JERRY RICHARDSON BROUGHT frozen orange slices to every Pee Wee football game of the season, but Tommy never got any better. Jerry and Cheryl had seemingly cursed their son by naming him after Brady, as his fourth-grade compatriots would run rings around him on the field, chanting, “Tom Terrific! Tom Terrific!” as he dropped another pass or tripped up another teammate.

 

It didn’t help that Tommy took after him. Jerry had had plenty of time, as a middle-aged man, to build up a thick skin against any personal thoughts he might have on his misaligned eyes, jug ears, and lack of any chin whatsoever. (Cheryl, no stunner herself, always said that his gap-toothed smile was what she liked most about him.) But on Tommy, all of Jerry’s worst physical features had been cruelly thrown up on a canvas, seemingly left out specifically to entice out the nasty art critic that resided within the soul of every other ten-year-old boy in the league. 

 

Tommy was a pretty sharp kid. He had good grades, except in P.E. He knew what was up. He may have been “a delight to have in class,” but he was also a chubby, freckled little boy undergoing the bi-weekly humiliation of football practice and a game on Saturday morning, for no good reason that he could see. He had nightmares of seatbelts and Oldsmobiles safely arriving at empty and never-ending artificially-seeded fields, and dreamed of violent car crashes with no survivors.

 

Every week, he begged his father to call Coach and tell him his son was sick, sorry. At least there was a smidge of pity in Tommy’s mother’s eyes as Jerry instead pulled out his laptop and showed Tommy Beyonce’s 2013 Super Bowl Halftime Show instead. “That could be you in the locker room—see the entrance? Right there, to the side!” he told him enthusiastically, as Tommy fought back tears watching Bey tell the audience that she didn’t think they could handle this. Whatever ‘this’ was.

 

Jerry was only slightly more of a fool than his ten-year-old son. He was a new member of the Bridgeport Pee Wee Parents’ Association, and by the third meeting he’d already heard whispers of what the other fathers were saying about his boy behind his back. It mainly came down to the fact that they thought he was a subpar line receiver. He tried to avoid stewing in the humiliation as they cooed over his brownies.

 

“Chocolate chips!” he responded brightly, when they begged to know his secret.

 

If only there were a secret ingredient for his son.

 

Cheryl had picked him to date in high school precisely because he’d been the star quarterback. As vice captain of the cheerleading team, it made sense, especially because her best friend, the captain Esther Long, was a massive lesbian. Jerry was average-looking, but he was kind, decent, and a killer tackle on the field. Together, they agreed, they’d make dozens of little Lawrence Taylors.

 

The jury was still out on Kiaya and Jerry Jr., the twins, who were both too young to have the requisite hand-eye coordination. But Tommy was a failure, right out of the gate. Jerry would never say such a thing out loud, of course, but sometimes he worried that his son could hear him thinking it at him over the dinner table.

 

When Cheryl had been pregnant with Tommy, Jerry had dreamed of their burly, brawny son, an unstoppable force and an immovable object on the field. Instead, they’d gotten a little boy. 

 

He loved him, don’t get him wrong. Jerry made sure to scoop Tommy up and cover him in kisses at least once a week. He just had to exist knowing there was an alternate universe out there where a version of him loved a version of his son more. 

 

Jerry reasoned that the fault must be partially his. He must not be doing enough as a father. So he started speaking up more at Association meetings. He got himself elected as Head of Snacks, then as Treasurer. He started growing his own oranges in their backyard, pouring over Gregor Mendel’s tomes late at night, teaching himself how to tinker with horticultural life. He MC’d raffles and volunteered to coordinate bake sales and fun runs. He “lost” the beloved cat (unloading the ungrateful lump of fur on his sister, who lived in New Jersey) and bought a mastiff for Tommy. The dog liked to wake Tommy up in the mornings by leaping on him. Jerry told Cheryl he was sure it would sharpen Tommy’s defensive instincts.

 

Cheryl warned him, when they were done fucking each others’ brains out at night and it was just the two of them curled up under the sheets, that he shouldn’t push Tommy to be something he wasn’t.

 

“You know what he told me he wants to grow up to be?” she said, gently brushing the sweaty hair out of her husband’s eyes. “A librarian.”

