The Stranger(60)

Dan was wearing sunglasses today. That was for sure.

With the big-time scouts keeping a watchful eye, Kenny had done really well in the other tests—the vertical jump, the 7-on-7, that trench warfare thing. Still, the forty-yard dash would clinch it for him. A full ride to some big-time university. Ohio State, Penn State, Alabama, maybe even—oh man, it was almost too much to even let himself think about it—Notre Dame. The Notre Dame scout was here, and Dan couldn’t help noticing that the guy had been keeping tabs on Kenny.

Just one last dash. Just beat 5.2 and Kenny was golden. That was what they said. If a prospect slower than that, the scouts lost interest, even if he was great at everything else. They wanted a 5.2 or better. If Kenny did that, if Kenny could just run this one race at his best time . . .

“You know, don’t you?”

The unfamiliar voice startled him for a second, but Dan just figured that the guy hadn’t been talking to him. Still, when he sneaked a look, he could see some stranger was staring directly into Dan’s sunglassed eyes.

Little guy, Dan thought, but then again, everyone looked little to Dan. Not short. Just small. Small hands, thin arms, almost frail. The guy who was staring at him now stuck out here because it was so clear he didn’t belong. There was nothing football about him. Too little. Too nerdy. Big baseball cap pulled down too low. And that soft, friendly smile.

“You talking to me?” Dan asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m kinda busy here.”

The guy kept smiling as Dan slowly turned back toward the track. On the field, Kenny was putting his feet in the blocks. Dan watched and waited for his personal waterworks to begin.

But for once, his eyes stayed dry.

Dan risked a glance back. The guy was still smiling and staring.

“What’s your problem?”

“It can wait till after the race, Dan.”

“What can wait? How do you know my—?”

“Shhh, let’s see how he does.”

On the field, someone shouted, “On your mark, get set,” and then the gun went off. Dan’s head snapped back toward his son. Kenny got a good jump off the start and began pounding down his lane like a runaway truck. Dan smiled. Try getting in the way of that, he thought. Kenny would mow you down like a blade of grass.

The race lasted only scant seconds, but it felt much longer. One of Dan’s new drivers, some kid working off a student loan, sent an article that said time slows down when you’re having new experiences. Well, this was new. Maybe that’s why the seconds ticked away so slowly. Dan was watching his boy heading for a personal-best time in the forty and, in doing so, locking in a full ride to someplace special, someplace Dan could never have gone, and when Kenny crossed the finish line with a record time of 5.07, Dan knew that the tears would start coming.

Except they didn’t.

“Great time,” the little guy said. “You must be so proud.”

“You bet I am.”

Dan faced the stranger straight-on now. Screw this guy. This was one of the greatest moments—maybe the greatest—of Dan’s life and he’d be damned if he’d let some dork get in that way. “Do I know you?”

“No.”

“You a scout?”

The stranger smiled. “Do I look like a scout, Dan?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know lots of things. Here.”

The stranger held out a manila envelope.

“What’s this?”

“You know, don’t you?”

“I don’t know who the hell you think—”

“It’s just hard to believe no one has ever raised this with you before.”

“Raised what?”

“I mean, look at your son.”

Dan spun back toward the track. Kenny had this huge smile on his face, looking toward the sideline for his father’s approval. Now Dan’s tears started to come. He waved, and his boy, who didn’t go out carousing at night, who didn’t drink or smoke pot or hang out with a bad crowd, who still—and yeah, no one believed it—preferred hanging out with his old man, watching the game or some movie on Netflix, waved back.

“His weight was, what, two thirty last year,” the stranger said. “He put on fifty-five pounds and no one noticed?”

Dan frowned, even as he felt his heart drop. “It’s called puberty, asshole. It’s called working out hard.”

“No, Dan. It’s called Winstrol. It’s called a PED.”

“A what?”

“Performance-enhancing drug. Better known to the layman as steroids.”

Dan turned and moved right up into the little stranger’s face. The stranger just kept smiling. “What did you say?”