The Limp
The late October sun hung over Oak Creek High School like a burning coin, turning the artificial football field into a shimmering sea of green.
Coach Brian Matthews stood at midfield with his whistle hanging from his neck.
For twelve years, he had coached football at Oak Creek.
He had seen broken fingers, torn ligaments, concussions, dislocated shoulders, and boys who cried because they thought their season was over.
But he had also learned something that had nothing to do with football.
He had learned how to recognize fear.
And right now, he was looking directly at it.
“Again!” Brian shouted.
The freshmen lined up.
Cody Sullivan took his position.
He was fifteen years old, thin even for his age, with narrow shoulders and a stubborn determination that had made Brian notice him during tryouts.
Cody wasn't the fastest player.
He wasn't the strongest.
But he never quit.
He arrived before everyone else and stayed after practice to pick up equipment.
That was why Brian had started to worry.
On Monday, Cody had walked with a slight hesitation in his right leg.
On Tuesday, it had become a limp.
By Wednesday, he was dragging his foot.
And by Friday, every step seemed to cost him something.
“Run the slant!” Brian shouted.
Cody exploded off the line.
Three steps.
Four.
Then his right leg buckled.
He caught himself before falling.
The other players laughed.
Brian didn't.
“Sullivan!”
Cody froze.
“Get over here.”
Cody slowly limped toward him.
His helmet was pulled low over his face.
“What happened to your leg?” Brian asked.
“Nothing, Coach.”
“Nothing?”
“I just twisted it on the stairs.”
Brian stared at him.
“You've been walking like that for five days.”
“I can play.”
“No.”
Cody's eyes suddenly widened.
“No, Coach. Please.”
Brian lowered his voice.
“I'm benching you. Go see the trainer.”
Cody shook his head violently.
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“I just can't.”
Brian followed Cody's frightened gaze.
Twenty yards away stood Trent Harris and Weston Cole.
Trent was the son of one of the richest developers in the county.
Weston was his six-foot-three shadow.
They were laughing.
And they were watching Cody.
Brian's stomach tightened.
“Cody,” he said quietly, “what aren't you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“Look at me.”
Cody didn't.
Brian had coached long enough to know when a kid was lying because he was embarrassed.
This wasn't embarrassment.
This was terror.
“Hit the showers,” Brian said. “Now.”
Cody nodded.
But before he turned away, Brian caught the expression on his face.
It was the expression of a boy who desperately wanted someone to save him.
And a boy who had already convinced himself that nobody would.
The Bruises
The locker room was almost empty thirty minutes later.
Brian was finishing paperwork when he heard a sharp gasp.
He stepped out of his office.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
He walked between the rows of lockers.
Then he saw Cody.