The Devil Wears Cleats

s to impose his own rules on reali

. Coaches ignored his late arrivals because he won games. Even the janitor once handed him a mop to "help" clean up a prank-Jaxon just grinned and mopped a smiley face into the spilled paint.

littery nails, while his eyes tracked Lena weaving through the hall. She moved like a ghost, head down, avoiding the chaos of jocks and gossip huddles. The flip hit again, a quick jab

ryce's protests-and headed for the bus stop. Number 17 rolled up right on schedule. Lena climbed off, oblivious, and he followed, keeping half a block back. The neighborhood was a step down from Westbridge's manicure

rder. This wasn't fun anymore-it was a puzzle, and he hated puzzles he couldn't solve. Why her? Why this? He didn't feel things. Feelings were for suckers

ely meeting his eyes, and scurried off. Her hands shook, just a little. Thursday, he trailed her bus again, this time catching a glimpse through a cracked window-her foster mom, a wiry woman with a smoker's rasp, yelling about a spilled glass. Lena f

were his specialty-he'd once rigged the rival team's water cooler with food coloring, laughing

ing to shadows. The foster dad was home now, a beefy guy with a buzzcut and a beer gut, barking orders at Lena while she scrubbed dishes. Jaxon crouched behind a bush, watching. The

Shut Down Amid Abuse Allegations." Dated two years back. Photos showed kids with hollow eyes, a rundown building, and a headline about foster placements. Bingo. Lena

ever play football? You've got that dodge-the-crowd move down." She froze, then muttered, "Not my thing," and

the thin walls. Jaxon's eye twitched, but he didn't scratch it this time. He just watched, mind spinning. Reality was his to shape, and th

write the game," he said to the night, lips curling. The reb