something that might be considered cute. He wasn’t shorter so much as scrawnier than the other guys; even the small, thin receivers had a little muscle to them.
Still, despite that, it was hard to make a football uniform look particularly wrong, so I guess he was like any C team player—a pint-size version of the varsity guys, which was pretty adorable.
“He just started,” I felt it was my duty to say. “So he can’t play today.”
“What position is he?”
“He kicks, mostly. Pretty much entirely.”
“Oh, really? Wow, that’s awesome. My dad says high school kickers are really hard to come by. He used to play, but not for TS. My mom’s from here, but he played for Shaunessy.”
Something Rachel said struck me, a two-year varsity starter for Shaunessy … “That’s where Ezra Lynley’s from, right?”
“Uh-huh. Man, are they good this year. My dad still drives down to see their games sometimes. He saw Ezra play way before anyone here had ever heard of him.”
“Back before he was ‘Temple Sterling’s own’?”