Read Online Kid Owner by Tim Green - Free Book Online Page B

field that afternoon, I was like a pinball, smacking people in every direction. I wasn’t necessarily knocking them down like Jackson did, but I was stinging them so that pretty quickly I became an annoyance a lot of my other teammates were happy to avoid. Only Markham really delighted in colliding with me, and he got the best of me. When you’re the size of Markham or Jackson, you win almost every one of those football battles against a smaller guy. But I shy away. I walked off the practice field that day with a golf-ball-size welt on my forearm, three bloody knuckles, a sore back, and an aching head.
    â€œNice effort out there, Zinna.” Coach Hubbard slapped my shoulder pads as we walked toward the locker room. “I wish you weren’t such a peanut or you could play strong safety or something.”
    I glared at my coach, but he never even saw me. He marched on, handing out compliments to my teammates like they were Halloween candy. All the joy I’d had running around during practice smashing into people suddenly melted away. I clenched my teeth and my hands and felt a steady burn in my head and chest. A peanut?
    Just like that—snap—I felt like a loser. Funny how an offhand remark by a grown-up can do that to a kid, but I think ithappens more than people know. I mean, he didn’t even say it to be mean, but there it was, a crater in my soul.
    I changed my clothes in silence, ignoring Jackson’s cheery remarks about our opening game against Hutchinson Middle, an opponent everyone figured we could beat, and slammed my locker shut before heading for the exit.
    â€œHey, wait up.” Jackson fumbled with his book bag. “We’re gonna go swimming at your house, right?”
    â€œThat’s the plan,” I said.
    Jackson grinned at me and when he did, his bag tipped. Books and papers slipped to the floor in a mess.
    I had to catch myself from calling him a bumbling bear, control my short fuse, and not insult him the way people seemed to feel they could insult me.
    I’d acted like a jerk once already to Izzy and I wasn’t going to do it again. Instead, I waited silently, holding the locker room door for Jackson, which had the negative effect of clearing the way for Simpkin and Markham, who strutted past.
    â€œHey, Zinna, at least you’re good for something,” Markham said. Simpkin smirked next to him as they bumped me on their way out the door.
    â€œYou’re the jerks,” I said beneath my breath.
    Markham spun around, his faced twisted up hatefully. “What’d you say?”
    â€œI said, ‘I’m glad this works.’” I stared right back at him, the new me, unafraid. Sort of. “Me. Holding the door. I’m glad it works for you.”
    Markham gave Simpkin a puzzled look before he turned and kept going. Jackson caught up, out of breath. “Thanks.”
    â€œMight as well be good for something, right?” I grumbled.
    â€œHey, you’re running around like a maniac out there. You’re doing good.” Jackson slapped my back, too hard.
    â€œYou see how many reps I got at quarterback?” I asked. “Three. One during team period and two during our seven-on-seven drill.”
    â€œThat’s three times more than one, right?” Jackson forced a smile and gave me a hearty nod.
    â€œYou see how many times we had to run that bootleg pass?” I asked. “I could’ve done that right the very first time. Simpkin can’t read on the run. You gotta key on the free safety. If he’s over the top, you throw to the tight end on the crossing pattern. If he jumps the crossing pattern, you throw deep. It’s not that tough. Quarterback is about brains, not brawn.”
    I looked around to make sure no one could hear me. “I swear, Coach Hubbard can be so thick sometimes.”
    â€œI wondered why we kept running that play,” Jackson said.
    â€œBecause Simpkin can’t get it