Mysteries & Detective Stories
I noticed a few cockroaches crawling near Jason's skates. He stepped on one of them, popping it like a cherry tomato. Bug juice sprayed.
A single cockroach dropped from the shoulder pads and landed between his skates.
The crowd kept roaring, and Jason now had his shoulder pads off. A single cockroach dropped from the shoulder pads and landed between his skates.
Jason threw the shoulder pads and, without waiting for them to land, peeled off his torn black T-shirt.
I nearly lost the hamburgers I had eaten a couple hours earlier. At least three cockroaches were crawling on Jason's belly, their antennas quivering in all directions.
In a quick movement, he filled my viewfinder completely. Before I could figure out what had happened, he had grabbed me by the shoulders. He pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and stuck the sharp end of it against my throat.
It hurt. Bad. I wondered if I was bleeding. If he pushed any harder, the pen could burst through my windpipe.
He continued, still sounding oddly casual, "Like I said. When I take this kid's camera and walk out of here with the videocassette, there is definitely nothing you can prove."
It was Mike and me on the fast break, two-on-one against a skins' defenseman. I was closing in on the top of the key, with the defenseman stuck to me like glue, when I saw Mike. He was wide open at the bottom of the key and calling for the ball. One sharp pass to Mike and we'd clinch the win. But then I heard Coach Donovan's voice in my head: Whatcha got, kid? Whatcha got? And I thought: I'll show you what I've got.
