The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(6)

“Hell, no!” Tate said. “Well, not unless the lightning starts. And I hope it doesn’t.” He breathed deeply, loving the scent of rain and the sudden cooling of the air that signaled a storm. He was obsessed with storms! He always had been. It was as if he could feel the power building inside him in time with the distant thunder and the rolling clouds.

“Be careful out there tonight, Son.” His dad was beside him, putting a firm, familiar hand on his shoulder. “I know you like your storms, but if that sky opens and starts pouring, watch yourself. That ground’ll get slick as pig shit. Break something, and you’ll be sidelined. It’s early in the season, but you can’t mess yourself up or you’ll risk losing that Mizzou scholarship.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine—like always.”

His dad patted his shoulder and smiled affectionately at him. “Right. I’ll leave the worrying to your mother. Don’t forget to wave to her.”

“She’s out there? But she hates storms.”

“Of course she’s out there—right on the fifty-yard line as usual. Your mom hates storms, but she loves her little Nighthawk more.”

“I’m six-one, and eighteen years old as of today. Why does she have to add the little part? Jeesh, Dad, only Mom could make that nickname lame.” Well, Mom and that green-eyed strawberry, he thought.

The first snare drum beats of the fight song drowned out his dad’s laughter, and had the home side of the small stadium coming to their feet as Tate sprinted through the tunnel of cheerleaders and pompoms, leading his team onto the field. As they circled to begin their warm-up, Tate waved to his mom. She was easy to find. Her thick blond hair, which Tate had always thought made her look like a Disney princess, was a golden beacon under the bright lights. She waved and blew him a kiss while the rising wind lifted her tresses like a restless spirit.

Tate was calling cadence for their warm-up burpees when a blaze of red in the bleachers above his mom snagged his attention. Red hair, broken free from whatever had held it on top of her head, spilled around her. Damn, that girl had a lot of hair. Tate blinked—and then blinked again. It was her! The strawberry! She was sitting next to a big black woman who was studying him like he was a two-headed science fair experiment. But the strawberry? She was busy trying to tame all that wind-crazed ginger hair while she looked everywhere but the field.

Burpees done, Tate called for the team to change positions and begin jumping jacks. He snuck another look at the girl. Yep, she was still staring everywhere but at him. No, wait. She’s not staring everywhere. She’s staring up at the sky.

The ref’s whistle sounded the end of warm-ups, calling team captains to the center of the field for the coin toss. He jogged to meet the Spartan—shaking his hand and trying not to think about the fact that the kid’s lack of a neck and full beard made him look thirty instead of seventeen.

“Heads,” the Spartan called in a voice so deep and gravelly it sounded like he’d been smoking for decades.

“Tails! Panthers’ choice!” the referee announced, shouting to be heard above the wind.

“We’ll receive,” Tate told them. He jogged quickly off the field, huddling with the rest of the offense as his dad put his hand into the middle of their circle. He had to yell to be heard over the whining wind, but his strong voice rose to the challenge.

“All right, Panthers. Get that damn ball and show those Spartans that bigger doesn’t mean better! On three—one, two, PANTHERS!”

Like the well-practiced machine they were, Tate’s team flowed to their positions, standing at the ready as the Spartans lined up for the opening kickoff, but before the ref could blow the whistle to start the clock, the bruised sky opened, spilling ropes of rain down on them. The bright stadium lights flickered along with the scoreboard, and the ref hesitated before blowing the starting whistle.

Tate couldn’t help it. He had to glance at the bleachers. He had to get a glimpse of that soggy strawberry. He found her easily. She was the only person standing, one arm raised, pointing up at the sky. As he watched, wide-eyed, she screamed one word so loud and in a voice so filled with raw terror that everyone turned to look up at where she was pointing.

“TORNADO!”

Tate’s world exploded.

The whining of the wind shifted, morphing to a scream. From the black clouds above, the hook of a funnel began to descend, heading directly for the field.

“Everyone, get into the school! Now!” bellowed the loudspeaker.

Panic had the crowd on their feet as everyone tried to run from the bleachers. Tate felt as if he had been nail-gunned to the ground. His gaze trapped on the descending funnel. He could feel the power of the tornado—feel its anger and its destructive strength pass through him, swirl around him, and build … build, until he wanted to lift his arms and embrace it and let his shout join its raging roar.

“Tate! Run!”

His father’s bellow broke through the tornado’s spell and suddenly Tate was no longer filled with the excitement of the storm. He was just a kid, standing alone in the middle of a football field as death in the shape of a funnel plunged from the sky.

Everyone on the field sprinted for the locker room, but the bleachers were a nightmare of panicked people. Through the wind-slanted rain, he found his mom’s blond hair. She was at the edge of the bleachers. He watched in horror as someone shoved her from behind and she fell.