The whistle around Coach Halgren’s neck hadn’t left his skin in seventeen years. It dangled there now, nestled in the coarse gray hair of his chest, as he paced the length of his office. The thing was practically fused to him—a second heartbeat, a third nipple. He’d blown it so many times his lips had memorized the shape of the metal.
Outside, the football field was empty except for the late afternoon shadows stretching long across the turf. Halgren liked this time of day. The quiet. The way the setting sun turned everything gold, like the world was made of trophies. He flexed his hands, the knuckles popping like gunfire. Sixty-two years old and still built like a brick shithouse, as his ex-wife used to say. Not that she’d said it kindly.
The knock at the door was timid. Too timid. Halgren scowled before he even turned around. “Enter.”
The kid who shuffled in was exactly what Halgren had expected: thin wrists, thick glasses, a backpack that looked like it weighed more than he did. Ethan something-or-other. The school’s resident tattletale. The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Coach Halgren, sir. You, um. You wanted to see me?”
Halgren exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like a bull deciding whether to charge. The kid—Ethan—flinched at the sound. "Sit," Halgren growled, jerking his chin toward the folding chair opposite his desk. Ethan scurried to obey, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. The chair groaned under his negligible weight.
"You filed a complaint," Halgren said, leaning forward, his massive forearms resting on the desk. The wood creaked in protest. "Against my quarterback."
Ethan's fingers twisted in his lap. "Y-yes, sir. He, um. He shoved me into a locker. Twice. And then he—"
"I know what he did." Halgren's voice was a low rumble, the kind that vibrated in your bones. "What I don't know is why you thought running to the principal was the play."
Ethan’s mouth opened, then closed, like a fish yanked from water. His fingers dug into the fabric of his jeans. "Because—because it hurt," he whispered.
Halgren’s laugh was a landslide—deep, sudden, and utterly humorless. "Hurt?" He pushed back from the desk, the chair rolling on uneven wheels. "You think a little pain’s worth benching my best player? Worth costing this team the championship?" He stood, looming over Ethan like a storm cloud. The kid’s glasses slipped down his nose, and he didn’t dare push them back up.
A drop of sweat traced Ethan’s temple. Halgren watched it slide, slow and fat, down to his jawline. The boy smelled like cheap fear. Halgren inhaled, nostrils flaring, but there was something else beneath it—something sweet: youth.
Halgren’s tongue dragged across his teeth. "You ever hear of lodge pole pines, kid?"
Ethan blinked, his fingers twitching against his thighs. "The—the trees?"
Halgren's grin split his face like an axe wound. "See, lodge poles don’t grow unless fire clears out the deadwood." He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing Ethan whole. "Weak things burn. Strong things thrive." His hand shot out, fingers like vise clamps around Ethan’s chin, forcing his head back. The boy gasped, glasses askew, his pulse thrumming wild against Halgren’s thumb.
Something in the air thickened—not sweat, not fear, but the electric hum of a storm gathering. Ethan’s breath hitched as Halgren’s grip tightened. His skin prickled, then burned, as if the coach’s fingers were branding him. A golden glow seeped from Ethan’s pores, swirling like mist in the fading sunlight. His sneakers kicked uselessly against the floor, his legs turning limp as wet rope.
Halgren inhaled, slow and deep, nostrils flaring. The golden light coiled toward him, drawn into his mouth like smoke. His skin drank it in—first his lips, then his cheeks, then his throat—until his whole body shimmered with his victim's vitality. Ethan’s glasses slipped off entirely, clattering to the floor. His pupils dilated, black swallowing blue, as his essence unraveled.
The boy’s fingers twitched, clutching at Halgren’s wrist. His grip was weak. Weaker. The skin of his hands thinned, veins standing out like ink strokes on parchment. His nails grayed, then cracked, flaking away like old paint. The backpack slumped off his shoulders, collapsing into a heap of denim and canvas—empty, now, of anything resembling flesh.
Halgren exhaled through his nose, steam curling from his nostrils. His shoulders broadened, the seams of his polo shirt straining. Silver streaks dissolved from his hair, replaced by thick, chestnut waves. His crow’s feet smoothed; his knuckles lost their arthritic swell. Ethan’s final breath left him in a sigh, his body collapsing entirely into dust.
The dust settled on the floorboards. Halgren flexed his hands, watching tendons slide beneath rejuvenated skin. He rolled his neck, relishing the absence of its usual pop. The whistle around his neck gleamed, polished by some unseen hand. He scooped Ethan’s glasses off the floor, holding them up to the light. The lenses were spotless. Useless, now.
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