Free The Prophet by Michael Koryta Page B

running plays an opponent used on first down? Or maybe how often they passed out of a specific formation? Just click. By Friday morning,Kent would be able to quote these tendencies without pause. He would understand the mind of the opposing coach, what he wanted and what he feared. From that he would be prepared to avoid their strengths and hammer their weaknesses. You would not surprise him on the football field, you would not surprise his team. They would see teams that were bigger, stronger, and faster, but never would they see a team that was better prepared.
    Never.
    On Saturday afternoon he sat on the living room floor with his back against the couch, a laptop computer to his left, a notepad to his right, and, every few seconds, a Nerf basketball in his lap. He was tossing it around with Andrew, who approached the task more like a rabid German shepherd than a budding athlete, and Lisa was doing homework, though she had none to do. That was her thing these days, always announced formally—she was going to do her homework now. Just so you knew. Then she’d arrange books at the table and spend her time drawing. Kent’s favorite touch, the one that he and Beth laughed themselves silly over when their daughter wasn’t around, was the slide rule. She’d come across the antiquated math device at a neighbor’s garage sale, purchased it with her own money, and insisted on keeping it at hand, finding the look much more sophisticated than a calculator.
    The idea of being a student had suddenly appealed to her. A recent perfect score on a multiplication test prompted her to announce with gravity that she was hoping she could get a scholarship because she understood the Ivy League schools were very expensive. Kent asked where she’d heard of an Ivy League school and was met with a sigh.
    “They’re the good ones, Dad. The
really
good ones.”
    All right. He’d told her if they were that good, then yes, a scholarship was probably a great idea, because his bank account was not nearly so good.
    “Dad? You’re not watching.”
    This from Andrew. Kent flicked his eyes up from the screen, said, “Playoffs, champ. Playoffs. We multitask now, okay?”
    The word
multitask
left his son blank-faced, but then Kent tossed the ball and Andrew charged after it, banging down the hallway. Kent looked back at the script again. Hickory Hills was an option-heavy team, and fast enough to pull it off against most of their opponents. He wasn’t worried about his team’s speed, though. They’d just have to widen their gaps on the line, and shade to the strong side because that’s where the quarterback wanted to go most of the time.
    “Hackett’s article is up on the website.” Beth had emerged from the kitchen, her gentle blue eyes grim.
    “It’s bad?”
    “No. But they mention Adam.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The police explained that she was trying to find her father. And that Adam… that he got it wrong.”
    Kent let out a breath and tossed the Nerf basketball one last time, Andrew chasing after it wildly, nearly wiping out an end table in his pursuit, and then he rose and went into the kitchen where she had the laptop open on the granite-topped island.
    The home page of the newspaper’s website was devoted entirely to Rachel Bond. Pictures of her were now joined by pictures of a desolate cottage surrounded by investigators. Five stories were linked around the photographs, one headline reading: TRAGEDY FAMILIAR TO KENT AUSTIN.
    He closed his eyes for a moment, bracing. Reading your own press was always an uncomfortable thing. Kent never felt anything but uneasy dread over it. You weren’t in control of the way you were about to be presented, weren’t in control of the context of your remarks or, with many reports, even the accuracy of your remarks. You were someone else’s version of yourself, fed to thepublic to create their version of you, a disturbing disconnect.
We will build a new you, thanks. The one we