Spring Won't Come

Sixteen: Blake

"I still don't know how you convinced him," Oaty said. "You're good, like real good, it's why you play varsity, but Tom is still our number one, no offense."

Blake slipped his shirt over his head and stuffed it inside his gym bag. Oaty was right, Tom was better, but he didn't have the gift that Blake had. What Alice had told him was true, no one seemed capable of saying no to him.

"I was just real persuasive," Blake said. "Coach was talking about starting me at some point this season. I figured, why not now?"

"Yeah," Allan said, "but you just had a busted up knee. I'm just surprised he cleared you so quick."

Blake ignored the comment and took his practice shirt out of his bag. The material had once been a crisp white, now stained with sweat, grass, dirt, and even blood. He gave the shirt a sniff and told himself that he needed to remember to wash the thing.

Blake took hold of the necklace that Alice had given him and felt the strong urge to keep it on. Coach didn't want players to wear any kind of jewelry but this was different, it was more of a good luck charm than anything.

"Damn, son," Allan said to Blake, "Look at those guns."

Blake flexed and posed like all the images he had seen of Arnold Schwarzenegger. "All that lifting with Dom is paying off."

Oaty's body was softer than Blake's but Allan was chiseled like some Greek statue. His muscles rippled as he flexed and Blake became overly self-conscious at the sight of Allan's eight-pack.

"Nice! A free show," Dom said, rounding the corner. So as not to be left out, he whipped off his own shirt, revealing the enormous belly that made him a brick wall on the line. He wiggled his gut and then struck a pose.

Oaty slapped Dom's belly, his hand making a loud crack on impact. Dom yelled and let out a deep laugh. He returned the strike and then it was Oaty's turn to howl with both pain and laughter.

"You guys are idiots," Blake laughed. He put on his practice shirt and shorts and slammed his locker shut. He tucked the necklace under the collar of his shirt and went out to the practice field.

Coach Sheffield had made a strong case to not start Blake on Friday. He was skeptical, at best, that Blake's knee was actually healed. "I've seen boys walk off an injury one day, only to bust themselves up the next."

When Sheffield showed no signs of wavering, Blake applied some of his new powers of persuasion. The result was just as it had been with Gentz and Tim. Sheffield became confused, his eyes glassy and his voice unsure. Then came the trickle of blood from his nose.

"What the hell?" Sheffield said, swiveling in his office chair and stuffing a wad of tissues up to his face. "I swear," his voice was muffled and nasally now, "every time the weather changes I get these nosebleeds."

Blake smiled politely, wondering if Sheffield's will was greater than he had anticipated. "Do I get to start on Friday? I think it would be what's best for the team."

"I tell you what, son," Sheffield patted the tissues to his face; it seemed the flow had stopped. His salt and pepper mustache was stained red. "I am going to start you on Friday. People might think it's crazy but I think it's what's best for the team."

"Thank you, sir," Blake said. "I think that's a great idea. We gotta do what's best for the team."

Blake stood on the practice field, smiling at the thought of how he'd made Sheffield agree to start him on Friday. That meant that he had two days to take control of the offense, a challenge that terrified and exhilarated him.