The Devil Wears Cleats

you've done it, you want to d

e backyard of the gray house on Maple Street, crowbar in hand, the air thick with the tang of cheap beer and cigarette smoke seeping through the cracked window. His left eye itched, but he didn't scratch it. Not ye

to his six-pack ritual. The mom was trickier-wired on nicotine and spite, she'd stay up late watching trash TV. Jaxon slipped through the back door

ling the crowbar like a cheerleader's baton. "Night-night, big guy," he whispered, then brought it down. One swing, clean and hard, right to the temple. The snor

g the thrill. No panic, no guilt-just a high that made his skin tingle. He scratched hi

rept in, sticking to the walls, and spotted her: hunched over a cigarette, ash dropping onto the counter. Lena was upstairs-he'd see

ng into a puddle of spilled coffee. Jaxon nudged her with his shoe, chuckling. "Should've switched to decaf." Blood streaked the linoleum, mixing with the m

Burglary gone wrong. Westbridge cops were too lazy to dig deeper, especially in this dump. He slipped out, biking home under the stars, whistling

ard some lowlife hit a house on Maple," Bryce said at

hed, oblivious. The team buzzed about it all day-gossip fuel-but Jaxon just soaked it in, king of the ch

h?" he said, all casual charm. She flinched, then nodded, eyes on her tray. "Yeah. Something like that." Her voice was soft, cra

ray in hand, leaving him staring. Better? Did she know? The hum flared, mixing wit

mind spun: the creepy math sub who leered at girls, the rival team's linebacker who'd cheap-shotted him last game. Targets. Games. His rul

ide. Jaxon watched from the shadows, the hum pulsing. He'd freed her-his gift, his play-and she hadn't run screaming. The flip burned,

dict-crowbar his needle, blood his fix. Lena