over his shoulder, once, at the sound of Carter’s Harley, then turned back and resumed his spinning and catching.
Still not comfortable with the idea, Carter decided; still doubtful and distrustful. He didn’t blame the kid.
He hadn’t worn his cut; was dressed in shorts over compression leggings, Nikes, and an old A&M t-shirt. For a moment, he wished he’d thought to borrow a club truck, rather than bring his bike – that he looked more like a regular guy and not a Lean Dog, astride all this matte black and chrome – but it was too late for that. He adjusted his backpack, and headed down the tiered gravel path to the field.
“Hey,” he called, when he was in range.
Elijah turned around fully. “Hey.” His expression was smooth and neutral – save his eyes, and those were guarded. He’d tied his braids up in a bun at the back of his head, and a light sheen of sweat proved he’d already warmed up and was ready to jump right in.
That wasn’t all that Carter noticed, though. He saw also that, save his Nike shoes and gym bag, nothing else he wore was outwardly name brand. No big, flashy logos on display anywhere. The bag was school-issue, the same one he’d carried, once upon a time, the cost of which was included in the football sign-up package. He remembered his own father bitching about writing that check: If you don’t win some games, boy, this is the last check I’ll write for you. He’d bought name brand shoes, because bad shoes without the right support were a killer. But his sweats and other gear he’d always picked up at Walmart, with his car-washing, table-waiting, odd-jobbing money.
Modest means had made Carter hungrier for perfection. He wondered if Elijah was the same way.
“Hey,” he finally responded, spinning the ball again. “Where’s your uniform?” He nodded toward Carter’s cut-less torso. Still testing; still searching for a trap.
Carter would just have to prove that it wasn’t there. He plucked lightly at the front of his shirt and said, “I can’t throw it in the wash.” He dumped his backpack on the grass. “Alright, let’s try some drills.”
~*~
It was nearly alarming how quickly he settled back into the routine of the game. How, though he’d been feeling so far removed from football, like his time on the field had been a thousand years ago, talking shop sucked him right back in, reminded him that it hadn’t been that long at all, and that he still knew what the hell he was talking about. An unexpected, but wholly thrilling rush.
Elijah had a tendency to overthrow the deep ball, an observation from the other night that proved to be a pattern. After he’d done it the fourth time in a row, the ball skimming over Carter’s outstretched fingertips and landing back at the edge of the field, he shook his head and cursed when Carter came jogging up with the ball tucked under his arm.
“I wasn’t shitting you the other night,” he said, “you have a hell of an arm.”
“Hell of an inaccurate arm,” Elijah muttered, looking disgusted.
“Hey, it takes forever to build up that kind of strength. Accuracy is about tiny little adjustments.”
Elijah looked unimpressed.
“Here, let’s try something.”
They started out standing only a few paces apart, playing catch, to which Elijah rolled his eyes.
“Don’t knock it,” Carter said. “Step back two paces.” A few minutes later, they both stepped back another two.
Gradually, they expanded the distance between them until Carter was putting his whole body into each throw. Until they must have been forty yards apart, and Elijah threw a perfect deep ball that landed right in Carter’s waiting hands. He grinned, adjusted his stance, and sent the ball arcing back.
It was only after that he realized he’d just thrown farther and harder and more accurately than he had since his surgery – the one that had spelled the end of his football career. His shoulder felt tight, but not bad. It would have given out on him in true game play; if he got sacked, if he had to throw on the run over and over, the repaired rotator cuff wouldn’t hold up.
Still, he had the distance.
And, more importantly, in this moment, Elijah had the accuracy.
He jogged back toward him. “Did you see that? Right into my hands.” He held them up in demonstration.
For the first time since he’d met him, Elijah looked something like excited. It was muted, kept carefully in check, but he’d realized that