Pop

  How dumb was that? Getting attached to someone who ripped you off, let you take the blame for what he did, and walked away when you were on the ground, howling in agony—it didn’t make sense. And Marcus had understood from day one that he was dealing with a very peculiar guy. So what was it that he liked about the man? The NFL connection? No, Marcus had known Charlie long before he’d learned about his pro career. The man’s larger-than-life personality? His unfailing willingness to play—not just football, but life? Maybe—but didn’t weirdness trump charm?

  That left just the hitting. Marcus missed that most of all. Even the dislocated shoulder hadn’t dulled his longing for the crunch of physical contact. The King was gone, and he had taken the pop with him.

  The only pop in Marcus’s life now came at the Raiders’ practice, and it wasn’t the same caliber as he’d become accustomed to. Champions or not, no Raider could administer a tackle that had fourteen years of NFL experience behind it. All Marcus could do was throw his own body around with the skill and abandon he had learned from Charlie.

  It set Coach Barker’s head to full bobble. “Attaway, Jordan! Pay attention, you guys! This is supposed to be a full-speed workout, not a ballet recital!”

  From the ranks of the cheerleaders, Alyssa added her expert judgment. “You don’t hit like any quarterback I’ve ever seen.”

  “Maybe that’s why I get fewer snaps every practice,” Marcus complained.

  His physical play impressed the coach so much that, in the Raiders’ second game, his duties were increased to include offense. Not quarterback, of course—that was still Troy. Now he was a fullback, never to touch the ball, but to block for Ron.

  To his surprise, he was good at it. High school line-backers turned out to be much softer targets than the rock-solid King of Pop. Ron had his best game ever as a rusher, which induced Barker to keep the ball on the ground, much to the consternation of Troy. It filled Marcus with a mammoth sense of accomplishment. If he couldn’t play quarterback, the next best thing was to make the experience less pleasant for Golden Boy.

  Troy was shaken by the change in strategy. Perhaps it was the endless handoffs that took him out of his usual confident rhythm. When he did throw a pass, he seemed hurried in the face of even the slightest defensive pressure. Coach Barker didn’t seem to notice any of this. To him, offense was offense, and it made no difference if the yardage came from Troy’s arm or Ron’s legs. The Raiders were winning handily, and the second perfect season was moving forward right on schedule. Alyssa, however, scrutinized her ex from the apex of the cheerleaders’ pyramid. And while her exterior may have been pure supermodel, deep down she had the soul of Vince Lombardi. She knew something was up.

  Marcus was surprised at how unsettled he was by Charlie’s presence in the bleachers. The former linebacker had really gotten under his skin. In spite of everything that had happened, the guy had brought out a dimension of Marcus Jordan, Football Player, that he’d never even known was there.

  Troy got right in his face on the sidelines. “What are you doing, Jordan?”

  “You’re steaming my visor,” Marcus growled, refusing to be intimidated.

  “You think I’m blind?” Troy demanded. “You’ve been staring up at my old man the whole game. What’s he to you?”

  “If he didn’t tell you, why should I?” Marcus shot back, a little chagrined that his glances at the bleachers were so obvious.

  “This is your last warning—get his autograph and back off!” He gave Marcus a heavy shove, sending him stumbling backward into a group of teammates.

  Barker was there in a heartbeat. “You—Jordan. Hit the showers.”

  “Me?” Marcus was indignant.

  The coach’s head bobbed menacingly. “Now.”

  Marcus’s blood boiled all the way to the locker-room hut. He had blocked like a lion and played steadfast defense, while Troy had been adequate at best.

  He was just kicking out of his cleats when the shaking of pom-poms signaled a new arrival. Alyssa.

  “There are still a couple of minutes on the clock,” he told her irritably.

  “Twenty-point lead. No cheers required.” She sat down beside him on the bench, resettling the short skirt of her uniform. Her confidence was infinite. It might have been a men’s changing room, but Alyssa was welcome everywhere … because she was Alyssa. “Good game today.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure Ron will tell his grandchildren about this one.”

