Hunter: a Playing for Keeps Prequel

Sixteen-year-old Hunter McKinley took a pull on his e-cigarette, then held it out toward his friend Brody. “You want a drag?”

“Nah.” Brody gripped the steering wheel of his parents’ SUV, his gaze fastened on the beat-up door of Desert Liquors. “You think Austin can really score more booze?”

Hunter shrugged; he already had a nice buzz from drinking Brody’s parents’ liquor stash. “He’s got a fake ID,” he said.

“I don’t like it,” Carson said from the back seat. “What if he gets busted?”

“He won’t get busted,” Hunter said. The liquor store sat back from the main highway on the edge of Legacy Falls and had a reputation amongst the high-school crowd. “See, here he comes now.”

“Yeah, but…” Carson said. “Are those Lightning players?”

Hunter jolted in his seat. Two teens had stepped in front of Austin, blocking him from reaching the car. One wore a Loma Lightning soccer jersey, and the other was the defender Hunter had bested in the high school soccer sectionals a week ago.

Hunter swore as he grabbed the door handle and got out of the car. He headed toward Austin, his friends right on his heels.

Before they reached Austin, one of the Lightning players made a grab for the 12-pack of beer Austin was carrying. “I think we’ll take that off your hands,” he said.

“Hey!” Hunter said. “That’s ours!”

“And now we want it,” a new voice added. Two more Lightning players had materialized.

The defender glared at Hunter. “I know you,” he said. “You’re the white-trash who—”

“Who put three goals right past you.” Hunter’s stride carried him right up into the defender’s face. “My shots were so good you didn’t even see ‘em.”

The defender’s eyes narrowed. “That ain’t gonna happen again.”

The urge to lash out coiled in Hunter’s belly. “We’ll see about that,” he said.

“You and your country hick buddies don’t know a net from the ass-end of a cow!” Jersey Guy said.

“Yeah,” the defender added. “You. Guys. Suck.”

Hunter gave the defender a hard shove. Jersey Guy stepped forward to return the favor, and the coil in Hunter’s belly snapped. He lunged for the guy, but all he got was a fistful of Lightning jersey. He barely registered the fist coming at him, but his reflexes had been honed on the field, and he ducked. He released his grip on Jersey guy, pivoted, cocked his elbow, and let it fly.

Crack!

The shock of connecting with a human jaw made him gasp aloud.

Before Hunter’s brain caught up to the fact that he’d actually punched a guy, the Lightning player lunged toward him.

Hunter lowered his shoulder and used his body as a battering ram, just like he did when he was shoulder-to-shoulder with an opposing player on the soccer field.

When they hit the ground, Hunter was on top. Any advantage he’d gained was short-lived, though, because his adversary cuffed him on the side of the head, and he ended up sprawled on the ground.