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Excerpt
Greg leaned over and comforted the boy for a moment, then looked up angrily at the three football studs.
“I don’t know what I should do with you—turn you over to the principal, call the cops or beat the shit out of you myself,” he snarled. “Right now just get the hell out of here. But be in my office at eight in the morning. Sharp. Or your asses won’t be worth boiling down for the fat on ’em. Understand?”
The three frightened football studs nodded and hastily dashed out of the shower room.
Billie Joe was sobbing softly, but willingly struggled to get to his feet with Greg’s help. He stood, slightly bent over in pain, as Greg turned off the two showers and then helped him to walk slowly toward the door leading to the dressing rooms.
But as they approached the door Billie Joe suddenly cowered and stopped.
“No, please!” he whispered. “Not while they’re out there… please.”
“All right, son,” Greg said softly. “Let me go get a couple of towels, then.” His own towel was drenched and he would need one, too. He helped Billie Joe over to a bench under one of the showers, used by injured athletes who could more easily shower sitting down, then hurried out to get the dry towels.
The three football studs had set a record getting dressed, and were just pulling on shoes when he came out of the shower room and stalked over to the closet and pulled out a couple of towels.
“Hey, Coach, we didn’t mean no harm to—”
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