To Love and to Perish - By Lisa Bork Page 0,53

other team slammed him to the ground. Danny didn’t get up.

I leapt to my feet and started down the bleacher stairs, my heart beating wildly as I thought, “Don’t let him be hurt. Don’t let him be hurt.”

Danny sat up. He shook his head.

I stopped running.

Danny rose to his knees, then his feet. He jogged back to his team’s huddle as the crowd cheered.

I breathed a sigh of relief and started back up the bleachers.

A man at the edge of the woods caught my eye. He was on our side of the field, way down by Danny’s team’s goal post, hovering just outside the tree line, well back from the field itself. A baseball cap shaded his face. He had on jeans and a T-shirt.

It was a strange place to stand and observe the game. I wondered if he lived in one of the homes on the other side of the trees.

The quarterback threw another pass to Danny, who caught it but landed with his knees on the ground.

The man pumped his fists, obviously rooting for Danny’s team. He moved closer to the field and me.

I thought I saw a dark spot like a tattoo on his arm. I froze.

Danny’s team fired off another play. The ball went to Danny again. He ran.

The man stepped forward eagerly. I saw the swish of his ponytail. My heart sank.

It was Danny’s father.

I scanned the sidelines, looking for Ray. His attention was glued to the field, where Danny had been tackled just inside the thirty-yard line.

Why had Danny’s father come to the game? Surely he realized the odds Ray would be here. Why take the risk? He was a wanted felon. Did he think Ray wouldn’t recognize him?

“Go back in the woods. Go back in the woods.” I willed Mr. Phillips to hear the words as I muttered them under my breath.

Ray moved down the sideline, no doubt jockeying to witness Danny’s next touchdown.

The ball snapped. The quarterback caught it, jogging backward as he studied the field.

Danny darted back and forth on the ten-yard line, struggling to get open. The other running back did the same. Then he stumbled and went down.

The quarterback’s focus shifted solely to Danny. He waited, then threw.

The ball flew through the air.

Danny leapt. He caught it. His feet hit the ground. He spun and raced for the goal line.

When he crossed it, our side of the field went wild, cheering, slapping each other on the back, and hugging.

Mr. Phillips pumped his fists again. He moved toward the field.

“Go back in the woods. Go back in the woods.” A bead of sweat trickled off my brow.

His mouth opened.

“Don’t yell out. Don’t yell out.” My cautions disappeared in the din.

Danny finished his victory dance and headed off the field, surrounded by his teammates, a huge grin on his face.

Mr. Phillips’ lips moved.

Danny’s head tipped. He spun around, looking.

I moved down the bleacher steps. “No, no.” I hit the ground running, no longer able to see Danny or Mr. Phillips.

But I could see Ray. He’d stepped back from the sideline crowd, only yards from Mr. Phillips. Ray had him in his sights, his hand on his belt.

“No, Ray, no. Don’t do it. Please don’t do it.” I brushed past another father, knocking his shoulder. He didn’t even notice me; he was so buoyed by the touchdown.

Ray started walking toward Danny’s father, who didn’t seem to notice him, his eyes still glued on the field, his arm waving in the air.

I wondered if Danny could see him. I hoped not.

Ray kept moving.

“No, Ray, let him go. Let him go. Please, let him go.”

Mr. Phillips saw Ray too late. He took a step back, but he didn’t run.

Ray already had the cuffs off his belt. He slapped one around Mr. Phillips’ wrist.

I stopped running. I looked at the field. The other team had the ball. They were rushing to get off a game-saving play. I couldn’t see Danny.

Ray cuffed Mr. Phillips other hand and led him away.

The crowd on the sidelines didn’t even notice. They were too wrapped up in the last minutes of the game, screaming out advice to the defense. A couple of the boys moved toward our cooler with wicked glints in their eyes, perhaps preparing to douse their coach with the ice.

Without another glance at the field, Ray opened the door to his patrol car and helped Mr. Phillips inside. He slammed the door and got in the driver’s seat.

He drove off.

The whistle blew. The crowd on our side