Pop by Gordon Korman Page A

and countless other players from the seventies and eighties.
    He couldn’t wait for his next pop.
    â€œThis is your huddle, Jordan!” the coach bellowed from the sidelines. “You’ve got to take charge!”
    Barker was always raving about the role of quarterback as field general, but Marcus knew better. As Ron had put it, “To these guys, you’re never going to be any more than a buck private on recruiting day.”
    Of course, Ron himself was part of that elite group, but at least the halfback was pretty cool about it—which was more than you could say for most of the Raiders, and a hell of a lot more than you could say for Troy.
    The snap was lame and mistimed, but Marcus had gotten good at controlling it. One benefit of being toe jam , thought Marcus, is that you learn to handle adversity .
    The offensive line evaporated in a heartbeat, and pass rushers were after him. His teammates never offered him any protection, but when it came to tackling him, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.
    â€œYou’re dropping back too far, Jordan!” brayed the coach.
    No, I’m fleeing for my life! he thought, scrambling madly. But Barker was right. He was going to take a shot anyway. The only question was, could he do his job before he got slammed?
    Caught in the crosshairs of the charging linebacker, he squared up and threw. The defender struck just at the moment of release, with Marcus’s arm extended, his body exposed and vulnerable. The collision drove him backward, sprawling.
    As he hit the turf, it came to him: This was nothing ! If that had been Charlie, he’d be five yards away, still vibrating, waiting for the fireworks display in his brain to come into focus. He scrambled up to see Luke, the intended receiver, running downfield with the ball.
    Barker blew the whistle, and the play broke up amid a smattering of applause from the handful of students in the bleachers.
    â€œNext time, try not to run like a scared rabbit first,” he grunted.
    â€œGot it. Thanks, Coach.” There was a compliment hidden in there somewhere, even if it was unspoken.
    Marcus felt a slap on his shoulder pads and turned to peer into the faceguard of the linebacker who had decked him.
    â€œI should have pulled up,” the kid said apologetically. “My bad.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Marcus told him. “Nice tackle.”
    At the Gatorade bucket, he found himself next to Troy. He had little contact with Number Seven during practice, and it wasn’t because the two of them couldn’t stand each other. Generally, Troy trained with the offensive starters, while Marcus took most of his snaps with his fellow backups. Marcus also worked out with the defensive backs. Troy had no official second job, although Ron said the coach used him on special teams here and there.
    â€œGuess I was the only person in town who didn’t know who your dad is,” Marcus offered.
    Troy cast him a look of distaste. “Yeah, I heard you two are playmates.”
    Marcus bristled. “I’m just trying to tell you what a great guy he is. The stuff he’s taught me about football is pure gold.”
    â€œHe’s not your coach,” Troy told him. “He’s not your friend. Stay away from him.”
    â€œShouldn’t that be Charlie’s call?” Marcus demanded.
    â€œCharlie’s call.” Troy laughed bitterly. “You don’t even know what that means.”
    â€œYou talk like I’m a stalker! It’s totally random that I met your old man. But you know what? I’m glad it happened, because just about everybody else in this town treats me like crap—especially you! God knows how someone as cool as Charlie wound up with two kids like you and Miss Congeniality!” And he stormed off, fuming.
    After practice, Marcus was certain he was about to be fed to the locker-room toilet. But Troy kept his anger to himself. A few of the