I watched as Ezra pulled off his jersey and shoulder pads, and I dwelled on that last thought for just a moment. He was wearing a white T-shirt underneath that clung to him, and his hair was damp with sweat.
“So.” My voice was loud and unlike my own when I spoke. Ezra took a seat and started packing his equipment into his duffel bag. “Uh … how many schools are recruiting you?” It wasn’t Rachel’s first question, but I wasn’t about to start with a journalistic sucker punch.
“Four.”
“That’s it?”
“What, four isn’t good enough?”
“No, it’s just, everyone says it’s, like, twenty or something.”
“I narrowed it down.”
“So there were twenty at one point?”
He shrugged.
“Which one are you going to pick?”
“Whichever one has a uniform color that I look good in.”
His face hadn’t changed. But was that a joke? It had to be a joke. “Ha. So is that why you came to Temple Sterling?”
“Not exactly,” he said, and didn’t go on.
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I could only think of what Cas had told me and of Rachel’s questions about football and politics. A shift from the team to the individual.
“I know what people say,” he said after a moment. “It’s not enough to be good. You have to have some kind of … like a fucking agenda or something.”
“So that isn’t the case?”
His eyes darkened. “No, that isn’t the case.”
“So why did you come here?”
“That’s nobody’s business.”
“But if it’s not some … agenda … then why can’t you say?”
“I can say, I just don’t want to.”
Sheesh. “Okay.”
There was a pause.
“Sorry.” Ezra made a face. “I don’t … I guess I’m not very good at talking about myself. Or just … talking in general…”
I didn’t know what to say to that, either, so I just made a sound of assent and then looked out at the field. Foster was absently kicking the ball around, trying to punt it and catch it. At this moment, he backed up to catch a rogue ball, which hit him on the head.
I thought for a moment about how young he was and, even more, how young he acted. “I still can’t believe he got bumped up,” I said without thinking, and, surprisingly, Ezra followed this non sequitur.
“He’s good.”
“I know he made it through the first game okay, but I’m kind of afraid someone’s going to crush him out there.”
“I’ll look after him.”
I glanced over at Ezra. “You’ll be busy making touchdowns.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep an eye on him. And Jordan’s the best defender on the team, and one of the only people who can stand me, so Foster’ll have him, too.”
I felt awkward. “People can stand you.”
“General opinion is that I’m a giant asshole.”
My face flushed. “Well … you’re nice to Foster.”
He didn’t speak.
I thought about what Foster had said at dinner about him and Ezra: We have a secret. “Why are you nice to Foster?”
“Is this part of the interview?”
I colored. “No … I think I got all I need for Rachel,” I said a little too heartily, getting to my feet. “Thanks.”
“You hardly asked anything. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I don’t mind answering questions. I’ll try to give better answers.”
I looked down at Rachel’s sheet.
“Yeah, well, it’s mostly … I mean, these questions are kind of idiotic, I’m not going to lie.”
“Like what?”
I read him number seven, about the ethics of statistics mongering.
“Statistics mongering?”
“I know. Like fish mongering, only for your athletic future.”
Ezra smiled a little. A slight upturn of the lips.
“Maybe I can just send them to you or something, and you can, like, answer them on paper. No talking necessary.”
He nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
“Cool. Well … see you.” With that, I went down to the field to retrieve Foster.
14
When I went to pick up Foster from practice the next day, I found him on the front steps of the school with none other than Marabelle Finch.