Kickoff to Danger (2 page)

“If
you
were the quarterback, you could cut Joe a break.” Callie gave Frank a sly smile. “And what about me? I liked dating a football hero.”

Frank responded with a long look. “Well, then, maybe you should talk with what's-his-face—the golden one,” he suggested.

“I
have
talked with him,” Callie said. “He made me feel as if I should say ‘thank you' for the honor.”

Before Frank could answer, Callie pointed to the field. “Look! Eddie's finally throwing one to Joe!”

The quarterback launched a long, high pass down the field. Looking over his shoulder, Joe broke into a run, aiming for where the ball would land.

Movement on the other side of the field caught Frank's eye. Terry Golden suddenly launched into a mad charge, aiming for the same spot.

Callie blew up. “Is he trying to make Joe look bad?”

“Golden may be pumping it up for the college scout,” Frank said. “You've got to give it to him—he's fast.” He shook his head. “But his little display may come off as showboating.”

Still running, Joe shot a quick look over his shoulder. His eyes were aimed in the air, at the ball, not on the ground, though.

“Joe doesn't see him!” Callie's voice was tight.

“He's still on course for the ball,” Frank said. “And Golden is right behind him.”

“But, Frank—” Callie cried. “He's not stopping!”

The football came spiraling down. Joe raised his arms to catch it. Behind him, Terry Golden came pounding up.

There was no way Terry could get his hands on the ball. But he would be just in time to ram into Joe. . . .

One more step, Joe told himself, as he brought his upraised hands together. Perfect catch!

He just managed to get his fingers hooked on the pigskin when what felt like an eighteen-wheeler smashed into his back.

Joe tumbled forward, the ball flying from his grip.

He didn't land flat on his face—not quite. At the last second he managed to get an arm out and break his fall. A quick roll, and he was back on his feet.

The first thing he saw was Terry Golden.

Joe's back throbbed, but the pain was nothing compared to the fury roaring through his brain.

“What—” Joe sucked in some air to keep from
yelling. “What do you think you're doing, Golden? That was my pass.”

“Got to keep your eyes open, Hardy. What if I had been a guy from the other team?”

“This is practice!” Joe realized his hands had curled into fists and forced his fingers open again. “We're all supposed to be on the same team here. And I was practicing catching that pass, not broken-field running. What would you say if I clipped you the next time Eddie sent the ball your way?”

“I'd say that would make you a poor sport.” Golden smirked at Joe. “And I'm sure the scout up in the stands would think so, too.”

Joe glanced at the man up in the top seats. Then he noticed how Terry had placed himself. He was standing so the scout couldn't see the expression on his face, but could plainly see Joe's.

Golden reached out and patted Joe on the shoulder, a picture of good sportsmanship.

“No hard feelings, pal,” Terry told him. “We all have to try harder when the stakes are high.”

He turned, scooped up the ball, and lobbed it back to Eddie Taplinger.

Joe barely noticed how the rest of practice went. He was too busy trying to control his temper.

It didn't help when Coach Devlin called him aside and tapped him on the head. “Concentrate, Joe.” The coach turned to look up into the stands. “This isn't a day to be in a fog.”

The guys on the team said that Coach Devlin sometimes brought in scouts—or people he said were scouts—to keep the players on their toes.

Joe didn't have to worry about being recruited by a college team. His grades were good enough to get him into most schools. An athletic scholarship would be icing on the cake for him.

No, if scouts were coming around, they probably weren't after Joe Hardy. They were looking over the team's new star—the golden one.

Well, Terry boy can have all the attention he wants, Joe told himself. As long as he stays away from me.

He ran back into practice, hoping to work off his anger with sweat.

At least he got the sweat part right. By the time practice was over, his jersey was soaked. In the locker room Joe peeled off his uniform and jumped into the shower.

He'd just toweled off and put on his pants when three quick raps sounded on the locker room door. A female voice called, “Everybody decent in there?”

Joe took a quick look around. A couple of guys had no shirts on, but it would take more than that to keep Liz Webling from coming in after a story.

