With lightning hands, the man knocked the ball loose, scooped it up on the bounce, and bellowed, “Go deep!”

Starved for company, Marcus did not have to be asked twice. He took off downfield, glancing over his shoulder.

“No—deep!”

“I’m running out of park!” Marcus shouted, but kept on going, his breath growing short. Another backward glance. The ball was on its way. Marcus broke into a full sprint. The old guy had an arm like a cannon!

He took to the air in a desperation dive. For an instant, the ball was right there on his fingertips. He had it. . . .

The ground swung up quickly and slammed him, and the pass bounced away. He lay there for a moment, hyperventilating and spitting out turf. The next thing he saw was the fifty-something-year-old, beaming and pulling him back to his feet.

“Way to miss everything.”

“You overthrew me a little,” Marcus said, defending himself.

The man plucked the ball off the grass. “You couldn’t catch a cold, Mac.”

“It’s Marcus,” he amended. “And you are . . . ?”

The old guy scowled. “Your worst nightmare if you don’t quit pulling my chain.”

Marcus flushed. “What should I call you?”

“Try Charlie, stupid. Heads!” He punted the ball straight up in the air.

The kick was very high, silhouetted against the cobalt blue sky, tiny and soaring.

Marcus was instantly on board, shuffling first one way and then the other as he tried to predict where it would come down. For some reason, it was very important to make this catch, especially since he’d screwed up the other one. It was his natural competitiveness, but there was something more. This Charlie character might be weird, but his enthusiasm had sucked Marcus in.

The ball plunged down, and Marcus gathered it into his arms.

Something hit him. The impact was so jarring, so unexpected, that there was barely time to register what was happening. It was Charlie—he’d rammed a rock-hard shoulder into Marcus’s sternum and dropped him where he stood. The ball squirted loose, but Marcus wasn’t even aware of it. He lay like a stone on the grass, ears roaring, trying to keep from throwing up his breakfast.

Gasping, he scrambled to his feet, squaring off against his companion. “What was that for?”

“I love the pop! Sometimes you actually hear it go pop!”

“That was the sound of my head coming off,” Marcus muttered.

“Come on, you here to play or what?” Charlie tucked the ball under one arm and charged forward like a freight train, picking up speed.