First & Then(23)

The scene with Mr. Willoughby was as captivating as ever, but I couldn’t help but lose focus. I glanced up from the page every so often and watched Foster and Ezra work. Foster missed the ball the first few times Ezra threw it to him, but he seemed to get the hang of it as they went on. Ezra gave advice at a volume too low to be heard from where I sat, but Foster’s voice rang out clear and strong, asking what he was doing wrong and how he should fix it. It was strangely endearing. Foster really seemed to want to learn.

They came over for a break after a while. Ezra downed a bottle of water, and Foster relayed in his typical rambling style everything they had covered thus far.

“… And Ezra said this is just the way he learned, like this is just the same stuff they did! And next we’re doing … what are we doing next, Ezra?”

“Tackling.”

Foster’s face fell. “But … I thought I wouldn’t get tackled.”

“Anyone can get tackled.”

Foster didn’t reply.

Ezra put down his water and edged a little closer to where we were sitting. He wouldn’t look at me. It seemed to be a standard Ezra move—denying the existence of anyone who wasn’t of importance to him.

“What are you scared of?” he said.

“It’ll hurt.”

“Yeah, maybe it’ll hurt. So what?”

Foster just blinked at him.

“You ever play any board games?”

Foster practically worshipped the Parker Brothers. “Yeah.”

“What’s your favorite?”

He screwed up his face in thought. “Monopoly.”

“Okay. Say Monopoly was a contact game, and every time you passed GO, you got hit upside the head. Would you still play?”

“Why would I get hit upside the head? That wouldn’t make sense.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause it has nothing to do with the game. It doesn’t accomplish anything. At least in football…” Foster stopped himself. Ezra nodded.

“You’re getting hit for a reason. If taking a tackle means your team gets a first down, or a touchdown, it’s not for nothing, right?”

“Yeah.”

Ezra looked somewhat satisfied, but I knew Foster. He still had that troubled look on his face. This wouldn’t be easy.

“But … I mean, just knowing that it has a purpose doesn’t mean it’ll hurt you any less.”

“Yeah, but won’t it feel better to know that your getting tackled helped the team accomplish something? Look. You can kick, and that’s great, but they need to know that they can put you in there for a field play and not have to worry about where you’re at and what you’re doing and whether you’ll get steamrolled or not.”

This was the most I had ever heard Ezra say. I realized I was staring at him when his eyes met mine for a split second. I turned back to my book.

“Maybe if I kicked, like, really good, they wouldn’t care,” Foster said.

Ezra sighed. “Let’s just quit for today, okay? Go grab the ball.”

Foster jogged over to where the football lay in the grass a little ways away.

And all of a sudden, Ezra charged. Before I could yell or call out or warn Foster, Ezra had thrown himself at Foster, and flattened him to the ground.

The yell escaped my lips a moment too late.

I leaped to my feet and ran over. Ezra pulled himself back up. Foster was still on the ground, looking somewhat dazed.

“What the hell is your problem? You could’ve hurt him!”

“A lineman could hurt him, that’s how they do it.”

“He’s little, you can’t just do that!”

“Hey, Dev, you got a Kleenex?”

“I’m trying to help. He’s got to know what it’s like.”

There was a tug at my sleeve.

I looked down. Blood was pouring from Foster’s nose.

“Holy shit.” I knew Foster was prone to nosebleeds. I’m pretty sure a stiff wind or a crooked look could make Foster’s nose bleed. But I glared at Ezra anyway. “Look what you did.”

“He’s fine.” Ezra pulled Foster to his feet. “You’re fine.” There was something searching in his eyes that made it more of a question than a statement.

Foster cupped his nose with blood-smeared hands and nodded sagely.

I grabbed Foster’s elbow—“We’re going”—and pulled him across the field.

“Did you see that, Dev? Did you see me get tackled?”

“Yeah, I saw, I was sitting right there.”

“I got tackled by Ezra Lynley. When we’re adults, and Ezra’s gone pro, I can watch TV with my kids and be, like, that’s the guy who tackled me.”

I looked at Foster, only to see that the face under his bloody hands had broken into a grin.

“Give it up, Foster. He’s a dickhead, and you shouldn’t let him push you around like that.”

“He’s not pushing me around; he’s teaching me.”

When we reached the car, I yanked my door open and slammed it shut behind me with equal force.

It was only when we got home that I realized I had left Sense and Sensibility at the field. By the time I deposited Foster and drove back, the book, along with all traces of Ezra Lynley, was gone.