Son of the Mob Read Online Free PDF Page A

“but you’ve got to bench me!”
    â€œFat chance!” he roars. “Get out there!”
    What can I do? I quit the team.
    Alex shoots me a look, as if I just folded a royal flush in the World Poker Championships.
    â€œI’ll tell you about it later,” I mutter, and head for the locker room.
    â€œHey, wait up! Hey, Vincent!”
    I turn around. “It’s Vince.”
    I’ve seen this girl at school. Honey-blond, petite. Pretty cute.
    â€œI’m Kendra. Kendra Bightly. I’m covering the game for the Jefferson Journal. ”
    You can guess that, in my house, reporters are almost as popular as cops. Secrecy is very important in the vending-machine business. On the other hand, I’m not sure that extends to our school newspaper because nobody actually reads it.
    â€œYou’re missing the game,” I point out.
    â€œI’m gambling that you quitting the team is the real story,” she says seriously. “Want to talk about it?”
    â€œGod, no.”
    She doesn’t go away. “You had a fight with Coach Bronski.”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œWell, that’s what I saw, so that’s what I have to print. Unless,” she adds, “you want to tell your side of the story.”
    I trudge into the locker room. She doesn’t stop at the door. “Who wants to read about a fourth-string halfback?” I ask her.
    Her face is so completely clueless that I realize she doesn’t know what a fourth-string halfback is. She probably doesn’t know a football from third base. Back in sophomore year, Alex tried to write for the Journal. His first assignment was to cover a dog show—the guy’s so allergic he couldn’t even breathe in the building. It must be some kind of hazing thing they do for the new reporters—sending them on a story they don’t have a prayer of pulling off.
    â€œYou don’t know anything about football,” I accuse her. “So you’ve decided to write about the guy who quit the team.”
    Her expression remains tough, but a slight flush starts from under her collar and works its way up her neck to her cheeks. I’m not sure why, but something my mother told me pops into my head: The problem with the young girls these days — they don’t blush anymore. I make a mental note to tell her she’s wrong.
    Then I say, “I’m supposed to get changed now.”
    Part of me just wants to watch her face turn from pink to crimson. But she’s out of there before I get a chance to see it.

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
    M Y TEACHERS DON’T have very much in common with my father, but there is one thing they all share: everybody agrees that I don’t work hard enough. Vincent has the potential to be an excellent student if only he’d apply himself : it’s on every report card I’ve gotten since kindergarten. So when Dad gave me that whole lecture about getting motivated, he was just the latest singer of an old song I’d been hearing for most of my life. Teachers: Get motivated about school ; Dad: Get motivated about the future ; Mom: Get motivated about family ; Alex: Get motivated about girls.
    What can I say? It’s not me. While a lot of seniors spend their weekends filling out college applications, strategizing about Ivy League schools, and second-choice schools, and fallback schools, I’ve been letting all that slide. It’s not that I’ve got better things to do—God knows I’ve hung up my shoulder pads. I just don’t care that much.
    Dad goes ballistic over this. “You could be the first Luca to go to university!”
    Never college ; college is where Mira went. Harvard, Yale— that’s university. Privately, I think he shouldn’t hold his breath. The only way I’m getting into Harvard is if Dad sends one of the uncles to have a little talk with the dean of admissions. I’m not a straight-A student—at