Don't Get Caught(60)

“I’m letting you know,” she says.

“Huh?”

“I’m letting you know.”

“Letting me know what?”

Mom raises her eyebrows and gives me a Really? look.

Then I get it.

“Just try not to get arrested, okay?” Mom says. “What? Too soon?”

I receive congratulatory texts from everyone when I announce my ungrounding, but only Wheeler’s free that night. We decide to meet up at Adleta’s lacrosse game.

Behind Adleta’s continuing dominance, the Golden Eagles are undefeated in division play and have only lost a single game, a 6–5 heartbreaker to Reynoldsburg when Adleta took a concussion shot to the head and was forced to sit out the second half. Wheeler and I are in the third row of the packed stands, surrounded by lacrosse parents. Wheeler’s wearing his Future of the Left T-shirt that reads “You Need Satan More Than He Needs You” and has a biology textbook open on his lap. It’s even right-side up.

“Miss the days of not caring?” I ask.

“Absolutely, dude. There’s just so much work to do. I have an essay for Cronin right now that’s giving me migraines. If I knew how much work it took to, you know, not fail, I’m not sure I would have ever started trying to pass.”

“You’re like one of those people who gets brainwashed by a religious cult.”

“Yeah, but without the togas and free love. It sucks, man.”

At halftime, Asheville is up 5–3 against Trenton, our biggest rival. Stranko’s diaper must be full because he’s tearing into the team right in front of us. Adleta’s getting the brunt of the reaming despite having three of our goals. Tim’s dad is right beside Stranko, jabbing his finger at his son while Stranko rails.

“What *s,” Wheeler says.

A parental unit seated directly in front of us turns around, frowning.

“Sorry,” Wheeler says. “But they are *s.”

Both give disapproving shakes of their heads in that way all adults seem to have mastered, and the dad’s frown grows even frownier when he sees Wheeler’s shirt.

“Satan’s no laughing matter, son,” the dad says.

“Yeah, an invisible being tempting us to do evil so he can torture our souls forever. Nothing funny or ridiculous about that.”

The dad glares at Wheeler but turns around without saying anything.

“Oh, and speaking of evil,” Wheeler says and from his pocket pulls out a sandwich bag containing Stranko’s phone. I snatch the bag away and shove it deep into my pocket before anyone can see it.

“It’s ready to go, a new phone number and everything.”

“Is his phone number in the contacts?”

“Like you asked.”

“Under what name?”

“Mike Oxbig.”

“Huh?”

“Say it out loud.”

I do and start laughing.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s for?” Wheeler says.

“Not yet,” I say.

Because I really don’t know—at least not entirely. But I have an idea marinating in my brain, and Stranko’s phone plays a small role. Or maybe that’s just Wheeler’s friend Satan setting me up for the big beat down.

We’re eight minutes into the second half when the Asheville defense breaks down and a Trenton middie fires a shot, bringing the score to 5–4. Stranko immediately shouts for a time-out. Adleta’s the last to join the huddle because he was on the opposite side of the field, twenty yards from the play. His dad grabs him by the arm and shoves him into the circle of players. Stranko’s yelling so loud, people in Alaska can hear him.

“You guys think you can take it easy and still win this game? Because you won’t. You want to be champions, you have to play like champions. What you’re doing out there is a disgrace. You should be up ten goals at this point, but no. Your sorry asses are up one. It’s pathetic. If you don’t put it into high gear, you’re going to find your season over.” Then Stranko points at Adleta. “You especially. You’re playing like a loser right now.”

Adleta visibly stiffens.

“Oh, do you have something to say?” Stranko asks. “I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

“I think we’re playing hard out there,” Adleta says. “Trenton’s better than you think.”

Stranko is actually too stunned to talk, so Mr. Adleta does it for him.

“You keep quiet,” he growls.

“Why? I just said—”

“Shut your mouth.”

Adleta cocks his head.

“Or what?”

Both Adletas are locked in on one another. Everyone in the stands is quiet and staring at the showdown. Stranko actually puts a hand between them.

He says, “Okay now—”

“You don’t deserve to be out there,” Mr. Adleta tells Tim. “Champions play for blood. You’re playing like you’re stupid. Is that it? Are you stupid? Because you sure as hell—”

And then it happens—Tim drops his stick and starts across the field.

Mr. Adleta pushes past players to chase after Tim, but Stranko grabs his arm. At midfield, one of the refs holds up a hand to say something to Tim, but he keeps walking, crossing the entire field, passing in front of Trenton’s bench, then out the gate and into the parking lot. There’s not a closed mouth in the entire stadium.