The Warrior Heir (The Heir Chronicles #1)

The Warrior Heir (The Heir Chronicles #1) Page 5

“ 'Tis not for us to ask, but only to serve, admire, and desire.”

Maybe Fitch had no idea how annoying this was. Maybe. “Shut up, Fitch.”

Fitch's smile disappeared. “Dude. You're better off. Trust me.”

Jack deliberately turned his back to the stands.

There was a large turnout. Jack tried to be optimistic. He was a good player, playing midfield and forward most of the time, but he had never been a star.

"Look who wandered into tryouts. It's Jackson Downey Swift. Or is it Swift Downey Jackson? I get so confused.” The sneering voice came from behind him, but Jack knew who it was right away. Then a soccer ball hit him right between the shoulder blades. Hard.

“That's called a pass,” said Garrett Lobeck. “Better pay attention if you want to play with the men.”

Jack swung around. Lobeck had a crooked grin on his face, thinking he'd made a witty remark. He was one of four brothers, known for their good looks, bad habits, and a talent for violence on and off the field. At seventeen, Garrett was the youngest, and on pace to be the worst of the lot.

“Maybe you'd better paint your name on your butt, so Coach knows your mama's on the school board,” Lobeck went on. “That's the only way you'll make the cut.”

“I'm surprised to see you, too, Lobeck,” Jack replied. “I thought they made you ineligible after that game against Garfield last year.”

Lobeck had broken the goalie's leg on a nasty penalty play.There'd been a huge stink about it. But Lobeck was a talented running back, and his father owned half the town, so they'd let him play football in the fall. Becka had been the only member of the school board to vote against it.

Jack lifted the ball with his instep, juggled it a moment, then passed it off to Fitch. “So assault and battery is okay. Did they scrap the academic standards, too? Or are you in some kind of mainstreaming program for idiots?”

There was a kind of time delay while Lobeck processed this. The word “idiot” must have been the giveaway, because his face flushed a deep russet color and he took a step toward Jack.

Suddenly Will was there. “What's up, Lobeck? No sixth graders to pick on?” Lobeck was big, but Will was in the same weight class at least, and he was all muscle. Lobeck didn't like the new odds.

“Ease up, Childers. Don't get your shorts in a bunch.” Lobeck scowled at Jack, then trotted off down the field.

They started out doing drills, dribbling and passing, throw-ins and goal shots. Jack was standing on the sidelines, waiting his turn for the throw-in, when he heard another familiar voice behind him.

“Jackson.” She said his name in two disappointed syllables. “Aren't you even going to say hi?”

He had to turn around then, or make it plain she was getting to him. “Hi, Leesha.”

She wore a pale pink hoodie, and her masses of dark curls were pulled back in a clip. She put her hand on his arm. He stared at it, swallowing hard, trying to ignore the pulse pounding in his ears. “I still miss you sometimes, Jack.” Guileless brown eyes looked into his.

He knew better than to fall into that trap. “Sure you do, Leesha.” He thought he was managing to keep his voice light and even. He gazed off across the field, knowing without looking that she was pouting, a little frown line between her brows, her lower lip thrust out. Her hand was still on his arm.

“I'm still not sure about Garrett,” she said. “Sometimes he's so … possessive.” When Jack didn't respond, Leesha said, “Are you coming to my party?”

Jack blinked and looked down at her. “What?”

“Are you coming to my party? It's at the Lakeside Club.”

Jack's turn on the field was coming up. He removed Leesha's hand from his arm. But she grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on the cheek. A virtuous kiss, for her, but Jack reared back like he'd been burned.

“I'll send you a special invitation, Jack,” Leesha promised, letting him go.

Something made him look up, over her head, into the stands beyond. Where Ellen Stephenson stood, staring at him and Leesha. Then Ellen turned away, leaping nimbly from her seat to the ground. In a few long strides, she was at the gate, and then gone.

Swearing under his breath, he turned back toward the field—to see Garrett Lobeck glaring at him like a thundercloud come to earth.

“Swift!” It was Jack's turn. Finally. He blew the throw-in.

They began a series of scrimmages, switching off positions.

Jack rotated through fullback, midfielder and then forward. Mentally, he was a mess, but physically, he felt good, not tired at all, although he'd been constantly on the field. It was good to be outside again after the long winter. The late-afternoon sun slanted across the grass, almost blinding him when he faced into it. The field was still wet and, after an hour and a half of punishment, was getting slippery.

Jack had just accepted a long pass from Harmon Fitch, and turned to move it upfield, when suddenly his legs were swept from beneath him. He landed hard, flat on his back in the mud. It took him a moment to regain his breath. Propping himself up on his elbows, he saw Lobeck heading the other way with the ball. Lobeck: king of the sliding tackle.

