Chapter 35: Human Roadblock

Greenwood had gym class once a week.

The boys played football on the south half of the field, while the girls did calisthenics and walked on the north.

The only thing separating the two areas was a chalk line about two fingers wide. A gust of wind would scatter the powder, making it as good as nonexistent.

Richard's usual gym class routine was to move as little as humanly possible.

His old body would wheeze like a broken bellows after two laps, lowering the gym teacher's expectations to a silent understanding:

"Sit on the sidelines, don't get heatstroke, don't pass out, and don't make me write an incident report, and we're even."

Richard was more than happy to cooperate.

Every class, he found a shady spot by the field, read a few pages, and occasionally looked up to watch his classmates running around.

He had planned to do exactly that today.

He had From the Sanctuary to the Pulpit tucked in his bag, figuring he could use the period to read a few pages.

But the plan was interrupted.

About ten minutes into the match, Hugh was dribbling down the right flank when a burly boy from the opposing team slide-tackled him.

It wasn't a malicious foul; the boy was simply half a beat too slow to pull his leg back.

Hugh rolled over and crouched by the sideline, clutching his left knee with a twisted expression.

"Are you okay?" Richard looked up from his book.

"My knee hit the ground... it hurts like hell." Hugh winced. "Help me ask Mr. Thompson for leave."

Before Richard could even ask, Warren came jogging over from the pitch.

His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his expression set with sheer, relentless determination.

"Fenton is out? Then we're short a man."

His gaze landed on Richard.

Richard shook his head.

"Come on." Warren bent down and hauled him up by the arm.

"Just stand in the back. If the ball comes, kick it away. Don't worry about anything else."

"I don't play football."

"Just play this once as a favor."

"I—"

"Please, the other team has an extra man. Our defense is leaking like a sieve."

Warren had already half-dragged, half-hauled him to his feet.

Behind them, Hugh clutched his knee and gave him a thumbs-up, silently telling him to go and avenge him.

Richard was shoved onto the pitch.

From the sideline, Mr. Thompson glanced at him and frowned, likely calculating whether the kid would pass out the moment he stepped onto the grass.

But he didn't stop them, simply blowing his whistle to resume the match.

Richard stood in the right corner of his team's half.

Warren had assigned him a tiny zone about five paces long and three paces wide—roughly the size of a parking space.

"Just guard this spot. If the ball comes, kick it away. If it doesn't, just stand here. Don't run around."

Richard accepted his role as a "human roadblock."

For the first few minutes, there really wasn't anything to do.

The ball went back and forth in the midfield. Even when it occasionally flew his way, it was a high pass that soared over his head before someone else intercepted it.

He even grew a little bored and started taking in his surroundings.

The chalk line at the edge of the field had been trampled into a broken streak. On the other side of it, the girls were lined up doing calisthenics.

The female instructor leading them had a booming voice, shouting the beat loud enough for the whole street to hear.

The second group of girls finished their exercises and began walking along the edge of the field in twos and threes to cool down.

Lillian walked shoulder-to-shoulder with two other girls in the outermost lane, closest to the boys' pitch.

She wore a sports skirt that revealed a stretch of pale calves. Her steps were small but fell in a steady, even rhythm.

The three girls were whispering about something, occasionally letting out a laugh.

It happened fifteen minutes into the match.

Warren received the ball in the midfield and dribbled past two opponents.

Riding the momentum, he took a long shot from about thirty paces out.

He used too much force, and the angle was completely off.

Spinning wildly, the football sailed wide of the goal and shot straight toward the girls' side of the chalk line.

In that exact direction, Lillian was walking with her back turned.

The ball was roughly chest-high and spinning so fast it hummed as it cut through the air.

It was only five or six paces away from her.

Warren was already shouting, "Look out!"

Mr. Thompson was on the other side of the field, the whistle at his lips but no time to blow it.

The two girls beside Lillian saw the ball's trajectory and shrieked, scattering to the sides.

Lillian herself hadn't reacted yet, her pace only just beginning to slow at the shout.

Richard moved on instinct.

In the past, his legs had been weak and his reflexes sluggish; his body would lag for half a second before carrying out an intention.

But the enhanced coordination from breaking through to Newcomer showed itself in this exact moment.

He didn't hesitate. Channeling ether to strengthen his legs, he cut laterally across the grass.

The angle of his first step was exact, slicing directly into the ball's flight path.

As his second step landed, his center of gravity shifted completely, and his right foot rose in one fluid motion.

Just before the ball slammed into the girl's back, he lightly tapped it with the outside of his boot.

There was no dramatic swing, nor any real technical skill involved. It was purely a matter of exact angle and timing.

The football's trajectory shifted as its original spin stacked with the new torque from the tap.

The ball curved back toward the pitch, dropping right at Warren's feet.

Warren stood frozen in place as the football bounced twice against his shoes.

"...My ball?"

Startled by the shout, Lillian turned around.

Her two classmates had retreated to either side, the lingering shock still written across their faces.

She followed their gazes and looked behind her.

Richard stood two paces away, his left shoelace untied.

A faint flush colored his cheeks, and the wind had ruffled his brown hair.

"...What happened?" Lillian asked.

"Warren kicked it wide," Richard said, crouching down to tie his shoe.

"Did it hit me?"

"No."

Over on the pitch, Warren was waving his hands frantically, chanting, "Sorry, sorry, sorry," his face an equal mix of guilt and relief.

She glanced down at Richard, who was still crouching on the ground.

"Thank you."

Richard finished tying his shoe and stood up, brushing loose grass off his pant leg.

"It's nothing."

Lillian turned and walked back into the girls' area, her steps a little faster than usual.

Her two friends quickly closed in on her, chattering from both sides.

One kept glancing back toward the boys' pitch, while the other covered her mouth to hide a smile.

The tips of Lillian's ears turned red, and she fiercely elbowed the smiling girl.

...

The news spread faster than the football had flown.

There were thirty or forty eyewitnesses on the field, and once everyone scattered into their respective social circles, the story began to ferment.

The initial version was fairly true to the facts: "Richard ran over and blocked a ball for Lillian."

By the second circle, it had morphed into: "Richard rushed out and kicked the ball back, dropping it perfectly at Warren's feet."

The third circle: "Richard dove through the air and knocked the ball back with a bicycle kick."

By the fourth circle, the rumor had entirely escaped the gravity of reality:

"Richard sprinted from halfway across the pitch and chest-trapped the ball the exact second it touched Lillian."

By lunchtime, the cafeteria was livelier than usual, with several tables buzzing about the incident.

Warren slammed his tray onto the table and started defending himself before he even sat down.

"First of all, I need to clarify that I didn't kick it wide. I slipped. There was mud on the ground."

"Give it a rest, it already happened." Mason, on the other hand, was far more interested in the guy who intercepted the ball.

"Speaking of which, Richard's kick looked like something straight out of Stanfield."

Warren shoved a piece of potato into his mouth.

"You always just sit on the sidelines reading during gym class. Since when are your reflexes so fast?"

"My health has been a bit better lately."

"Better enough to run that fast? You couldn't even walk a lap around the field before."

"Before, I couldn't understand a Latin conjugation table either." Richard took a sip of hot tea.

That shut Warren up.

But Mason refused to drop the subject, slapping the table.

"Seriously, if you joined the team, I think you'd make a great fullback.

"Fast reflexes, accurate positioning. Your stamina is a bit lacking, but..."

"I'm not playing," Richard refused flat out.

"Why not?"

"It's easy to get hurt in a match. My health just started improving; it's not worth it."

"...Good point."