Free Pop by Gordon Korman

at his side. Mrs. Popovich wrapped her arms around Number Seven’s expansive shoulder pads. “You were wonderful, honey.”
    Troy accepted the hug without embarrassment, but his eyes never left Charlie, who walked purposefully straight past his son. Marcus was struck by a wave of amazement. The King of Pop was coming to him .
    â€œGood game, Mac. You never could have done it without me.”
    Marcus grinned. “Damn right I couldn’t.”
    Troy untangled himself from his mother and took his father’s arm. “Come on, Dad. Let’s go home.”
    Mrs. Popovich stepped in. “Charlie, didn’t Troy play a fantastic game?”
    Charlie nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah—sure, like always!”
    The look Troy gave Marcus could have melted his faceguard.

CHAPTER TEN
    T he new drill was called Shark Bait.
    It was Charlie’s most sadistic creation to date. A sickly crabapple tree was used as a catapult to send the punt skyward. The receiver, positioned halfway up the Paper Airplane, had to jump for it, bring in the awkward, spinning ball, and land on the grass below. There, he truly was “shark bait”—exposed, unprotected, unable even to brace himself for impact as the tackler plowed him over.
    They had been at it for close to two hours, without a break. As always, Marcus was getting the worst of the exchange, but he fought on, determined to get his licks in. If he could induce a grunt or a gasp from the NFL’s King of Pop, that was a major achievement. As for the pain signals screaming from every cell of his own body, he almost welcomed them. It used to be the result of the collision that he wanted—a good tackle or block, an approving smile behind Barker’s usual backhanded compliment. Now the hitting was an end in itself. The impact felt good, and the hurt that went with it was something he craved. It had even seeped into his life outside football. He’d be sitting in class, knowing he should be thinking about the lesson or the Vespa’s next oil change or the feeling of Alyssa’s lips on his, with the promise of more to come if the two of them ever had the chance to be alone together. Instead, he had another kind of body contact in mind. All he wanted to do was tackle a brick wall. Charlie had turned him into a pop addict.
    Nothing was harder than catching a football that was twirling end over end. As he dropped from the Paper Airplane, he struggled to pull the ball in while at the same time concentrating on achieving a solid landing with no twisted ankles. As always, Charlie’s tackle was textbook. As he wrapped Marcus up, his shoulder slammed the ball free. The momentum of his lunge drove his head right into Marcus’s upper arm.
    Marcus was aware of an uncoupling deep inside him, as if his skeleton was made of Lego blocks and some basic connection had popped loose. A split second later, he was in unbearable pain.
    Not even an NFL tough guy could ignore the cries of agony as his companion writhed on the grass, hugging himself against a level of discomfort that would have been unimaginable just a moment before.
    â€œWhat is it, Mac? Where’d you get dinged?”
    â€œMy shoulder!” Marcus gasped, barely able to summon the breath required for speech. “I think it’s broken!”
    Charlie looked dubious. “I would have felt that. Probably just a dislocation. Happens all the time.”
    â€œNot to me!” Marcus yowled. His shoulder was on fire, the searing waves radiating from his fingertips to the center of his chest.
    Charlie grabbed him by the good arm and hauled him to his feet. The head rush nearly caused him to black out.
    â€œHere’s what you do,” said the NFL veteran, indicating the Remembrance sculpture. “You’ve got to ram your shoulder into that statue as hard as you can.”
    â€œAre you crazy?” Marcus howled.
    â€œYou’ve got to be moving fast enough to knock