Payback Time (4 page)

"I like candid shots," Kimi said. "Real life, not faked."

He pulled the ball down. "You're the photographer." He turned to me. "Fire away."

The night before, I'd come up with oddball questions that would make him squirm. My best was
If you were a girl, what guy on the team would you want to date?

I'd had fun dreaming up those questions, but with two hundred pounds of Horst muscle standing in front of me, I fell back on the regular stuff. What goals had he set for himself? For the team? What areas did he need to improve?

The answers were the usual yawners. He needed to improve every part of his game. Personal goals would take care of themselves if the team did well. Blah, blah, blah.

While Horst blathered on, Kimi wandered off. As soon as she was out of earshot, Horst nudged me. "She looks fit, doesn't she? I'd like to be part of her workout routine, if you get my meaning." He laughed, but when I didn't join in, he stopped.

I asked a few more standard questions, and then sucked up my courage for one of my out-of-the-box questions. "What scares you, Horst? What really, really scares you?"

His face went blank, and then he shrugged. "That's a dumb question. Why would anything scare me?"

I looked at him. Athletic, handsome, popular, and rich. He was right: it had been a dumb question. "All right," I said. "That does it."

As I closed my notebook, a strange thing happened. Horst reached out, rested his hand on my shoulder, and looked me in the eye. "Mitch, I want you to know, you need an interview or a quote, you call me, day or night. I'm never too busy for the press. You understand? I mean—we're friends, right?"

"Sure we're friends."

Then he squeezed my shoulder before jogging off to join his teammates.

I hated myself. I mean—how weak was that? For years the guy blows me off, and then—when he needs me to get his name in the newspaper—he gives me a phony smile, and I lick his fingers like a homeless puppy.

Kimi had gone across the field over to the children's play area. She'd taken off her shoes and was sitting on the edge of the wading pool, dangling her toes in the water. I trudged over, and she turned to me, her mouth drawn tight. "I don't know how you can stand talking to him. Just because he's got a great body, he thinks the whole world will swoon over him. We can't feature Horst, Mitch. I don't think I can get my camera to focus on him."

I felt beads of sweat forming under my arms. "But, if he's the best—"

"Who's that?" she said, her finger pointing toward a guy wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey. He was playing catch with some man in a Seahawks sweatshirt—an older brother or friend, probably—way off in a corner of the practice field.

"I don't know."

"He wasn't here last year; I'd have noticed him. He's pretty good, isn't he?"

I've watched enough games to recognize a player with a great arm, and the kid Kimi pointed out was zinging the ball like an NFL quarterback. His passes had so much zip, I half expected to see jets of flame behind them. He had the size of an NFL quarterback, too. I'd guess six three and 220.

I looked over to the main practice field. Horst was passing the ball to his old buddy Lenny Westwood. I watched Horst throw, and then turned back to the kid wearing the Eagles jersey. The new guy looked bigger and stronger. With that arm, he'd bring a deep threat to the offense. A tingle ran up and down my spine. Could Horst lose his starting job?

A shrill blast on a whistle was followed by McNulty's voice through a bullhorn. "Everyone over here." The new guy threw one more frozen rope before trotting toward McNulty. Kimi turned back to me. "Let's interview him later. I bet he's got a story."

W
E CLIMBED TO THE TOP
of a little hill to watch practice. The players were in shorts with no helmets. McNulty had them running forward, backwards, sideways left, sideways right. Then they'd do push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, stretches, run through tires, run through ropes, hit tackling sleds. "Well," Kimi said after a while. "What do you think?"

"About what?"

"About interviewing the guy wearing the number five jersey."

"It's a good idea, Kimi, but we can't just go talk to him."

"Why not?"

"Because we've got to check with McNulty first."

"Why?"

"Coaches control access to their players."

She held the camera up to her face, and then handed it to me. "Mitch, look at his eyes."

I focused the camera and then used the zoom to pull in close.

"Do you see it?" she said.

"See what?"

"The haunted look. His eyes are old and sad. He's lived through more than anybody else out there."

