Darkness Creeping Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Are these kids from like . . . an orphanage or something?”
    “Something like that,” says Mr. A. “Just do your best. I’m sure you’ll do fine without linesmen.”
    I nod to both coaches in understanding, then Mr. A says to me quietly, “A word to the wise . . . make this the best reffing job you’ve ever done.” There’s that slim, preoccupied grin again from him. I tell him that sure, I will, and that I always ref my best, which is true. Then I hurry to the other side of the field, to grab my stopwatch from Cody.
    “So, do you know any of the kids on these teams?” I ask him.
    “No.”
    “Not in any classes with them?”
    “No.”
    “Don’t recognize them from Cub Scouts or something?”
    “No.”
    “A lot of help you are.”
    “Can I go home now?”
    Now it was my turn to say “No.”
    I turn to go back to the midfield line for the coin toss, but before I do, Cody stops me. “Danielle,” he says. “Be careful, okay?”
    It’s such a weird thing for him to say, I have to laugh. “Of what?”
    “I don’t know . . . just . . .” He struggles, trying to put whatever he’s feeling into words, then lets his shoulders sag. “Nothing. Forget it.”
    “Nutcase,” I tell him, and hurry out to the center circle, checking to make sure all the players’ shin guards are on and shoes are tied. Then I call for the team captains for the coin toss. The Red captain is this scrawny towheaded kid, with hair so fine and blond it looks like peach fuzz on his head. His eyes are blue, but a weird shade. Like glacier ice. It’s unsettling, so I don’t look in his eyes again. He also smells funny—like maybe he had a hard-boiled egg for breakfast, and it got smeared all over his face. The Blue team captain has curly brown hair, a little too long in the back, so it falls over his neck in a goofy little mullet. I like his eyes better. They’re light brown. Sure, they’re as intense as the other kid’s eyes, but somehow softer. I like him in spite of the mullet.
    I pull my special half-dollar out of my pocket and flip it. “Call it,” I say. Forgetting that I didn’t say specifically who should call it.
    Both the Red captain and the Blue captain call “Heads.” I try to catch the coin in midair—so the toss gets voided before it can become an issue—but I miss, and the coin hits the turf. It shows heads.
    “I win the toss!” announces the Red captain.
    “No, I win it,” says the Blue.
    “I called heads!”
    “So did I.”
    “Well, I said it first!”
    “Did not!”
    “Did, too!”
    Well at least they’re finally starting to act like seven-year-olds. I glance over at the coaches, waiting on the sidelines for the game to begin. Since I like Mr. A better than the other guy, I make a decision. “Blue calls it.”
    “Why?” demands the Red captain.
    “Because I said so.” You can do things like that when you’re a ref. It’s almost like being a parent.
    “No fair!”
    Then his coach yells from the sidelines: “Alastor, just get it over with, okay?” I smirk. Fancy name for an obnoxious kid.
    He scowls at his coach, then turns to me crossing his arms. “Fine.”
    I flip the coin. The Blue captain calls heads again. It comes up tails.
    “Ha!” says the Red captain.
    “Watch it, ‘ Alice. ’ I call penalties for bad sportsmanship.”
    “That’s Alastor,” he snaps.
    I can’t wait until I call his first penalty.

    From the moment the game begins, I know this is no ordinary game. First of all, these kids don’t play like seven-year-olds. Usually the seven-and-under games are all about beehive ball: a whole mess of kids buzzing around with the ball in the middle, and the kids generally kicking one another more often than getting a foot on the ball.
    These kids are different. They play like pros—I’ve never seen anything like it. They have awesome kicks, they head the ball with full force, and they don’t fall down crying. They put such power behind the ball, I have to hit the