on Maple Avenue, his laughing jag had ended, replaced now by anger at just about everything—at his father for bringing him to Butt-Suck Brookdale, at Willa Jaffrey and her merry band of dickwads, at his inability to play soccer, at everything. And even greater than all those combined was his anger at himself for doing exactly what Forbes had warned him not to.
Turning into the driveway of the tiny storey-and-a-half that squatted beneath a large maple, he followed the cracked asphalt around to the backyard, along two sides of which the previous tenants had built a high, L-shaped board fence. It connected a corner of the house with the end of what was listed in the rental agreement as a garage but was little more than a shed that leaned to the left, its roofline dipping toward the centre. Tossing his backpack onto the uneven carpet of weeds that had choked out whatever grass once grew there, he opened the door of the shed, went inside, and returned with a soccer ball under one arm, its synthetic leather panels heavily scuffed. Dropping it, he kicked itdirectly above his head and, as it fell, he bounced it off his right knee, then his left, back and forth, back and forth, before catching it with the top of his right sneaker, then his left, juggling it from one foot to the other as he moved around the yard.
In the middle of one section of the fence, someone had painted an image of a soccer net, and Keegan turned toward it now, the ball in constant motion. In the distance, he could faintly hear the sounds of the tryouts, the coach’s whistle and barked instructions punctuated by shouts of encouragement, and Keegan let his mind drift, amplifying those sounds, morphing them into the shouts of fans watching players race down a regulation field. He let the ball fall to the ground and dribbled back and forth across the yard, his feet constantly moving as he lunged and spun, the ball seemingly fastened to them by an invisible elastic cord. In his mind’s eye, he pounded toward the net in the game’s final moments, his body a needle stitching through a phalanx of opposing players intent on blocking him. Ahead of him, a powerfully built blond-haired player blocked the net, his face a snarling mask as he waited for Keegan to make his move in the remaining seconds. Keegan could hear the roar of the fans swell in his head as they screamed at him to
TAKE THE SHOT!
and he feinted left before veering suddenly right, connecting squarely with the ball and launching it into the air. His opponent leaped a split-second too late, the black and white sphere now hurtling past his fingertips. The scuffed ball hit the exact centre of the painted image hard, shaking the fence and rebounding with equal force into the face of the child who’d appeared, unseen, beside him.
“
Christ
, Keegan!” he heard his father shout. “Look what you did!”
Keegan turned to see his eight-year-old brother sprawled on the weeds, blood already flowing from his mouth and nose. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Isaac,” he said, kneeling beside the whimpering boy and cradling him in his arms. “You okay, buddy?” he murmured, rocking his brother gently from side to side. He could feel Isaac’s blood leaching into his shirt, but he didn’t give a damn.
“What the hell do you think you were doing?” growled his father, standing over them.
Keegan bit back a
Building a cold fusion reactor, what’s it
look
like
? and continued to rock Isaac, making soft shushing sounds until the boy’s whimpers began to subside.
Evan Fraser knelt on the ground beside his younger son and stroked his hair, but the boy’s attention was already lost to the maple tree towering over them, its leaves fluttering in the September air. Keegan pulled his shirttail out of his jeans and used it to dab at the blood seeping from Isaac’s upper lip, and he was glad to see that the flow from his nose had slowed. “I think you’re gonna live, buddy,” he said softly, pulling the boy to his feet.
Turning into the driveway of the tiny storey-and-a-half that squatted beneath a large maple, he followed the cracked asphalt around to the backyard, along two sides of which the previous tenants had built a high, L-shaped board fence. It connected a corner of the house with the end of what was listed in the rental agreement as a garage but was little more than a shed that leaned to the left, its roofline dipping toward the centre. Tossing his backpack onto the uneven carpet of weeds that had choked out whatever grass once grew there, he opened the door of the shed, went inside, and returned with a soccer ball under one arm, its synthetic leather panels heavily scuffed. Dropping it, he kicked itdirectly above his head and, as it fell, he bounced it off his right knee, then his left, back and forth, back and forth, before catching it with the top of his right sneaker, then his left, juggling it from one foot to the other as he moved around the yard.
In the middle of one section of the fence, someone had painted an image of a soccer net, and Keegan turned toward it now, the ball in constant motion. In the distance, he could faintly hear the sounds of the tryouts, the coach’s whistle and barked instructions punctuated by shouts of encouragement, and Keegan let his mind drift, amplifying those sounds, morphing them into the shouts of fans watching players race down a regulation field. He let the ball fall to the ground and dribbled back and forth across the yard, his feet constantly moving as he lunged and spun, the ball seemingly fastened to them by an invisible elastic cord. In his mind’s eye, he pounded toward the net in the game’s final moments, his body a needle stitching through a phalanx of opposing players intent on blocking him. Ahead of him, a powerfully built blond-haired player blocked the net, his face a snarling mask as he waited for Keegan to make his move in the remaining seconds. Keegan could hear the roar of the fans swell in his head as they screamed at him to
TAKE THE SHOT!
and he feinted left before veering suddenly right, connecting squarely with the ball and launching it into the air. His opponent leaped a split-second too late, the black and white sphere now hurtling past his fingertips. The scuffed ball hit the exact centre of the painted image hard, shaking the fence and rebounding with equal force into the face of the child who’d appeared, unseen, beside him.
“
Christ
, Keegan!” he heard his father shout. “Look what you did!”
Keegan turned to see his eight-year-old brother sprawled on the weeds, blood already flowing from his mouth and nose. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Isaac,” he said, kneeling beside the whimpering boy and cradling him in his arms. “You okay, buddy?” he murmured, rocking his brother gently from side to side. He could feel Isaac’s blood leaching into his shirt, but he didn’t give a damn.
“What the hell do you think you were doing?” growled his father, standing over them.
Keegan bit back a
Building a cold fusion reactor, what’s it
look
like
? and continued to rock Isaac, making soft shushing sounds until the boy’s whimpers began to subside.
Evan Fraser knelt on the ground beside his younger son and stroked his hair, but the boy’s attention was already lost to the maple tree towering over them, its leaves fluttering in the September air. Keegan pulled his shirttail out of his jeans and used it to dab at the blood seeping from Isaac’s upper lip, and he was glad to see that the flow from his nose had slowed. “I think you’re gonna live, buddy,” he said softly, pulling the boy to his feet.
Similar Books
