POWER BACK

Chapter 27: Drinking Lightning

Drinking Lightning

January

"Alright, boys. This ain't no game for slugs—forty-yard dash first. Times 5.5 seconds and under make the first cut. Each runner gets two goes."

We stand in a semi-circle around Coach Carson on one end of the field dressed in workout clothes and cleats—no pads or helmet necessary. The sky is gunmetal gray, and the cold damp air is seeping through my hoodie. I scan the group, looking for Peyton. She's standing over by Marshall, talking quietly.

This feels awkward. I was inches from kissing her just twenty minutes ago. Now we're competing against each other for a spot on the spring seven-man team.

Marshall stands close to her, protectively. Cash is only a few paces away.

Normally, she'd be psyched for the opportunity to play more football. I have a bad feeling about it now that Cash is back along with his crap attitude. It's an oppressive weight, like pressure building in the atmosphere.

There are about forty of us waiting to run, players from both JV and varsity. Mostly skilled positions—defensive backs like Peyton, receivers, and offensive backs like me—hoping to fill one of only about twenty spots. 

Cash is one of the first ones called. He looks like an all-American quarterback— tall, pretty boy with a muscular frame and athletic stance, but looks can be deceiving. He's as slow as three-legged turtle. The coach blows the whistle, and Cash lunges, launching his six-foot frame forward, urging it to go as fast as it possibly can. I stand there watching, willing him to trip over his giant feet.

"5.78 seconds!" Coach Murphy calls out to Coach Carson.

Ha, ha, fucker. Not fast enough.

Cash throws his head back in anger, kicking one of the hurdles left on the track as he makes his way back to the starting line. He still gets another shot.

He runs again seemingly even slower than before. When he finally crosses the finish line, Coach Murphy doesn't call out his time. Instead, he shuffles his way over to Coach Carson. They bow their heads together, looking at the clipboard and stopwatch, muttering to each other in hushed tones. I guess they don't care to announce Cash's second time.

Murph ambles back to the finish line, and Coach Carson barks "Chaplin!"

Ever since Peyton came a long with her dazzling speed and agility, I've really pushed myself to up my game. Last fall at tryouts she ran a 4.72, one of the best times on the team. I've been working on my sprints ever since.

I need a sub-five time.

When the whistle blows, I run like a man on fire, letting all the frustration that's been building over my imagined rivalry with Marshall fuel me.

"4.8!" Murph calls out. I glance over at Peyton who smiles. She knows I've gotten faster.

They finally get to the Ts. Her turn.

She takes off her Woodland Heights sweatshirt and throws it onto the track. As she's getting in her preferred three-point starting position, someone coughs and says "dyke!" at the same time.

I glare over at Cash and his toadies, searching for the culprit.

But she just shrugs it off, takes a deep breath, and gets ready to fly.

The whistle blows, and she turns on the jets.

When she crosses the line, Murph yells out "4.73!"

"Can I go again?" she asks, panting.