Broken Beautiful Hearts(22)

The crowd’s approval thunders through the stands that rise up above us.

The loudspeaker crackles again. “Touchdown! The Black Water Warriors are giving the Spring Hill Stallions an education tonight, ladies and gentlemen!”

“This is a high school stadium?” I ask Mom over the noise. “This place looks big enough for the NFL.”

“Not quite. But people in Tennessee take their football seriously.” Mom cranes her neck in search of my uncle. “All the stores in town close on Friday nights.”

“Sissy!” Hawk calls out. He’s the only person who calls my mom Sissy instead of Sarah—or, if we’re in Black Water, Sarah Ann.

My uncle waves from where he’s standing several rows up. At over six feet tall and built like a tank, he’s hard to miss—gray buzz cut, neat beard, and a kind face. Grandma used to call it a face you could trust. Mom waves back, beaming at her older brother. They don’t see each other often, but you would never know it when they get together.

I look around and take stock. The stands are packed with friendly faces—parents and grandparents wearing Black Water Warriors scarves and wool jackets, a German shepherd sitting on the bleachers next to its owner, and lots of people sporting blue-and-white face paint to support their team.

There are more letterman jackets and school colors in the crowd than I’m used to seeing back home. But, otherwise, the people my age aren’t dressed much different from the students at my school.

At least I won’t be the girl from out of town, who dresses weird.

Unless something has changed since I visited two years ago, I’ll probably be the only half-white, half-Cuban girl in Black Water. This place isn’t exactly a melting pot. But it’s nice to see some brown and Asian faces.

Mom and I weave between people carrying cardboard boxes full of hot dogs, fries, and six-packs. When we reach the narrow steps that slope up to the top of the stands, Mom lets me go first. “Are you sure you don’t want any—”

I glare at her and she stops talking.

Holding the handrail, I take the steps one at a time. If my knee gives out, I’m not falling on my ass in front of half the town—maybe the whole town, judging by the number of people here.

A pair of hiking boots stops on the step above me, and before I have time to look up, an arm swings around my waist. Adrenaline surges through my bloodstream.

Hawk lifts me up, and my feet dangle in the air. “At the rate you were going, the game would be over by the time you get a seat.”

I’m not that lucky.

Instead of using the steps, Hawk walks up the middle of the bleachers, dodging the people seated on them.

“Put me down.”

He ignores me. “Almost there.”

“Is she all right?” a woman calls after us.

My cheeks burn.

Before I protest again, Hawk lowers me to the ground. “Door-to-door service.”

I sit on the cold metal bench without a word, watching Mom walk up the steps like a normal person.

My uncle takes a seat beside me. “Everybody needs a little help once in a while.”

Once in a while, I could handle. But people think I need help all the time now. They take one look at the RoboCop brace, and they rush to open doors and pull out chairs.

And I hate it.

On the soccer field, my mind was always in control of my body. I decided if I was too tired to keep running. I decided whether or not to quit. Now my body is in control. I have a knee that gives out with no warning, and I couldn’t run the length of a soccer field if my life depended on it. Dr. Kao claims it will just take time.

But what if she’s wrong?

Hawk leans forward, with his elbows propped on his knees, studying the field.

I spot Mom at the end of our row. The people in the first few seats stand to let her scoot past them. She sits beside me and puts her arm around my shoulders. “What did I miss?”

“Not much.” I lower my voice. “It’s just football.”

“Fourth and ten. Stallions’ ball.” A flurry of activity takes place on the field. “Interception by the Warriors!” the commentator shouts.

People around us leap to their feet, cheering madly, and the sudden movement makes me jump. Mom notices and squeezes my shoulder. Hawk puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles.

A man who is way too old for blue-and-white face paint turns to my uncle. “Your boys are tearing up the field tonight. Think they can keep it up until the championships?”

Hawk smiles proudly. “That’s the plan.”

Two huge guys on the field bump chests and yank on each other’s helmets. When they turn around, CARTER is printed on the backs of their jerseys.

“Wait. Those giants are the Twins?” I ask. Not possible. The last time I saw them was a year and a half ago, at Dad’s funeral, and they were stocky, but they look taller and even bigger now.

Hawk nods. “Yep. Right there. Number seven and number eleven.”

The cheerleaders break into a routine. I give them credit. They make backflips and handsprings look easy. The rest of the game passes with more backflips and the Twins mowing down players from the other team.

After the Warriors slaughter the Stallions, Hawk waits until the stands empty out before he gets up and walks in front of me as we make our way down the steps. At the bottom, the Twins stand off to the side, patiently shaking hands with adults waiting in line to congratulate them. They’re definitely taller and their features are more defined. A few cheerleaders hang out next to my cousins, smiling as if they personally contributed to the win.