Touchdown (14 page)

Clayton Harper straightened up and grimly headed back to the locker room. He had a game to win.

Clay had joined the rest of his team stretching when Goldie's spirit awoke. “Charlie did say there'd be times we were both awake, I just didn't expect it so soon.”

Clay looked around and saw his teammates stretching. He briefly wondered where the girl who had just spoken was but when he didn't see anyone, he continued to stretch.

“Wow. That's crazy,” she said aloud, though the voice was Clay's. “I was never able to do this pose before when I took yoga!”

All the football players looked at Clay questioningly.

“You take yoga?” Austin chortled.

“What? No!” Clay replied.

Goldie interrupted. “Yeah, totally. There's this really great studio in the city. Way better than the one on Central—that one's totally infested with rats. Ew! Can you believe it?”

Coach looked suspiciously at Clay. “You all right, Clay? You don't seem yourself.”

“Yeah, I'm good,” Clay answered. “I gotta take a leak. Be right back.”

Clay stared at himself incredulously in the mirror. “What is going on?” he asked his reflection, as a misty, familiar face of a young woman stared back at him.

The image in the mirror winked, then spoke to Clay in his head. “I'm Goldie. Remember me? I need to borrow your body. Sorry, but we probably don't have time for your little game.”

Clay blinked at his reflection. Just stress, he thought. “I know you. From that heaven dream I had after I got smashed with Carolyn.”

Goldie smiled. “Yeah. So it wasn't a dream after all. We were both in some sort of limbo.”

Clay shuddered. “So what are you doing here?”

“I just have to borrow you for a bit.”

“Huh?” Clay broke out in a sweat. “You're kidding, right?”

“No, I'm dead serious. But don't worry; I don't take up much space. Take it easy,” Goldie said. She nodded toward a box of bagels on a bench that had been donated to the team. “I haven't had one of those in a while,” she said as she shifted Clay's body and grabbed a poppy bagel and had him eat it. “Oh, heavenly,” she murmured, and then took another one. “And you can take the weight! I could get used to this!”

Clay ate the bagel. “Take it easy? I'm staring at the reflection of a girl in the mirror who is getting me to eat half a dozen poppy bagels in one sitting. I must be going insane!”

“You want to know what's insane? Years of denying myself poppy bagels.” She continued to eat them. “Trying to maintain my weight was insane.”

Clay shook his head. “Would you cut that out? You've already had four.”

Goldie sighed. “It would be better with lox. You haven't lived if you haven't eaten bagel with lox. And a schmear of cream cheese. But this will have to do. One more?”

“Fine,” Clay said. “One more bagel and that's it. I'm under a lot of pressure here.”

Goldie finished bagel number five. “You know what I do when I get stressed.”

“All right,” Clay muttered. “Let me guess. You shop?”

The girl in the mirror shook her head, her chocolate curls bouncing as she moved. Clay's head involuntarily shook along with hers. He grasped his head, forcing it still.

“No, Claybear, shopping is my avocation. For stress—” She paused dramatically. “I dance.” She proceeded to waltz around the white bathroom tiles as Clay's heavy steps echoed her movements. “Wow, what great acoustics,” Goldie noted.

Clay began to panic. “All right, why are you doing this? When are you going to leave my body?”

Goldie wrinkled her nose. “I know you're a jock, but really? I'm possessing you, obviously. I'm a dybbuk. In Jewish mythology that's a spirit that occupies another body and—”

Clay frowned. “Get out of my head! Stop possessing me!” He grasped the edges of the metal counters, his fingers white. “I've got a big game coming up soon and this one could seal the deal if any agents want to sign me. I have to win this game. I don't need you distracting me.”

“Who cares about a dumb game?”

“What?” Clay yelled. “Football is not a dumb game! I have a lot of people counting on me, and my whole future is at stake!”

Goldie shrugged. “But you invited me to try living your life—so I'm not about to leave now.”

“Well, why are you appearing now?”

“Usually one of us had to be sleeping, but I think I've been getting stronger—or just adjusting to your body—and now we can both be awake at the same time.”