  She smiled appreciatively. “People notice blocking. And defense. And nice buns—things like that.”

  “What about gun-shy quarterbacks?” he asked.

  She thought it over. “Maybe, maybe not. Either way, coming off thirteen straight wins, you get the benefit of the doubt for a few weeks.”

  He tossed a wadded-up sock into his open locker. “In other words, it’s all my fault.”

  “You’re pissed. I understand. But there are ways of making you unpissed.” She leaned over and kissed him. “You’re coming to the party tonight, right?”

  “What party?”

  “At Luke’s. His parents are away for the weekend.”

  He made a face. “My invitation must have been lost in the mail.”

  She shrugged. “You’re on the team.”

  Marcus was unconvinced. He had worked hard to make a contribution to the Raiders, and most of the players acknowledged it. But there was only one player who really counted.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she persisted, “because you also happen to be a personal friend of mine. And,” she said, sweetening the deal, “I know every nook and cranny of that house.”

  He took a deep breath. “What time?”

  Luke Derrigan lived in Seneca Hill, the older, richer part of town. In contrast with the gated communities of McMansions on fake waterways near the outlet mall, this was a neighborhood of stately homes about a quarter mile from downtown.

  The house was lit up like Las Vegas, and the gut-level pounding of hip-hop bass rustled the tree branches, even though doors and windows were tightly closed for noise control.

  Marcus was stowing the Vespa by a hedge when there was a sharp “Ow!” He looked down to find Ron intertwined with one of the cheerleaders—Katie or Kelli, something like that—under cover of the hedge.

  “Beat it—” Ron began before his night vision took in the newcomer. “Marcus! How’s it going, dude? I—didn’t think you could make it.”

  Marcus peered down at his halfback with a cockeyed smile. “Is that why you’re in the bushes, Ron? You’re the advance guard?”

  Katie/Kelli wriggled out of Ron’s shadow and favored Marcus with a lipstick-smeared smile. “Great game today. Monster blocking.”

  “Thanks.” It seemed the Raiders had the most knowledgeable cheerleaders in high school football. Alyssa’s savvy trickled down the pyramid.

  Katie/Kelli’s make-out partner seemed uneasy. “Does—uh—everybody know you’re coming?”

  Of all his teammates, Marcus liked Ron best—which may or may not have explained why he was getting so much enjoyment from watching the guy squirm. “Define ‘everybody.’”

  Ron flushed. “Don’t play dumb. Does Troy know you’re crashing?”

  “Who says he’s crashing?” Katie/Kelli jumped in.

  “Hey, I’m down with him being here,” Ron said quickly. “But be smart, okay? Troy’s going to pull up, and the first thing he’ll see is your dorkmobile parked on the front lawn.”

  “Did Troy blow open those big holes for you today?” Marcus demanded.

  “That’s why I’m looking out for you, man. I’m not saying go home, but keep a low profile. And whatever you do, stay away from Alyssa.”

  Katie/Kellie snorted a laugh. “Like that’s going to happen.”

  Ron made a last-ditch effort. “Just remember—the good of the team.”

  Right. On one side of the scale was the greater glory of Troy and the Raiders. On the other was Alyssa Fontaine. It wasn’t much of a contest. “I’ll
ditch the bike around the side of the house,” he offered.

  As Marcus walked the Vespa along the hedge, the front door was thrown open to reveal Calvin Applegate, a golf club cocked high over his head. Marcus ducked just as the flanker swung. With a splat, the three-wood vaporized a nectarine that sat on the welcome mat, spraying fruit sludge all over the yard. A crowd of admirers mobbed Calvin, high-fiving raucously.

  Marcus stashed the bike and slipped inside. He’d been to football parties back in Kansas, but as a JV player, he’d never been exposed to the full spectrum of mayhem. The air was heavy with beer and sweat, and the floor lurched with the pounding music. Every square foot was crammed with kids, and most seemed to be doing something stupid, if not illegal. The living room was so packed that the dance move of the night was restricted to a vertical hop.

