"I tried contacting your parents when he asked for a face-to-face tonight, but they haven't returned my messages. I didn't tell you because I didn't know if anything would come of it and I didn't want to get your hopes up." He put a note out saying he was short on his striker line, and I figured it was worth a shot. Hernandez sent Neil a warning look and got to his feet. "There's this thing called a map," the stranger said. "He's from a university," Hernandez said. Gossip about an outsider should have reached him before this stranger did. That ingrained nosiness made things uncomfortable for Neil and all his secrets, but he'd hoped to use that small-town mentality as a shield. This was a place where everyone knew everyone's business. Millport boasted fewer than nine hundred residents. Neil didn't recognize him, which meant he wasn't local. His stance was casual, but the look in his brown eyes was intent. One hand was stuffed into his jeans pocket. The wife beater the man wore showed off sleeves of tribal flame tattoos. Neil twisted to see a large stranger standing in the locker room doorway. Neil leaped to his feet and slung his bag over his shoulder, but the scuff of a shoe behind him warned him he was too late to escape. To someone who'd spent half his life outrunning his past they were words from a nightmare. "I'll call them later with the score," he said, because Hernandez was still watching him. It was the one piece of his childhood he'd never been able to give up.
Neil felt sick watching it happen, but he couldn't look away.Įxy was a bastard sport, an evolved sort of lacrosse on a soccer-sized court with the violence of ice hockey, and Neil loved every part of it from its speed to its aggression. When they were done it'd be a soccer field again there'd be nothing left of Exy until fall. A crew was already dismantling the court, unhinging the plexiglass walls and rolling Astroturf over the hard floor. Millport's loss tonight booted them from state championships two games from finals. "No one knew it'd be the last game," Neil said, looking back at the court. "I thought they'd make an exception tonight," he said. The coach flicked the crumpled butt aside and turned to face Neil. Neil passed him the cigarette and watched as Hernandez ground it out on the concrete steps. Why Hernandez let him get away with it and didn't notify the authorities, Neil didn't know. It was usually easier to break into the locker room and sleep there. If people realized he was squatting they'd start askin g difficult questions. His neighbors rarely left the comfort of their couches and daily soaps, but every time he came and went he risked getting spotted. He'd appropriated one last summer in a quiet neighborhood populated mostly by senior citizens. Millport was a dying town, which meant there were dozens of houses on the market that would never sell. It was more that his living situation wasn't legal. It wasn't that he didn't have a place to live. It explained why no one would ever see the Jostens around town and why Neil had a predilection for sleeping on school grounds. He knew his teachers and coach were tired of hearing the same excuse any time they asked after his parents, but it was as easy a lie as it was overused. "I didn't see your parents at the game," Hernandez said.
Coach Hernandez propped the locker room door open and sat beside Neil. Neil pulled his duffel closer to his side and looked back. She'd beat him to hell and back if she saw him sitting around moping like this.Ī door squealed open behind him, startling him from his thoughts. He wondered-not for the first time-if his mother was looking down at him. He glanced up at the sky, but the stars were washed out behind the glare of stadium lights. It fell to the bleachers between his shoes and was whisked away by the wind. The jolt went all the way to his fingertips, dislodging a clump of ash. It was at once revolting and comforting, and it sent a sick shudder down his spine. If he inhaled slowly enough, he could almost taste the ghost of gasoline and fire. He didn't want the nicotine he wanted the acrid smoke that reminded him of his mother. Neil Josten let his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag.
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