Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Chris was back on the court in an instant; his tall, athletic frame was easy to pick out among the other sophomore boys, when half of them were still fighting with puberty and bones that didn’t quite fit together, Chris had been one of the lucky few who settled into himself quickly, easily. Handsome enough that on weekend nights when the boys were allowed out, there were usually quite a few girls from the public school across the Mystic over down the hill in town, making shy overtures to talk to him, from gossip overheard in the locker room and cafeteria; yet Chris never made lewd comments about those girls, always seeming shyly flustered by their interest, ducking his head and running a hand through his messy light brown hair.
Frequently bigger boys realized they had an advantage over other kids—and used it ruthlessly. Chris, though, seemed to treat his advantage as a responsibility.
And he was just as effortlessly good at keeping an eye out for the smaller kids as he was at, it seemed, everything else he decided to do.
Including basketball, as he shadowed the boy dribbling and used his own body to block anyone trying to intercept as the dribbler continued his determined drive down the court...only to suddenly dive to one side in an unexpected backhand pass that went shooting straight toward Chris.
Chris twisted through the tangles of players to catch the ball smoothly right before it hit the floor. He had a chance to steal the glory, then, open for a layup that would end the game.
And instead he doubled back at the last minute, and shot the ball to gangly, mousy Jimmy who usually disappeared among the other boys and was always last pick for the team. Jimmy caught the ball in a fumble, blinking owlishly, before Chris caught his eye with a grin and jerked his head toward the basket. With a borderline squeak, Jimmy darted forward, dribbling a few steps while Chris positioned his tall frame to guard him, flawlessly blocking every attempt to smack the ball from Jimmy’s hand while Jimmy set up for a shot.
Just a pause. A moment when it wasn’t hard to tell Chris’s team was already groaning, setting up for a loss, while Jimmy took aim, bending his knees...and sent the ball sailing. It hit the backboard, bumped the rim, and two dozen hearts hammered all at once, filling the air with tension like anticipatory drumbeats.
Before it went whooshing down through the net, and Chris’s team swarmed Jimmy, shouting and grinning and shoving him with careful, playful affection while he laughed, eyes wide and dazed as if he couldn’t believe he’d done that.
Because Chris set him up for it, Damon thought.
Because it was just like Chris to notice how often Jimmy was left out.
Damn it.
Last point. Game over; time to break, get them into the showers, and send them off for lunch. Damon let his whistle shrill over the court again, then jerked his head at the boys who’d benched it on the bleachers to work on homework, excused for medical reasons. The basketball players broke apart, laughing and shoving lightly at each other; Damon caught Chris’s name in a little good-natured ribbing, when anyone who ended up on the opposing team in gym class usually knew they were going to lose.
Luke.
The name popped into Damon’s head as he watched the boys straggle toward the locker room and disappear inside. Chris’s roommate was Luke Maddow. Fourth period gym, after lunch.
Cornering Chris’s roommate was probably too obvious.
But Damon could at least keep an eye on Luke, and watch for any obvious tells.
He ducked into his office adjacent to the locker room, just so he could listen for anything like he always did—hazing, fights, he liked to give the boys their privacy to change but keep an ear out for anything he needed to break up. He had a stack of permission slips on his desk for this year’s JV enrollment, parents—or more likely harried, overworked personal assistants—giving their consent and paying gear fees, providing emergency contact information, a few other necessary technicalities. Damon passed the time flicking through and checking them for accuracy, only half listening while everyone wrapped up and started filing out before the bell rang for lunch.
Until he caught the sound of Chris’s voice drawing closer, in tandem with that Clark kid’s, while Jimmy trailed in their wake like a little duckling, watching them with starry eyes. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Chris looked completely relaxed, casual, his eyes lit up with amusement at whatever Clark had said to make him laugh and gently thump his fist to the smaller boy’s shoulder.
But Chris’s laughter vanished as Damon stood from behind his desk and flicked his fingers. “Northcote. Can you stay a minute?”
Chris paused, exchanging looks with Clark, before Clark gave him that look every boy between the ages of ten and eighteen knew far too well: