POWER BACK

Chapter 2: Electric Feel

Electric Feel

Jack, August

It's been about three weeks since the day of tryouts, and so far, I got nothing on the new kid. Nobody seems to know who he is or why he moved here. The team had a whole text thread about him. He's not on the football roster for the school he supposedly went to last year. Nobody can find him on social media. It's weird.

Today is our first preseason practice, and he's back. I sidle up next to him. "Hey Thomas," I say, all casual-like. "How's it going?" His eyes grow wide, darting from side to side. Then he sticks his mouth guard in and does some side bends. I feel my eyes narrow. This kid is super sketch. I shake it off and jog over to where the coaches have called us together.

They tick off the line-up—starters, offensive positions, defensive, special teams. They got me at running back and linebacker. I'm not crazy about playing offense, if I'm being honest. Don't have a high regard for our quarterback. If there's one guy in this entire school I don't get along with, it's that dumbass Cash Carson. He's supposed to be the captain of the offense, but in reality, he's the last person I'd want leading me into battle. He's probably the worst quarterback in the history of our school, but his uncle is the head coach, and his dad is the president of the booster club. So, you know how that goes. Good old boy code.

"Cash Carson will be QB one," coach calls out, to nobody's surprise. They don't even have an alternate position for him, he's that much of a diva. He plays offense as the starting quarterback. They don't want to risk him getting hurt playing the other side of the ball. Probably for the best, since he's useless on defense anyway.

They continue through the alphabet until they get to the Ts.

"Peyton Thomas!" The coach calls out.

I glance over at him as he rocks side to side and raises his hand.

So, his first name is Peyton. I wonder if he was named after Peyton Manning. If so, I hope he's not expecting to get a shot at QB.

"Thomas, we're placing you on special teams. Kick return. With a backup of tailback," Coach Murphy tells him.

Welp, the kid's not a quarterback, I guess. He's my backup, which means he'll likely be sitting on the sidelines praying I blow out a kneecap. I look over at him to see if he's happy about it and watch as a slow smile spreads across his face, lighting up his eyes, dimpling his cheeks. His grin wide and white and beautiful.

Wait. What?

Beautiful?

All of a sudden, it feels like I'm free-falling, spinning, disoriented.

I can't stop staring at him, trying to make sense of it of it all.

Then, slowly, the puzzle pieces click into place. It finally dawns on me.

I could be wrong, might be wishful thinking, but I don't think he is who he pretends to be.

The coaches separate the varsity players from the JV to start drills. Oklahoma is first. I stand in line and wait my turn. Thomas is one of the first ball runners, lined up against Marshall Payne and Geno Jackson.

Marshall Payne is our middle linebacker. Bro is scary good and intimidating to behold. When we run a four-man secondary, he's always strong side. I play more of a supporting role. We work really well together because he's physical but also really strong mentally too. He's been studying the triangle defense and trying to teach us about it. Anyway, my point is, he's not to be trifled with. I'm fully expecting him to destroy this new kid who couldn't weigh more than a buck forty soaking wet.

The coach blows the whistle, and Nolan engages Payne on the block. Payne dispenses with him in a flash, going straight for Thomas's waist. They collide a few paces beyond the line of scrimmage, but Thomas won't go down. He just keeps chopping his feet, trying to move forward. Kid must have a hell of a powerful lower body to be able to withstand the pressure from Payne who probably has him by eighty pounds. Jackson plays clean up, coming in from the side and finishing the job. They all topple in a pile together, Thomas at the bottom.

Payne extricates himself from the pile and reaches out to help the new kid up. Their eyes lock, and I see a spark of curiosity light up behind the dreadlocks that fall over Marshall's dark eyes. Marshall is one of those guys who doesn't really go out of his way to be social. He stays quiet, watchful. We couldn't be more different, but I guess that's one of the reasons I have so much respect for him. He's not trying to impress anyone. He wants to perform well for his own personal gratification—on the playing field and in school. He's a year younger than me, but probably the most mature player on our team. Kid is hella smart. He'll probably be like a physicist and win a Nobel prize or some shit.

When it's my turn to run the ball, Thomas is playing defense. His job is to take down the ball runner, me. I'm not too worried about it because the kid is skinny, long and lean. Looks easily trucked. I crouch behind my lead block, Jason Baker. When I see the opening, I cut to the left, through the line. Thomas is crouched low, waiting for my next move, so I cut back to the right. I'm almost past him when I feel his hands grasp my ankles. I keep my feet moving, and his forearms slide up my calves, squeezing them together like a constrictor. I'm still moving though, dragging his body along the ground with me, but then I lose my balance and go falling, accidentally kicking him in the side of the helmet. I roll over on my back, looking up at the wide blue expanse of sky. Thomas pops to his feet, extending a hand to me. As he helps me up, I stare straight into his gray eyes. They're full of fire, full of fight. They glint and spark as he looks back me. My hand is still holding onto his, and everything else goes silent. The contact between us crackles with electricity, like I can feel his blood pumping, his pulse racing. Or maybe it's my own pulse. Honestly, it's difficult to trace where he ends, and I begin.

"Nice job, Thomas," I say, playing it cool. But I feel anything but cool.

The rest of practice I'm in shock. Dumbstruck. My gaze follows that kid all around the field like a puppy dog. When coach dismisses us, I stand at the watering station sucking from the hose. Then strip off my jersey and shoulder pads, spray the sweat and grime off my torso and chest.

When I see Thomas walking at a quick clip toward the parking lot, I follow at a distance.

He's almost to his car when I finally call his name. "Hey! Thomas?"

He keeps walking like he doesn't hear me.

"Thomas," I yell louder. "I know you can hear me!"

He stops briefly, looks over his shoulder at me, and casually walks over to the shade under a cluster of trees where he takes off his helmet and watches me amble toward him.

I smile nervously, threading my arm through my gear.

"Yeah?" He asks with attitude.

I flash another grin, steeling myself for what might become a very embarrassing moment if I'm wrong. I cock my head to one side and say, "I wanted to congratulate you, you know, on making varsity. That's pretty impressive since you're just a junior and new here."

"Thanks," he snaps back.

I nod. "So, hey," I say real breezy. "I wanted to ask you something."

He looks down at his helmet, fidgeting with it for a minute before looking back up at me.

"Yeah," he says. "What is it?"

I'm still not sure. His lashes are long and light, his nose slightly upturned over the curve of his upper lip. His tongue darts out, skimming across the lower lip.

My heart bangs against my chest like a wild cat in a cage.

This could end very bad, But I've gotta ask him.

"Don't take this the wrong way...but are you..."

"Am I what?" he asks, ice in his voice.

I smile again, studying his face, still unsure of myself. Oh well, here it goes.

"You're a girl, ain't you, Thomas."