  When Luke spied Marcus, he began shouting and gesturing, but he was trapped by bouncing bodies, unable to move or to communicate over the music. Marcus waved blithely back and slipped quickly out of view. Now to find Alyssa before anyone else found him. She was definitely the only thing standing between him and ejection from the party.

  A packed house wasn’t the easiest place to conduct a search. Every step of progress had to be bulldozed. It took fifteen minutes to get to the den, only to end up stuck in a cheering crowd watching two idiots playing air hockey with their noses.

  Like most good receivers, Luke had large, strong hands. They clamped onto Marcus’s shoulders with some power.

  “Who told you to come here, Jordan?”

  Marcus played dumb. “Great party, man! Love the house!”

  Luke took a deep breath. “Listen—”

  There was a great crash as one of the nose pucksters climbed onto the air hockey table, his weight snapping one of the legs. He tumbled into the spectators, setting off a domino effect of falling partygoers.

  “Hey! Hey!” Luke rushed to the scene and was absorbed into the writhing mass of upended humanity. Marcus took advantage of the opportunity to escape down the basement stairs, picking his way around the guests who had settled there in search of free space.

  The basement was less crowded but wilder. Bodies were suspended from pipes in the ceiling—some kind of bar-hanging competition. A Frisbee game was in progress using a Dora the Explorer toddler toilet seat. Someone was trying to machine wash a leather beanbag chair, and the washer screeched in protest, spewing suds all over the laundry room. The tennis-racket air guitar contest was morphing into a tennis-racket light saber battle. A bunch of Good Samaritans had gotten the idea to plug up a hole in the wall with chewing gum. When the Derrigans returned from their weekend away, they were definitely going to have a few choice words for their son. Or maybe a trashed house was a small price to pay for another perfect season. That was the only thing that seemed to matter in Kennesaw, Gateway to the Gunks.

  Marcus ducked to avoid the airborne seat and stepped between air guitarists. He was grabbed from behind, and for an instant, he thought Luke had caught up with him again. But no—the hands were smaller, the grip playful.

  He spun around to face Alyssa. “I might be kicked out any minute.”

  She pressed a finger to his lips and led him through the turbulent laundry room to an unpainted door. The odor was strong but pleasant—a cedar closet. In the darkness, he could make out racks of suits and winter coats.

  “Ever been to a party, Marcus? Do you know what they’re for?”

  He was too cowed to answer.

  “This.” She kissed him, pulling him down onto a pile of sleeping bags and camping blankets.

  He had never been a big fan of the move to Kennesaw, but he wasn’t complaining now. It was as if all the bad things that had ever happened to him were suddenly lighter than air. No, that wasn’t right. The problems were still there; in some cases, they were very close. But they couldn’t touch him here. Or maybe it was just that he didn’t care about anything outside the confines of the cedar closet. This tiny room was the only universe that mattered, a place where E didn’t have to equal mc2, and none of the other rules applied.

  He was so in the moment that when the closet door was thrown open, the sudden blast of light nearly stopped his heart. Shocked, Marcus and Alyssa jumped apart, blinking, struggling to reorient themselves. It was like being yanked from an isolation tank and tossed into a bathtub filled with ice water.

  At last—focus. Troy, silhouetted in the doorway. His fist lashed out, catching Marcus on the chin. Marcus barely flinched. After all, he had taken incoming fire from the Popovich who had refined it to the level of high art. He threw himself at the Raiders’ captain, spearing his shoulder into Troy’s solar plexus, sending the two of them rolling in the suds on the laundry-room floor.

  A big lineman—Gary Somebody—yanked Marcus up and held him from behind.

  Alyssa got in her ex’s face. “I told him to come tonight! If you want to be pissed at someone, try me!”

  “I am pissed at you!” Troy yelled at her.

  “Then leave Marcus alone! This isn’t his fault!”

  “Hey!” Marcus said sharply. “I’m not afraid of him!” He shook himself free of Gary and spread his arms, presenting his unprotected body. “Be my guest, bust me one. I can take it. The question is, can you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Troy’s voice was as cold as liquid nitrogen.

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “Coming here was a mistake, dead man.”

