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“Or your mom will if she catches you,” Brian said.
“Right.” Abraham’s voice turned nasty. “Like she’d ever notice. Besides, I get ’em from her.”
“She knows you smoke?” Blake’s voice held something akin to admiration, setting off Kirk’s internal warning system.
“Sure.” There was a lot of bravado in the answer. And then, “Hey, you guys ever seen a Playboy magazine?”
“Who hasn’t?” Blake asked with enough bluster to reveal it as a lie.
Kirk, sensing that Abraham wasn’t nearly as innocent as the Smith twins, decided it was time to make his entrance. He wasn’t going to have Valerie’s boys led astray right under his nose. Moving quietly to the door that lead from the gym, he swung it open, banging it against the outer wall.
“Hey, guys,” he said cheerfully, coming around the corner.
The boys had all changed back into street clothes, jeans and sweaters. Kirk was still wearing the sweats, T-shirt and tennis shoes he’d had on for practice.
“Coach.” All three boys stood a little taller.
“How’s your stomach, Blake?”
The dark-haired boy started, then looked away guiltily. “Fine.”
“You tell your mom about it yet?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Brian’s face, as he listened to the exchange, was pinched.
“You think something’s wrong with him?” he asked Kirk.
“Probably nothing serious yet, but if it’s not taken care of, it could be.”
“See, Blake! I told you to tell Mom.”
The boys shared a look heavy with an unspoken and weighty message. Adopting a bored posture, Abraham watched them. But he didn’t manage to camouflage the interested glint in his eye.
“She’s got enough to worry about,” Blake said, turning worried green eyes on Kirk.
“You won’t tell, will you?”
Abraham looked away.
Kirk had mastered the subtle art of answering with nei
ther truth nor lie long before he’d reached the age of these boys. Evasion. Prevarication. Distraction. In his former life, an indirect response was second nature.
“I’m hoping you will,” he told the boy. “You’re a good player, Blake. But skill is only part of it. You have a contract with this team, and with yourself, to be the best athlete you can be. That contract includes maintaining your equipment. Your shoes. Your uniform. And your body.”
Blake stared down at the floor. “Yes, sir.”
“How about you?” He looked at Brian next. “Are you eating three meals a day?”
“No, Coach.” The words were mumbled, and Kirk wrestled with a mixture of compassion and frustration.
“You’re working harder than any other boy here,” he told Brian. “If you’d put even a tenth of that determination into your diet, you’d be on the team.”
“There’s no spot open.”
The boy had him there.
