Losers Take All Read Online Free Page A

kick off to us. Nice way to start a game, huh?”
    Barlow made a growling sound deep in his throat as he turned away.
    We lined up for their kick, and a kid named Garrett caught it and ran it back. Rob moved us up the field with two short and accurate passes. He pointed to me in our third huddle. “Three complete and we get a first down,” he said. “It’s your turn, Logan. Slant right. I’m going to count your steps. On your fifth step stop short, turn back to me, and the ball will already be in your chest. Got it?”
    â€œFive steps,” I agreed. “Got it.”
    â€œIt’s a timing play,” he said. “Can’t miss.”
    Our huddle broke and we walked toward the line together. “Don’t drill it,” I cautioned him softly. “I don’t have the best hands.”
    â€œYou’re playing like a beast,” he whispered back. “If you get daylight after you catch it, turn on your jets. The way you’re going, you’ll get a shot at a starting job.”
    I slid the receiver’s gloves my father had bought me out of my pocket and pulled them on over my sweaty hands as I walked back to the line. Those two words kept tap-dancing around in my head. Starting job. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t a star receiver on the Fremont football team. Not me. Not close. Not ever. Tap, tap. But still … starting job. Playing before crowds. Cheerleaders at parties. Tap, tap. I glanced at the duck pond. The two men on the bench hadn’t budged. My father pulled out a bottle of water, tilted himself a drink, and stared right at me.
    Garrett stood over the ball. “Forty-seven,” Rob called out to him. “Sixty-five. Twenty-two. Hut .”
    Garrett hiked him the ball, and I slanted right. As I ran, I heard one of their players shout out, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, watch Logan !”
    I was already on my second step, with a kid named Dumont trying to cover me. He was fast, but he knew he couldn’t run with me, so he gave me three yards of cushion off the line. I counted my steps—three, four, five—and slammed on the brakes. I turned back toward Rob and BAM , the football arrived by express mail.
    I hadn’t expected it that hard and fast, and I couldn’t quite hold it. It popped up out of my iron hands, and as I tried to grab it, other hands reached for it. Dumont had closed the distance, and he tried to grab the loose ball and run it in. I managed to get both my hands on it as Dumont’s momentum carried him on past.
    I realized that I was now alone, undefended, safely cradling the football. It was time to turn on the burners and run it in for a touchdown. Once I got going, no one on this field could catch me. I started to spin back around, toward their end zone, and as I was in mid-pivot, a freight train ran me over.
    The next thing I knew I was lying on my back on the grass, tasting salt and pebbles, and looking up at the purple clouds that seemed to twist and billow mysteriously, like a magician’s cloak during a good trick. I tried to stand up, but Rob told me to “Stay down, buddy. Jesus, look at his mouth.”
    I put my hand to my lips, and it came away crimson. I realized to my horror that I wasn’t tasting salt and pebbles but rather blood and my own busted teeth.
    â€œSorry, Logan,” Barlow’s voice said. “Didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”
    As the shock of the impact wore off, the pain came on in waves. I lay flat on my back and closed my eyes and made my hands into fists.
    Then I heard my father say, “Stay down, Jack. There’s an ambulance on the way.” And then more softly, in the closest he had ever come to a loving voice: “You did good, son. I’m proud of you.”

 
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    My two best friends stood by my bedside, but they couldn’t bring themselves to look at my mouth. Dylan was staring past me out the window where a gardener