  “You don’t own this house!” shouted Alyssa. “And you definitely don’t own me! You don’t even want to!”

  The quarterback’s anger morphed into a pained expression. “Maybe it’s not like that.”

  “You tell me, then—what is it like?”

  “Hey!” Luke was in the process of unplugging the washing machine in an attempt to stem the tide of suds. “Let’s all chill out. It’s supposed to be a party.”

  Troy returned his furious attention to Marcus. “And he’s crashing!”

  Luke refused to be intimidated. “He’s got a playbook, he’s got a jersey. He’s one of us. It doesn’t help the team if you guys fight.”

  “Where was he when we were making history last year?” Troy demanded. “Coach says we have to take him, so we take him. But he’s not one of us.”

  Troy panned the crowd, looking for the familiar backup he’d always been afforded as their quarterback and leader. The faces were expressionless—not hostile, but not supportive either. Certainly, no one was hustling Marcus upstairs and out the front door.

  Ron reached into the dryer and pulled a can of beer out of the ice. “Heads!” He tossed it to Marcus.

  Marcus caught it and popped the top. He didn’t even like beer, but this was a symbolic moment. You didn’t turn a thing like that down.

  “Troy!” called Ron. And the next can was flipped to the quarterback. Troy caught it, but he didn’t look happy.

  At that moment, the lights flickered as the pounding music upstairs died abruptly. There was an urgent shouted exchange, and then a girl’s voice rasped, “Troy!”

  “Chelsea?” Troy looked around. “Go home. This isn’t your—”

  He fell silent at the sight of her on the landing. Her face was bright red.

  She ran to her brother, nearly slipping on the wet floor, and began whispering in his ear.

  Marcus was on his way back to Alyssa when he overheard Troy hiss, “What do you mean, missing?”

  “You mean Charlie?” he blurted.

  Not even the punch from a few minutes before could have prepared him for the explosiveness of Troy’s reaction. The quarterback lunged at him, shoving him back with such violence that he might have gone through the drywall if Gary hadn’t been there to catch him.

  “This is none of your business!” Troy roared. “You’re lucky to be alive, man!”

  Marcus was blown away. Sure, he knew that Charlie’s kids were protective of their celebrity dad, but this was different. Chelsea was genuinely terrified, and Troy was clearly r
attled by something beyond finding his ex-girlfriend in a cedar closet with Marcus. Why? Charlie had been at the game that afternoon, so his “disappearance” couldn’t have been longer than a few hours. He’d been absent from his family for at least that long—training with Marcus in the park—countless times. Why was everyone so freaked out about it now?

  The rush of sudden understanding came with the sense that he should have known all along. There was no new information, just dots he’d never bothered to connect before. Yes, the man was odd and quirky, but there was more to it than that. Something was wrong with Charlie. Something serious.

  “Sorry, guys,” Troy mumbled. “I’ve got to go take care of something.”

  Brother and sister started upstairs.

  Marcus started after them. “I’m coming with you!”

  Troy spun around, eyes wide with rage.

  “I might be able to help,” Marcus persisted.

  Ron stopped him with a stiff arm, gentle but firm. “Back off, man. It’s a family thing.”

  Alyssa touched the center of his chest, tracing contrite circles with her index finger. “Sorry, Marcus. I didn’t think it would turn out like this.”

  “It’s fine,” he mumbled.

  It wasn’t fine. The mood was gone, and not even a beautiful cheerleader—one who actually understood the sport she was cheering about—could bring it back again.

  Besides, Charlie was missing. And Marcus had a pretty good idea where the former linebacker might be.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Marcus had never been to Three Alarm Park at night. It was deserted, but that wasn’t unusual. The place could be just as empty at high noon. What he hadn’t expected was how dark it was, with no lights at all beyond the parking lot.

  He got off the Vespa and ventured through the public gardens. By the time he’d reached the playing field, he was squinting into the shadows. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Charlie!” he shouted into the gloom. “Hey, Charlie!”

  “Who’s there?” came a call from the distance.

  “It’s me—Marcus.”