Free Nightshade by John Saul Page A

managed to knock him off stride as he began to run, and that had never happened before. But long before he was ready to receive Pete’s pass, the ball sailed over his head, dropping to the ground near the goal post.
    Fifteen lousy yards, and he hadn’t even come close to hitting his mark!
    “Screw you,” he snarled.
    Pete’s eyes widened. “ ‘Screw you’?” he repeated. “That’s all you’ve got to say? Then fine, Moore — screw you too.” He turned to Kent Stackworth. “After that last play, they’ll expect me to try to run this time. So I’m passing to you.”
    “Me?” Stackworth repeated. What was going on? Pete always passed to Matt — they were like a team within a team.
    “Yes, you,” Arneson shot back. “You can’t do any worse than Moore, can you? As for you, Moore, you’re blocking on this play.”
    A few seconds later Matt, seething, was back on the line, facing Eric Holmes.
    Concentrate,
he told himself.
Just forget about everything else and focus.
But as he crouched down, Pete Arneson’s words kept running through his mind, and when he heard the last number of the count, something happened.
    Instead of launching himself into Eric Holmes and blocking him, Matt spun out to the right, letting Eric lunge past him. A second later he heard Pete Arneson’s outraged howl as Eric took him down, but it didn’t matter.
    Matt was already off the field.
    “Moore!” he heard the coach shouting as he started toward the locker room.
    Matt kept walking.
    “Moore! Hold it right there!”
    Matt hesitated, but then turned to face the coach, who was walking quickly toward him.
    “You want to tell me what’s going on?” Ted Stevens asked. “Since when do you just walk off the field in the middle of a play?”
    Matt’s jaw tightened and his right hand clenched into a fist.
    The coach’s tone changed when he saw the uncharacteristic anger in Matt’s face. “What is it, Matt?” he asked. “What’s going on?” For a moment Matt’s expression didn’t change, but then, as if he’d made a decision, Matt unclenched his fist and his shoulders slumped.
    “I just don’t feel very good today.”
    “You sick?”
    Matt shrugged. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.” He hesitated, then: “And my dad left.”
    Suddenly, Ted Stevens understood. No wonder the boy’s game had been off. “You want to talk about it?” he offered. “It can be pretty rough when your folks split up.”
    “He’s not my father,” Matt said, a little too quickly. “He’s just my stepfather.”
    Stevens knew better than to challenge the defensiveness in Matt’s words, but instead slung a friendly arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you call it a day and hit the showers? And if you want to talk, I’ll be in my office. Okay?”
    Matt shrugged the coach’s arm off. “Hey, it’s no big deal,” he said. “Everybody’s folks split up, right?”
    Again the coach knew better than to try to argue. “I’ll be in my office,” he repeated. “The door’s always open.”
    Right,
Matt thought as he went to his locker, stripped out of his jersey and padding, then headed for the showers.
Everybody wants to talk about it.
    He turned the hot water up until the needle spray was nearly scalding and stepped under it, letting it sluice the sweat off his body. But even the stream of hot water could do nothing to ease the tension that had been building in him all through last night and then the long day at school. He finally shut off the shower, toweled himself dry, and pulled on his clothes.
    As he headed for the door he didn’t even glance in the direction of the coach’s office.
    Nor did he head out Manchester Road toward Hapgood Farm.
    Instead he found himself walking toward Burlington Avenue.
    Five minutes later he was standing in front of his grandmother’s house. From where he stood, there was no sign of the fire at all, but even though it had been only a week since his