“Look, the game is starting in a few minutes . . . ”

“Excuse me, Clay. Remember when you almost died? You told me you couldn't take all of life's pressures and were ambivalent about returning, and I told you I'd be happy to have it. You then told me that I should try being you.”

“Well I changed my mind. I live for my team. I owe them.” Clay sighed. “We can work this out soon, but give me space to just finish this game. Everyone's depending on me.”

“Listen, Mister Football Hotshot. My evil witch arch-nemesis is planning on bewitching my fiancé by the end of the week at which point I will be judged in heaven, and my sister is wallowing in grief. I need your body to get to New York! I don't care about your game!” Goldie shrieked hysterically.

“Get out of my head!” Clay slammed his fist onto the metal lockers. “It's not just a game,” he responded. “It's football!”

Coach curiously peered into the bathroom. “Clay, you giving yourself a pep talk or something? We're out on the field in ten,” he said. “I thought your shoulder was good enough to play?”

“It is,” Clay said gruffly and shook out his body awkwardly. “Sorry about that.”

When Coach left, Clay stared into the mirror. “Listen, lady. I'm sorry about your fiancé and the bad witch and Rumpelstiltskin and the Cowardly Lion. Find someone else to embarrass, will you?”

She shook her finger at the mirror, channeling her parental stance. “You have some nerve! What chutzpah! A deal's a deal!”

“Look, I don't care about that deal right now and—”

One of Clay's teammates, Rico, entered the bathroom and headed for a stall, startling Clay. “Damn, Clay” He paused. “Those pain meds make you crazy? Who you talking to in here?”

“Wow, you've got really broad shoulders,” Clay found himself saying. “Wooo. Can I feel that bulging bicep?”

“No, man!” Rico punched Clay in the gut. “Dude! Wake up! You're not acting like yourself!”

Clay coughed. “Did I just say that out loud?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Goldie continued. “You know you're so lucky to have eyes like that insane color that's not quite blue and not quite green. If I was doing a summer wedding, those would be my colors, for sure.”

Rico backed up. “Dude, you're really freaking me out.”

Clay coughed. “Uh, yeah. It's just pain meds. For the shoulder. Don't sweat it bro, I'm cool. I mean I'll be acting weird, but I'm good. Yeah.” Clay didn't know who needed more convincing—his teammate or himself.

Clay managed to keep it together until Rico left, and then he said, “Crazy-lady? You still there?” He noticed that his jaw was clenched—again.

“Of course, stud muffin. I might not have an actual body but I'm persistent. It's Goldie, by the way. I told you, my name is Goldie. And I really need you to stop this wedding from happening. I won't leave you until we do!”

Clay sighed. “How exactly are we going to pull that off?”

“We'll figure it out.”

“Hey, if I agree to help you—do you promise you'll leave me alone?”

“Yeah, Clay. But we need to get to New York within the week.”

“Fine. I'll help you. Just let me play this next game, all right?”

Goldie sulked. “All right.”

“Great,” Clay said, relieved. “Okay, Coach is gonna pep us up now. Try not to open my mouth, if you can manage that?”

• • •

“Clay!” Goldie screamed. “Watch out!”

Clay dropped the ball.

“Geez, Goldie, you screwed up the play!”

“But that huge guy was chasing you! I was just warning you.”

“Just be quiet, Goldie—this is football! It's not supposed to be neat.”

Goldie whimpered as Coach shouted from the sidelines, “Clayton Harper, what the hell was that? Stay focused!”

“Yeah, that's real easy when you have a crazy lady in your head interfering with your game,” he muttered to himself.

“I heard that,” Goldie said. “Listen, Clay, we need to get to New York . . . ”

“Can you let me play my game?!”

“Clay! This is terrifying. I can't handle this!” Goldie squealed.

“Well, maybe you should've thought about that before possessing me!”

“OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG!” Goldie's shrill voice rang in Clay's head so hard that he saw spots. He dodged and ducked. He saw the ball. Almost there . . .

“That guy must weigh three hundred pounds!” she yelled. “He's gonna jump on you!”

“All right! Be still!” Clay commanded as he ran.

“OMG OMG OMG! They're ALL going to jump you!”

A Yellow Jacket slammed Clay into the turf. He smelled burning pine and leaped up.

