Tom is awakened by a car horn honking just outside his window. Thinking it’s someone picking up one of the three shrill twenty-something sisters who occupy the end unit of the neighboring condo block, he covers his head with his pillow, slipping back into sleep, the heavy summer air mixing with the mildewy odor of sweaty soccer gear in his room. The car honks two more times, then stops, but only a few moments later Tom is startled awake by what sounds like a dozen fists on the front door.
Rising, he pulls on the nearest articles of clothing—yesterday’s soccer shorts and a faded Can Am Soccer Camp jersey—and walks down the hall.
Just as he reaches the living room and the door takes another volley of fists, it dawns on him that a few Warriors could be waiting on the doorstep, maybe to show him what they think of the Gray family position on their school mascot. He halts, crouches down, and retreats down the hallway, veering into his mother’s empty room. Peering out her window, he’s relieved to find a Volvo idling noisily in front of the carport, Magnus’s spectacles flashing light in his direction.
“Get your stuff, Tom,” Preston says the moment Tom opens the front door. “Gaz wants us down at the Nuke.”
“Is the store even open yet?” Tom says through a yawn.
“Not yet.” Preston shoves Alex into the bushes lining the front walkway. “But get your stuff anyway.”
“What is he, the school principal or something? He snaps his fingers and you guys come running?”
Preston starts toward Magnus’s car, turns, and backpedals a few steps. “He’s Katya’s grandfather, dude!”
“Katya!” Magnus shouts through his open window and honks his horn once—a long, steady blast.
“You’d better hurry,” Preston says. “It sounds like Magnus is finally ready to make his move.”
Magnus honks the horn again—three quick toots.
By the time Tom and the others arrive at the Nucleus, Mr. Gazzayev, seated in his wheelchair and wearing a mustard-colored bowling shirt, is already directing Katya in setting up a chalkboard and easel. No sooner has she set the board on the easel than he barks something to her in Russian, gesturing wildly in the air with his papery, spotted hands. Wisps of silver-white hair swirl around his head like dandelion fuzz.
Katya disappears into the office and returns a moment later with a box of chalk, which she hands to Mr. Gaz.
The old man’s blue eyes light up at the sight of Tom and the others, and he immediately begins tapping the chalk on the board and reeling out a string of Russian to Katya.
“Okay, listen up,” she says with a firmness that catches Tom off-guard. She fixes Preston with a look that makes him, Tom, the twins, and Magnus all freeze. “He thinks that especially you,” she says, pointing at Preston, “should listen very well.”
As Katya pauses, one eyebrow arched like a bowstring, Tom catches the faint curl of her lip, a secret smile behind that stern mask.
“Because you,” she fires at Preston again, “have the most to learn.”
Katya turns to Mr. Gaz just in time to hide a smile from Preston and the others, but Tom sees the smirk.
She catches his eye and winks.
He manages, just barely, not to let his jaw fall open.
Mr. Gaz draws a big X on the chalkboard and says something to Katya.
“No more interruptions,” she says and nods to her grandfather, with a sweep of her hand at the chalkboard.
Mr. Gaz’s chalk-talk lasts about a half hour. Tom is impressed both with the old man’s insight into the game and with Katya’s ability to translate soccer concepts into solid English. At times, it seems almost as if she shares her grandfather’s mind for the sport.
Eventually, though, customers begin trickling into the store, pulling Katya away from the chalkboard and leaving Mr. Gaz to speak to Tom and the others in Russian, which he seems willing to do, even though no one can understand a word he’s saying. Eventually, Katya crouches next to his wheelchair and says something in a tone suggesting that today’s session is over. Mr. Gaz tucks the chalk into his pocket and wheels into the office.
As Tom watches Mr. Gaz retreat, he’s puzzled to hear him still speaking, as if to someone back in the office, out of view. Tom listens carefully but hears no response, though he thinks he hears a sound like shuffling papers and a file cabinet drawer closing.
Katya, seeing that Preston and the others are still watching her intently, flaps her hands at them as if shooing mosquitoes. “Soccer class is finished,” she says as a father and son pair approach the cash register.
“So, do you guys feel like kicking it around?” Tom says as he and the others drift toward the front door.
“We could, I suppose,” Preston says, “although that would make, like, three days of exercise in one week.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Tom says.
Preston shrugs. “I don’t suppose it’s a bad thing, necessarily. It’s just not a . . . geek thing.”
“If we’re not careful, we might turn into jocks,” Magnus says.
“Who knows, you might like it,” Tom responds.
Preston shoots him a curious look, as if he’s picking up on something pointed in Tom’s questions. “Well, what do you want to do, Jock Man?” he says as the group steps out onto the sidewalk. “You want to lead us on a ten-mile run or something?”
“I think we should kick it around,” Tom says. “Let’s see if Mr. Gaz knows what he’s talking about.”
Preston continues giving Tom a suspicious eye. “You think so, do you?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Why—”
“Okay, here’s the deal.” Tom lets it out in one burst, as if he has been holding his breath all morning. “This man . . .
“What man?” Preston says. “Wait. Let me guess.” He snaps his fingers and gestures down Church Street. “The yesterday man? At Southwind? Guy with the clipboard?”
“Right,” Tom says. “Him.”
“Who’s the yesterday man?” Magnus says.
“A coach.” Tom slumps onto the bench in front of the Good Egg. “This coach from Burnsfield. Name’s Mecklenberg. Apparently, he was spying on the Warriors, and he saw our scrimmage.”
“You mean our annihilation,” Alex chimes in.
“Can you spell that, Alex?” Preston asks.
“Um, I think so. Let’s see: A . . . N . . . A—”
Preston cuts him off with an imitation of a game show buzzer. “Wrong,” he says. “So shut it for a little while, okay?” He turns back to Tom. “Go on. Burnsfield.”
“Right.” Tom gazes down the street, struck once again at how similar this place looks to Tin River—from a certain angle. “He wants to play us, you know, for fun.”
“Fun for who?” Stanley says.
“Fun for whom,” Preston corrects him. “And that’s it. Stanley and Alex, I’m telling your parents to hold you back a grade.”
“Hey,” Magnus interjects, “I’d rather stay back a grade than play another team like the Warriors. Why doesn’t this Burnsfield team pick on someone else?”
“They’re not allowed,” Tom says. “They can’t play other teams in the league during the preseason. So they’re going to play us instead.”
“They are going to play us?” Magnus kind of squawks, his deep voice cracking as it rises in volume. “You mean, you already told that guy we’d . . .”
“It won’t be that bad, Magnus,” Tom offers lamely, as if talking to himself. “I think they’ll be cool about it.”
Preston shakes his head at Tom and cackles. “Oh, where did we get this guy?” he says to no one in particular. “I mean, what is Jock Man, like, thinking?”