 

Jerry shrugged. “He’ll retire at thirty-five. Plenty of time to get his master’s in library sciences afterwards.”

 

Tommy lay awake with the covers pulled up to his chin in the next room. Their detached colonial-style had thin walls. He’d heard everything. Everything.

 

It was a blustery August evening when Ursula, the Association VP, first approached Jerry on the sidelines. He stood, weakly cheering on Tommy, who’d just taken a tumble and slid headfirst into a patch of mud at the 30-yard mark. James McCready, the linebacker, sprinted by with the ball, somehow managing the difficult task of simultaneously pointing and laughing at his son. Jerry’s hands tightened into fists.

 

“What a little shit, right?” Ursula mused, staring out at the field.

 

“Who, McCready?” 

 

Ursula didn’t reply. 

 

“Yeah. Little bastard.”

 

“Your son’s looking trimmer, though, Jer,” she said.

 

“Is he? We came up with a new training regimen,” Jerry said. “Norman suggested it to me at the last Association meeting. It’s what he does with his boys. Brutal. Up at six every morning for a run. Then we flip tires for a while.”

 

There was a small silence as Ursula seemed to digest this. Jerry thought she looked impressed, though that could have been a trick of the light.

 

He cleared his throat. “There’s plenty of time for him to improve before the scouts descend. Varsity’s years away.”

 

Ursula hummed in response. “I don’t know about that. See that guy?” She pointed to a heavyset, mustachioed man in the bleachers. “One of the JV coaches. And that woman?” A vulture-like lady in a tight bun stood with a clipboard by the water coolers. “Rumor has it she’s working for the Cornhuskers.”

 

“Oh.” He watched the woman, whose flinty gaze was trained on McCready. “Shit.”

 

His mind was suddenly filled with apocalyptic visions. Tommy, attending a private, elite liberal arts school. Northwestern. Tulane. Or worst of all, Rice. Jerry shivered.

 

 “Hey.” Ursula waved him back to reality. “There’s a way out.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean,” her voice dropped a few notes, “I know a way that Tommy could realize his full potential.”

 

Jerry stared at her. Then he turned back to the field. Ursula’s son, Irving, charged up the defensive line. He had noticed the kid’s spiral passes had improved in recent weeks.

 

“Look, Jer, I wouldn’t tell this to just any parent in the Association,” she muttered, “but you’re Treasurer now, and that comes with some perks. But it’s going to require some generosity on your part.”

 

“Yeah?” Jerry was suddenly skeptical. He could feel his wallet suddenly growing red-hot in his pocket. Cheryl would kill him if he wrote the Association any more cheques. “How much?”

 

She laughed—a sharp, two-note affair, rather like a coyote’s yip. “You misunderstand me, bud. Not that kind of a gift.”

 

“Oh. Look, I’m flattered, but—”

 

“Jerry, don’t interrupt me. I don’t mean that, either. As if. You? And me? Come on. Be serious.”

 

Jerry’s feelings were a little hurt. “Fine. Continue.”

 

“You played football in high school, right?”

 

“I was the quarterback for the Buccaneers, sure. I wouldn’t be much use on a field now, though—”

 

“Sure. But all the skills were there at one point, right?”

 

Jerry narrowed his eyes and nodded. 

 

“Some things are distillable, you know.” She smiled sweetly. “Talents can be bottled. But prices are non-negotiable. Arcane magic is funny like that.”

 

Jerry bit his lip. In between the brownie-cooing and the son-slagging, he’d hear fragments of rumors about what went on at the top levels of the Association. The extra-special meetings the Executive Board had in the dead of night. He’d just forgotten, dismissed it as a myth designed to spook new members into bringing better snacks to meetings.

 

“So it’s true, then?”

 

Ursula nodded. “We want you to join us, Jerry. We never would have let you become Treasurer if we didn’t think you were capable. And think of what it’ll do for Tommy. Division 1, guaranteed. Full scholarship.”

 

Jerry’s mouth went dry. Dead of night meetings? He hadn’t been up past eleven p.m. since the twins had learned to sleep through the night. But, for Tommy…

 

“Will I have to… You know…”

 

Ursula regarded him gravely. “How much are you willing to give, so that your son can be good at a sport?”