Fitch helped him to his feet. “You okay, Jack?”

Jack shook off his hand. He stared after Lobeck. Maybe it was time to teach him a lesson.

Fitch noticed. “Come on, Jack. That way lies morbidity and mortality. You gotta pick your battles. Wait till there's a mathathon or something. Kick his butt.” He grinned. “If you want, I'll hack in and change his grades, but I doubt I could do much damage there.”

Jack wiped his muddy hands on his sweatshirt. Fitch was right.There was no way he'd win a fight with Lobeck. Besides, he wasn't hurt. He was soaked through, but not cold at all, despite the wind. His extremities tingled, as if his blood were returning after a long absence. He looked downfield with a sudden clarity, judging the players, mapping the obstacles in his path.

Lobeck's team had scored and kicked off. Once again, Jack's team was approaching the goal. Jack had dribbled the ball into the corner of the box when Lobeck loomed up in front of him like a wall, grinning in anticipation. Jack feinted to the left and drove for the center. He felt rather than saw Lobeck right behind him, saw his massive shape headed for him out of the corner of his eye just as he took his shot. He half turned, raising his hands, palms outward, and steeled himself for the impact.

Jack couldn't say what happened next. As his shot flew past the goalie, he extended his arms to fend off the tackle. There was a detonation at his center, and something like hot metal surged through his arms and out his fingertips. Lobeck screamed and then went flying, following the ball into the net. He hit with such force he almost bounced back out onto the field. He lay there, dazed, for a good five seconds before he slowly rolled to his stomach and got to his hands and knees. It took him another minute or two to catch his breath. Then, like an engine slowly sputtering to life, he began to swear.

“You fouled me!” he gasped, jabbing a thick finger at Jack. “You slammed me into the goal.” He was literally shaking with anger and indignation.

“I didn't touch you!” Jack was sweating, practically steaming. Still tingling, yet somehow drained. He glanced over into the stands. Leesha was leaning forward, watching avidly. Leesha might be bored by soccer, but she loved a fight.

Lobeck staggered to his feet. His entire front was layered in mud, and his lip was bleeding. “You threw me into the net!” He turned to the goalie for backup. “Didn't he?” The goalie shrugged. He had been busy trying to block Jack's shot.

Jack widened his stance and raised his hands, ready to fend off an attack. To his amazement, Lobeck flinched and stepped back a pace. And Lobeck outweighed him by fifty pounds at least.

“Give it up, Garrett,” Will said. “There was daylight between you and Jack. You must have tripped. Besides, the shot was clean away. It didn't look like you were going after the ball at all.”

Coach Slansky had followed the ball to that end of the field and stood, watching, just outside the box. Lobeck squinted at the coach, then glowered at Jack.

“All right, boys, we're done,” Slansky said. “I think I've seen all I need to see today. Besides, it looks like it's going to snow or something.”

Lobeck grabbed his gym bag and water bottle and stalked off the field. Will and Jack and several other players helped Slansky stow the equipment. The sun had slid behind the clouds, and the horizon to the west looked threatening. Will and Jack retrieved their gear from their lockers and headed for the parking lot. Leesha had disappeared.

“Funny,” said Will. “I thought it was supposed to be nice today.”

They cut between the buildings to the street. The swings pitched crazily in the wind as they passed the playground at the elementary school. The tops of the evergreens along the border of the parking lot tossed and shimmied. Bits of debris skittered along the ground. Jack shivered, feeling exposed under the boiling sky.

“Great shot, Jack.” Will was grinning. “I wish I'd had a camera. The expression on Lobeck's face was priceless.”

Jack shrugged, pulling his jacket closer around him. “I didn't really see what happened. I guess he did trip.” He scanned the street ahead, an empty tunnel under the heaving trees. A gauntlet.The flesh on his arms prickled. Why was he so jumpy? Lobeck had left before they did, but it was unlikely he would try an ambush. Not with Will around.

He glanced back over his shoulder in time to see someone emerge from between two houses and move quickly toward them, as if he were floating over the grass. Someone dressed in a long coat that flapped around his legs, too tall and spare to be Garrett Lobeck.

“Will!” Jack grabbed his friend's arm.Will turned, following his gaze. Then he grinned.

“Hey, Nick!” Will shouted. “Where'd you come from?”

And the dimensions of the stranger changed, became suddenly recognizable. There was the neatly trimmed beard, the piercing black eyes, the fringe of white hair. Why had he seemed so unfamiliar? But when Nick Snowbeard spoke, the voice was as unfamiliar as the image. “Jack!” It stung like a lash, sent him staggering backward. “Go home now and take your medicine! Hurry! Your mother is waiting for you.”