“All clear, Liz,” he yelled. “Come on in.”

Liz was a reporter for the
Beacon,
Bayport High's newspaper. She joked that printer's ink was
in her blood because her dad ran the
Bayport Times
.

As Liz entered, her eyes flicked around the locker room, making sure Joe hadn't invited her in too soon. She carried a notebook and a mini-cassette recorder, just like a professional journalist. Behind her trailed a tall, skinny guy with a camera.

Joe hid a smile. Dan Freeman looks more out of place among the jocks than Liz does, he thought.

Nobody would take the awkward, skinny boy for an athlete. He wrinkled his nose at the stink of sweat and liniment as he stepped in through the door. As he followed Liz, Dan managed to stumble but did recover before falling flat on his face.

Dan Freeman not only worked for the
Beacon,
he had also made the front page the week before. The Bayport High debate team had scored well at the year's first big tournament, and Dan's brilliant arguments had played a big part in that success.

“The big game against Seneca Tech is coming up,” Liz said to Joe. “How do you think we'll do?”

“That's still a week away,” Joe answered as Liz made a beeline for Terry Golden.

“Not when you're working on a school paper,” Liz threw back over her shoulder. “This issue will come out right before the game. Just call me the early bird.”

She stopped and smiled at Terry, who gave her a big smile right back. Golden rubbed his long hair with a towel, then let the towel drop and hang loosely from his shoulders.

“This is my first year at Bayport,” he said in reply to Liz's first question. “I can't really talk about the way games went in the past. Everybody tells me that Seneca is the team to beat.”

Terry grinned down at Liz. “Well, we've managed to beat every other team we've played this season, and I think we've got the right stuff—and the right guys—to handle Seneca.”

Terry Golden's humble act made Joe sick. In front of a microphone or at a pep rally, Golden was always modest, giving credit to the team. On the field, though . . .

Joe's back ached where Golden had rammed into him. He turned away from his teammate to watch Dan Freeman. The photographer was quietly roving around the locker room, shooting pictures of guys at their lockers.

Dan noticed Joe watching him and gave an embarrassed smile. “It's Liz's idea,” he said. “She thought it would make a more interesting page than one with the team all lined up in their uniforms.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah, that usually ends up looking like a yearbook picture.”

“We also got some good shots during your practice, I think.”

Joe blinked. “Really? I didn't even notice you.”

Dan gave a half shrug. “I guess that's the sign of a good photographer.” He nodded to Liz, still interviewing Golden. “Your friend Golden sure noticed.”

“Don't call him my friend!” The words were out before Joe could stop them.

Dan Freeman stared at Joe in surprise, then looked at Terry again. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I could understand that.”

Now it was Joe's turn to feel embarrassed. Had Dan seen the stunt that Golden had pulled in practice? Even worse, had he taken a picture of it? “Hotshot Sacks Teammate”…that headline would be great for the team's morale.

Joe's thoughts must have shown on his face. Dan Freeman shook his head. “Don't worry,” he said. “Liz wants to see Bayport win and Seneca lose. She'll make this a nice, upbeat story.”

He glanced at Liz and Terry and said, “It will be fine as long as she doesn't believe everything he says.”

After Dan snapped a few more shots, Liz asked him over. “I've got what I came for,” Liz said. “Now to get it off the tape and onto some paper. We still need a shot of Terry at his locker. You take care of that, then meet me at the newspaper office. Okay?”

Dan nodded. “Okay.”

Liz looked around. “Thanks for the story, guys.”

“Thank
you,
Liz,” Terry replied, still smiling.

That smile disappeared as soon as Liz Webling was out of the room. Golden sneered at Dan. “You're such a wimp, Freeman. Doing everything some girl tells you. ‘Yes, boss. Okay, boss.' ” He made his voice higher and squeakier with every word.

“She's the editor,” Dan replied, keeping his voice even. “If you don't want me to take your picture—”

“What will you use instead?” Golden interrupted. “An extra-wide shot of Fatso Morton over there?”