I peered through the camera. I tried to see a
haunted look,
but I don't know what
haunted
looks like. He did look old, though. I'd have guessed he was twenty-two or twenty-three if I hadn't known he was in high school. I handed back the camera. "Sometime I'll ask McNulty if we can interview him," I said.

"Ask him now, Mitch."

"I can't interrupt practice," I protested.

As if on cue, McNulty blew his whistle. "Water break. Ten minutes." Then he climbed down from his makeshift coaching tower and walked toward his assistant coaches.

"Come on," Kimi said, and before I could answer, she broke into a jog to intercept him. But a jog for her is a sprint for me. For the millionth time, I told myself that I had to lose weight.

"Coach," she yelled when we got within ten feet of McNulty.

He stopped and turned around. "What?"

I was panting so hard I couldn't speak. Kimi saw me gasping. "Mitch wants to interview the guy wearing the number five jersey."

McNulty looked at me. "Why?"

I'd caught my breath a little. "He was throwing off to the side," I panted. "And he's got an NFL arm. He throws harder than Horst."

McNulty stared at me as if I were from outer space. "Harder than Horst? Like an NFL quarterback?"

I felt like a foolish five-year-old, but I plunged on. "Have him throw for you. You'll see."

McNulty looked up at the sky, disgust on his face. "One hour and the kid knows more than I do about my own team."

I didn't back down. "Just—"

"You, the guy wearing the Philly jersey" McNulty's voice boomed out, interrupting me. "Come over here. Coby Eliot, you come too."

The two players trotted over to where we were standing. McNulty looked toward Kimi and me. My face and neck flashed hot and red, which always happens when I get excited.

"What's your name, son?" McNulty asked Number Five.

"Angel Marichal," came the whispered answer. Up close, he seemed even bigger.

"Where you from, Angel?"

"Houston."

"You play football last year?"

"I got cut. It was a big school."

McNulty shot me a look, then turned back to Marichal.

"What's your position, Marichal?"

"Linebacker."

"Ever play quarterback?"

He shook his head. "No, sir."

McNulty nodded toward me. "This guy thinks you throw the ball like a professional quarterback."

Angel shook his head. "I'm not a quarterback," he repeated.

"Throw a few for me anyway," McNulty said.

Angel shrugged, and then stepped off to the side to play catch with Coby Eliot. I looked at Kimi, and her dark eyes glittered with excitement. Maybe Angel didn't know how good he was, but we did. Soon McNulty would know, too.

Coby Eliot stood about twenty-five yards from Angel Marichal. Angel cocked his arm, and I waited for the ball to sizzle through the summer air, waited for McNulty's eyebrows to go up, waited for him to look at Kimi and me with respect.

Only the ball didn't sizzle. It looped, high in the air. It wobbled off to the right. Eliot ran under it, caught it, and flung it back. Again Marichal threw. Again a pathetic moon-ball drifted in the general direction of Eliot. A third pass, a fourth, a fifth. All moon shots.

"That's enough," McNulty said. "Go on, get back with the other guys."

Eliot and Marichal trotted off; McNulty wheeled on me. "Like an NFL pro?"

"He threw a hundred times better before," I mumbled, feeling ridiculous. "A thousand times."

McNulty scowled. "The next time you discover the second coming of Joe Montana, call ESPN. Don't bother me again. Understand?"

"We still want to interview him," Kimi insisted. "He's a fresh face."

"Well, you're not interviewing him," McNulty barked.

"Why not?" Kimi persisted.

"Because I've got twenty-two seniors on this team who've busted their butts for Lincoln for three years. Angel, or whatever the hell his name is, hasn't finished his first practice. You write about those guys and then talk to me about a new guy." With that, McNulty spun around and headed back to his assistants.

I turned to Kimi. "You want to go?"

"I haven't taken pictures of Horst yet," she said, her voice trembling.

We returned to our spot on the grassy hill and sat looking down at the practice field as McNulty and his assistants ran the players through more drills. Kimi trained her camera on Horst and snapped photo after photo, but I kept my eyes glued on Angel Marichal.

In every drill, Angel was mediocre, which made no sense. There was no way Kimi and I had imagined those bullet passes or the natural athleticism. I leaned back on my elbows and chewed on a blade of grass.