“Shut it, Goldie! Right now.”

“Oh my God! This is scarier than how I look without makeup!”

Clay focused on the ball. Rico signaled. He ran as the air whipped through his helmet.

“Clay!” Goldie shouted. “Run this way! This way! Yeah!”

“Goldie. Be. Quiet. NOW!” he yelled, distracted. The ball. Where is it? He shifted, searching . . .

“No! That way! That way! Yeah!” Goldie shrieked.

“Goldie!” Clay winced, out of breath, as his opponents ran after him.

“Tase him! Tase him!”

“Hush!”

“God in heaven above—help!”

Clay grit his teeth and moved ahead as he found himself screaming those last words. His teammates stared at him, confused. Rico squinted at him, perplexed, and was promptly bowled over. Goldie, in her terror, started hopping around the field, trying to evade the hulking players. Clay struggled for control of his body. The crowd roared, teeming with excitement.

“Goldie—I said I'd help you. I just need to focus now!” The bright lights burned in his brain, he tried to concentrate on the move, but Goldie's hysterical shouting made him dizzy. The crowd stomped their feet at Clay, their faces blending together. Overwhelmed, he saw a distant brown spot.

“Focus?” Goldie hyperventilated. “They're going to kill you! And I need you!”

The players rushed at him as he ran with the ball.

“How can you play this crazy game?”

“This is my life!”

“Well, you should've gone into accounting!”

He saw Rico and knew he had to throw him the ball as the opposing team tried to block him and the crowd waited to see what he'd do. Time stopped as Clay reached out to throw the ball. “Ah!” He wound his arm back, ready to give it his best shot.

The crowd yelled as Yellow Jackets rushed toward Clay.

Goldie, terrified, let out a shriek, distracting Clay long enough to throw the ball—straight toward a Yellow Jacket who intercepted it.

The crowd went wild.

His team lost the game.

The locker room after the game was silent, as the football players slowly peeled off their uniforms, wincing as they felt their bruises and scrapes. The faded lockers slammed shut, their harsh sound echoing in the stillness. Clay busied himself with his cleats, hastily pulling at the red mud clots on his shoelaces.

The disappointment was tangible in the air. Someone clapped his shoulder forcefully. Clay winced at the pain and slowly looked up to meet the coach's eyes.

“Swell job out there,” Coach said, and bared his teeth in some semblance of a smile. He stomped to his office and slammed the door.

Clay still heard the shouts of his teammates and the jeering of the crowd. He still saw the play, no matter how hard he closed his eyes. He remembered all of the abandoned Bullfrog posters left on the abandoned bleachers, trampled and forgotten.

His teammates avoided looking at him. Only Thomas Booth, who had always hated Clay for beating him out for being Coach's favorite, stared boldly at Clay, as if he was challenging him. Booth clenched his jaw, his fist slammed against the locker with a final metallic clang.

Clay wasn't sad as much as angry. Peeved. He kicked off his cleats, ignoring the pain shooting everywhere throughout his body, and grabbed a towel. He would not meet any of their eyes, and slammed the locker room door.

Only Clayton Harper would be unlucky enough to have an annoying dybbuk—or whatever she was—possess him on the night of the biggest game of his life.

The only sound he heard was of his flip-flops on the cold stone floor. The silence was strange, but Clay understood. He was now a fallen king, a disgrace. They had placed their hope on him, and he had proved himself a waste of time.

His dad was waiting for him outside the locker room in the hallway. Stragglers from the game passed, shooting Clay backward glances. His dad straightened from where he'd stood by the wall, and carefully tucked his glasses into his shirt pocket.

“Clay, you've embarrassed me,” his dad said. His hard eyes glared at him, cut him like glass.

Clay stared at the crushed popcorn and empty soda cans that littered the hallway. Fluorescent lights flickered above. “I'm sorry, Dad. I know I messed up big time.”

His dad just turned away, slowly shaking his head. “Don't call me that. Right now, you're not my son.”

Clay wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He wanted to disappear into the hallway, be swallowed up by the dark shadows. He wanted to shout, “Is that all you love about me, Dad? That I can catch a ball?” But of course he didn't.