The Devil Wears Cleats

ons, we are your husbands, w

es smirk. At the pep rally, hyping the crowd until they screamed themselves hoarse. He was the all-American dream-handsome, funny, untouchable. Nobody saw the cr

teenager, watching from the shadows. Tonight, he was closer, crouched behind a rusted pickup across the street, peering through a gap in the curtains. Lena was in there, scrubbing a pot, while her foster mom-a hag with a voice like a chainsaw-ber

at me when she's talking!" he bellowed, yanking her so hard she dropped the pot. It clattered, and the woman shrieked like it was a personal attack. Jaxon's eye twitched harder, and h

ster parents weren't just jerks; they were monsters in sweatpants, the kind who thought power came from a raised hand. Jaxon didn't care about morality-

ver think about joining the team? We need someone with your stealth." He grinned, all charm, but his eyes locked on hers, searching. She mumbled, "Not

g her against the wall. "You think you're better than us?" he roared. The mom cackled, egging him on. Lena didn't scream-just took it, eyes blank. Jaxon's chest twisted, the flip turning into a b

acher confiscated it with a fond eye-roll. "You're a riot, Reed," she said. He winked. "Just keeping it fun." Nobody saw the pl

peering through a grimy window. The foster dad was at it again, backhanding Lena over a spilled beer. She crumpled, and the mom kicked her while she was down, screeching abo

him off. She was his now-his project, his game-and these clowns were breaking the rules.

predictable: dad passed out by nine, mom chain-smoking till midnight. Lena hid in her room, a closet-sized hole with a lock that didn't work. Jaxon's

ast game's halftime show. "Time to play," he said, voice low and bright. He was everywher