Something was missing. Mr. Dewey always told us to look for just this situation. He said that a reporter's job is to find that missing piece. This wasn't a big, earthshaking, terrorist story like Melissa Watts had had her hands on. But it was a story.

"What's wrong?" Kimi said, pulling the camera away from her face.

I nodded toward the field. "Angel. He's not really trying."

McNulty had the players doing shuttle runs, checking their quickness. Angel was constantly adjusting his speed, making sure he stayed near the middle of the pack. Kimi watched, and then turned to me. "You're right. And he's not very good at faking." She paused. "Why would you try out for a team and then not try?"

"I don't know, but he's got a story. And before the season is over, we're going to get it."

As soon as I finished my little speech, I felt dumb. Who did I think I was—some big-time CNN reporter? I peeked at Kimi. I was afraid she'd be laughing at me, but she wasn't, and I liked her even more.

K
IMI TOOK PHOTOS
for another ten minutes, and then put the lens cap on her camera. "You have time to go to Peet's?" Peet's is a coffee shop in Fremont, the trendiest neighborhood in Seattle. I gaped, speechless. She wanted to go to Peet's with me? "Or do you have stuff to do?"

"I work, but not until the afternoon. Peet's sounds great."

Ten minutes later Kimi was ordering Chai tea. I wanted a large mocha with whipped cream, but I ordered tea. I nodded toward the chocolate biscotti in the glass jar on the counter. "You want one?"

She shook her head. "I just ate breakfast."

Just ate breakfast!
I thought.
That was two hours ago.

What I said was "I'm not hungry either."

From an upstairs counter, we looked out the window and watched people strolling along Fremont Avenue, some stopping to browse in the music shop or one of the vintage clothes shops. Most were in their twenties, and none seemed as if they were headed to work or school. Seeing them drifting about in the late morning would have driven my dad crazy. Delivery drivers were always quitting on him. I could almost hear him: "
Young people just don't know the meaning of work.
"

Kimi stirred one packet of sugar into her tea. "I want to help out with the Angel story. You'll need photos, won't you?"

"Yeah. If there really is a story."

She sipped her tea. "He's got a story. I can see it in his eyes. He's gone through something." She put her cup down. "Where do we begin?"

"The way to do this," I said, feeling my way as I spoke, "is to brainstorm. Get all our ideas out and then sort the good from the bad."

She nodded. "Okay. Let's start with what we know. First, we know Angel is new to Seattle. Second, we know he's from Houston. And third, we know he got cut from his school's football team last year."

"I don't buy the last one. I don't care how big his high school was. With his size, he'd make the team."

Kimi considered. "Maybe he made the team but got kicked off for drugs or alcohol. Maybe he's pretending to be mediocre so McNulty won't check on his past."

"That's possible, but there's another possibility, too."

"What?"

"He could be cheating."

"Cheating? How?"

"You heard about that kid in the Little League World Series?"

"No. Tell me."

"Danny something. It happened years ago. He claimed he was twelve but he was really sixteen. He was a pitcher, and he struck out everybody. When he got caught, his team had to forfeit their title. Maybe Angel Marichal screwed up somewhere and now he's trying to sneak in one more year of high school football even though he's not eligible. "

"But if that's Angel's story, wouldn't he want to be a star? He wouldn't come back, play poorly at practice, and end up sitting on the bench, would he?"

"Probably not," I admitted.

We fell silent. Kimi finished her tea; I let the bottom inch of mine go cold.

"Okay, we're done brainstorming. What's next?" she asked.

"Now we start investigating. I'll Google him, then follow up whatever I get."

S
PENDING TIME WITH KIMI,
having a story to investigate—all of that was good. What wasn't good was the way I'd huffed and puffed to keep up with her as she'd chased down McNulty.

Lots of times I'd come up with a plan for getting into shape—diet or exercise or both—but after a week or so, I'd stop. I'd tell myself that I'd start up again in a month, but that
now
just wasn't the right time.

But now
was
the right time. Kimi made it the right time. We'd be covering boys' football and girls' volleyball together, and other sports later in the year. What had Alyssa said—that I wasn't such a bad guy? I was almost certain Kimi didn't have a boyfriend, that she hung out in a group, not with one guy.