Living with the hawk Read Free Page B

to hurt him — and I was staying with him, but he rammed me, his head down, shoulder slamming into my stomach, my head snapping forward, and down I went. Again. Then another easy catch.
    This time when he trotted back towards the huddle, he stopped beside me, reached down, grabbed my hand and pulled me up. “You’re okay, Blair,” he said.
    And I said, “Thanks.” Just as if he wasn’t the guy who’d been laying dirty moves on me. That was the thing about Jordan Phelps. He could find more ways to treat you like scum and somehow in the end you’d be the one apologizing to him.
    That wasn’t the worst of it either.

T WO
    W e won four games in a row against easy opponents. Before the first game Arnie had quit football and Evan had been cut, though Coach Conley, our head coach, told him to come out again next year, he’d make the team for sure. I hated to see Evan go, but he just said, “I guess it’s up to you now, buddy.” Yeah, only grade nine on the team, it was going to be tough. In each of those four games I got onto the field for a few plays as the clock was running down, but that was all. I was about as valuable as a water bottle full of pee, but at least I got to play.
    Our fifth game was against Douglas High, a top-notch team, and we beat them 28 to 17. I had a good view of the action, standing on the sidelines, but I never made it into the game. My brother played the best I’d ever seen him play, throwing three touchdown passes, but the other offensive captain, Jordan Phelps, was the real star, catching two touchdown passes and running back a punt for another score. Every time he caught the ball, he brought the fans cheering to their feet as he ran and cut, shifting direction at full speed, tacklers sprawling behind him, awkward hands grabbing at a space he’d just vacated. That day he also added something new. Each time he scored, he ran behind the goal posts and did a forward flip, his hands never touching the ground. The fans loved it, but I thought he was being a hot dog. Coach Ramsey — he was the assistant coach and not a teacher — wouldn’t say a thing, of course, but I wondered if Coach Conley would tell him to spread some mustard on it. In fact, when he had us huddle up after the game, he did say something.
    Everybody was sprawled on the grass near our sideline, most of the players covered with sweat, their uniforms grass-stained and dirty, a few of them with scrapes and gashes, bloody badges they displayed with pride. I felt like a virgin, not a spot on me or my uniform. I dropped down behind Ivan Buchko, the biggest lineman on our team, crouching low, out of sight.
    â€œListen up,” said Coach Conley. Everybody was so excited with the win, he had to say it again. “We beat a good team today. You deserve to celebrate. No doubt about it. Exuberance after victory’s the most natural thing in the world, but anything that looks like taunting of the opposition means you’ve gone too far. Understand that! We won out there today, because we worked hard to win. We had the right game plan, and we stuck to it — made it work. Good for every one of you.” He paused, looked as if he was considering something more, then turned to Coach Ramsey. “Anything to add?”
    â€œDamn right. You guys keep playing like this, you’re gonna whip every team in the league. This year is something I been waiting for — this year for sure, we’re going to Provincials.” Coach Ramsey pumped his fist in the air as he said it, and everybody cheered. I might have cheered too if Ramsey wasn’t such a dork.
    They were still cheering in the locker room, but now the subject had undergone a sudden change.
    â€œParty-Time tonight!” yelled Vaughn Foster. A huge running back, muscles on him like a teen-aged Arnold Schwarzenegger, he’d scored our other touchdown on a screen pass. Some of the kids said he must