 

Jerry knew the answer before she’d finished the question. Far away, down the field, Tommy caught a pass, and a small cheer arose from his benched teammates. But Jerry didn’t see this. “Anything.”

 

***

 

Tom crossed off another day on his calendar. It was seven years to the day, he noticed, that his mother had bought her place in San Francisco. She’d sent him photos of real estate listings when she’d moved out. “Don’t tell your dad,” she’d texted. “His $$$$ is paying for it!” He’d gleefully sent back a preference for the most expensive one.

 

He loved that house. Floor-to-ceiling windows, ocean view, close to the 49ers’ stadium. He wished his dad would let him fly out there more often, but with his mother’s work and his own insane training schedule, it just wasn’t practical more than once every few months, plus Christmas and summers.

 

His girlfriend, Angie, lounged on his bed. “Wanna go to the drive-in tonight?” she asked. “They’re having a flashback series. I think they’re playing “Bedazzled” tonight. With Brendan Frasier?”

 

“Can’t,” he said, leaning against his desk. “Dad took my keys.”

 

“You guys are still fighting?”

 

“He’s such a fucking idiot,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “He has no empathy for my situation.”

 

“Come on,” she replied, rolling off the bed and picking up the heavily-annotated SAT textbook on his bedside table. “What else does the guy want? Of course you’re stressed.”

 

“It’s too much,” Tom grumbled. “Maybe I should drop something.”

 

“What?” she asked, playfully chucking a pillow at his head. “You’re captain of the team. Fucking sick grades. Probably bound for Notre Dame. Got a smoking hot girlfriend. Which of those is least important to you? Wait—don’t answer.” 

 

He shut his mouth and grinned. “I just wish he’d be nicer. Say something positive. Or even crack a joke! I can’t remember the last time the man fucking smiled. You know, I have early memories of him laughing?”

 

“Jerry Richardson?” She raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. “Your father? Experience happiness?”

 

“Yeah. He used to make my mother laugh. A lot.” Tom shrugged. “And then he just checked the fuck out one day. That’s what my mom says.”

 

Angie moved over to him and looped her arms around his neck. “Some parents are just soulless monsters. And we have to accept that.”

 

He kissed her lightly, then untangled her arms. “I gotta hop in the shower.”

 

She wrinkled her nose. “No kidding, stinky.”

 

As her boyfriend locked the bathroom door behind him and switched on the hot water, Angie picked up her purse. She rooted around in it, pushing aside her lip gloss and crumpled homework. Her fingers closed around the crucifix and she pulled it out. Tapping a finger against the dagger-sharp end, she dropped the purse on Tom’s bed and withdrew the book of runes with her other hand. 

 

She cast one more look at the bathroom door—Tom had started belting the chorus to some Rihanna song, knowing it would make her smile. She did. The goof. But she had work to do.

 

Angie crept down the stairs, to where she knew Mr. Richardson—no, not Mr. Richardson, it—would be watching television. Or, more accurately, staring at the static between channels. Because that was creepier than just watching the local news, so obviously that’s what it was doing.

 

Before she raised the crucifix over her head, a thought flashed through her head. What if killing this thing didn’t bring Mr. Richardson’s soul back? What if it took Tom’s talents away? Angie hurriedly cast those thoughts from her mind. Her parents had raised her better than that. 

 

After her husband Steve, one of three Bridgeport Baptist ministers, and the only one licensed by the Vatican to perform exorcisms, had successfully freed Ursula of her demonic parasite, Angie’s mother immediately disavowed herself of the cursed Association and withdrawn Irving from the team the next day.

 

Steve was the one who’d taught his kids to recognize the signs. Parents described around town as “soulless” or “unnerving.” Irving and Angie were to stay far away from those kinds of parents. But that had been before Angie had made varsity volleyball, and caught Tom’s eye. She’d met his father after their fourth date, and pulled every relevant book from her dad’s study that night. She knew what she had to do.

 

Angie heard the water switch off upstairs. Mr. Richardson’s—no, not Mr. Richardson, she had to stop thinking that way—twitched. She spoke aloud the phrase she’d memorized from the book, and as the thing’s head snapped around, fangs already bared, she brought the crucifix down in a devastating arc.

 

Touchdown.

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