Chet Morton had the locker beside Joe's. Joe watched his friend's face go red as Chet pretended to be interested in buttoning his shirt.

“I suppose a camera is about all the equipment a nerd like you can handle.” Now Golden was back to insulting Dan Freeman. Still sneering, Terry lounged on the bench in front of his locker. He ran a hand through his long blond hair. “So what will it be? Full face? A profile? Just make sure you get my best side.”

“I can't,” Freeman replied.

“Why not?”

“Because you're sitting on it.”

Terry Golden shot up from the bench, ready to take a swing. Then he staggered back as the camera's flash went off in his face.

“That's a pretty good action shot,” Dan said. “But I don't think it's what Liz had in mind.”

Golden looked ready to tear the camera from Freeman's hands, but he obviously realized that wouldn't look too good. “Just do your job,” he growled.

“Fine,” Dan replied. “If you'll stand by the locker door…Lean back a little . . .”

Terry regained his golden-boy smile.

Dan took a few more pictures, then turned away. “I'd say that'll do,” he said, heading for the door.

As Terry stood facing his locker, the room became dead silent.

Except, that is, for the snicker Chet Morton couldn't keep in as he obviously recalled Dan's comment about Terry's best side.

Golden whirled to glare at Chet. “You see something funny, fat boy?”

“I—um—” A little too late Chet realized he'd made himself into a target.

“Maybe you'll think this is funny, too.” Golden snatched the damp towel from his shoulders and snapped it like a whip at Chet.

The tip of the towel caught Chet on the arm. “Ow!” he cried, his hand going to the spot.

“Hey, come on—” Joe began.

His protest was cut off by the snap of another towel aimed at Chet. This one was in the hands of Wendell Logan, a hulking linebacker.

Worse yet, Wendell was one of Chet's defensive squadmates.

“You think it's funny to have that nerd mouth off to a teammate? I guess we'll have to change your mind.”

Logan snapped his towel again, looking around. “Right, guys?”

“Yeah.” One of the players leaned past Joe, aiming his towel at Chet, too.

“Count me in,” a big tackle said, taking a shot.

Another towel flicked past Joe. Whoever took that shot didn't give any warning.

Chet stumbled away from Joe, trying to avoid the snapping towels. Joe attempted to block him from the guys on his side but got pushed away.

Terry Golden might have a big mouth and ego to match, but his teammates were backing him up. In their eyes, he was one of their own.

Caught against the lockers, Chet took another couple of shots. His face slowly went red. Joe sometimes thought that Chet was too easygoing, that he didn't have the killer instinct needed for football. But Chet could get mad. He grabbed one of the flicking towels and pulled it from his tormentor's hand.

Then another towel snapped in to nail him on the shoulder. When Chet saw who was behind this blow, he dropped his newly seized weapon.

Joe was just as surprised. Biff Hooper had
swung on Chet. Biff, who'd been Chet's friend since they were kids!

Chet's face showed a different kind of pain. All the fight went out of him—he just wanted to get away from this. Spinning around, he took a couple of blind steps. The bench set in front of the lockers caught him right beneath the knees. Chet sprawled across it to land on the floor.

Wendell Logan's laughter sounded like an animal's snarl as he came over the bench toward Chet.

Chet must have had the wind knocked out of him because he just lay where he was.

“Brace yourself, fat boy!” Logan gloated as he brought the towel back for another shot.

“I guarantee you—this one's really gonna hurt!”

The instant he heard Wendell Logan's words Joe Hardy moved. He vaulted over the bench and caught hold of the towel behind Wendell's back.

The linebacker started to swing but turned in surprise as the towel was yanked from his grasp.

“That's enough.” Joe tossed the towel to the floor.

Wendell Logan bent down, reaching to regain his weapon.

Joe pinned the towel to the floor with his foot. “I said, that's
enough!”

The big, burly Logan looked around. None of the others on the team had followed him. They were just standing in front of their lockers, staring.

Joe turned to Chet. “Let's get out of here,” he said.