Mr. Fahrenheit Read Free Page B

maybe.
    Or “destined.”
    After the game, Benji hung his tuxedo and top hat in a garment bag, tugged on two hoodies and a pair of jeans, then, very cautiously, peeked through the door into the hall outside the locker room.
    The instant the door cracked, a solid wall of media people—photographers and writers and TV reporters with logos on their microphones—swarmed forward.
    Benji smiled apologetically, said, “Players and sorcerers only,” and closed the door.
    â€œChrist on a friggin’ cracker, Banjo,” CR said, toweling his hair in front of a locker, “how many people are out there?”
    â€œAll of them, I think,” Benji said. CR gave a dry chuckle. “Like, twenty. Mostly local, but there’s TV people from Chicago. Want to do an interview?”
    He already knew what CR’s answer would be, of course: Hellll no. The reporters in that hall would have donated a kidney to a terrorist in exchange for a few minutes with CR. In their minds, he was CR Noland, the Number One College Recruit in the Midwest. But the instant CR stepped off the football field and removed the cocoon of his helmet and pads, the attention usually made him a type of uncomfortable that verged on panicky. It wasn’t something Benji ever brought up, though.
    â€œThis TV reporter,” CR said, pulling on boxers under his towel, “is she hot?”
    â€œ He’s wearing a wedding ring.”
    â€œDouble whammy!”
    Zeeko and his dad burst out laughing at the mini medical station on the other side of the locker room. Zeeko’s dad, Dr. Eustice, was a doctor from Sierra Leone who volunteered as the team’s medical guy during games. Zeeko had inherited a lot from his dad (Zeeko’s dream was to be a doctor in Bedford Falls), and one of those things was Dr. Eustice’s easy, wonderfully booming laugh.
    The locker room filled with more players from the showers, their celebratory shouts thunderclapping in the cinder-block cavern. CR accepted a series of fist bumps, but didn’t look away from Benji. “Text Ellie to meet us at my truck behind the field house, okay?” CR said. “We’ll sneak out the back . . . Shit, wait, there might be some reporters out there.”
    Benji thought about that, then said, “How ’bout this: I’ll tell the reporters you’re gonna have a quick press conference out on the field.”
    â€œHa! I like it.”
    â€œMisdirection is useful, I’m telling ya. BTW, where’s the party?”
    â€œCharlie Brown’s house.” CR smiled, tying his shoes. “The kid still can’t believe he got to touch the football.”
    Benji was almost to the door when CR called, “Oh, hey, Banjo. I liked how you exploded the wand tonight. I know it’s not a new trick, but—new ‘illusion,’ sorry—but you threw it real good.”
    â€œThanks, man,” Benji said, honestly touched.
    CR waved: no biggie.
    After sending the reporters out of the hall, Benji headed toward an exit. He texted CR:
    All clear
    As he opened the door, someone quite large bumped into him.
    â€œThe field is that way,” Benji began, then looked up. “O-oh. Hi, Mr. Noland.”
    The middle-aged man’s face bore a resemblance to CR’s, but only a blurry one. They shared the same broad mouth, the same sky-blue eyes. But CR’s father’s eyes always seemed narrowed, as if in some kind of ambient, low-level disgust. Disgust with what? Benji used to wonder. He’d decided the answer was “nothing in particular,” which was of course another way of saying “everything.” And you got the feeling that if that mouth had ever smiled, it had been by accident.
    Mr. Noland stormed past Benji and toward the locker room, leaving Benji thinking, I hope you’re hurrying out of there already, CR.
    Benji stepped out through a side door in the field house, grateful, after the cramped