Fahrenheit 12 “You want to do the thing? SERIOUSLY?!” CR shouted. “ASAP.” “You want to do the thing ASAP?! (Hut-hut-hike.)” The center snapped the ball into CR’s hands. The offensive and defensive lines collided, the sound like firecracker pops in the wintry air of the after-school practice. CR faded back several yards, checking for a receiver. Seeing none, he momentarily looked back to Benji on the sidelines. “I LOVE this, Banjo! What changed your mind?” “You’re being blitzed.” “I’m BEING BLITZ—oh, shitty shit.” Two defenders surged through holes in the offensive line. They were zero trouble: CR tucked the ball into his elbow, deked left before dashing to the right, and the poor JV defenders, who had dived to tackle him, got nothing for their efforts except mouthfuls of snow and laughs from the hundreds of people watching the practice from the stadium’s bleachers. With the effortless grace of his mighty and Einsteinian arm, CR let the football fly toward an open receiver on the very far end of the field.
