Greenwood had one PE class a week.
The boys played soccer on the south half of the field, while the girls did gymnastics and Walking on the north half.
The two areas were separated only by a line drawn in white chalk, about two fingers wide. A gust of wind would kick up the powder, making it seem as if there was no line at all.
Richard’s usual routine during PE class was to avoid moving if he could.
With his previous constitution, running two laps would leave him wheezing like a bellows. The PE teacher’s expectations for him had sunk to the level of a tacit agreement:
’Just sit on the sidelines, don’t get heatstroke, don’t faint, and don’t make me write an incident report, and we’ll call it even.’
Richard was happy to oblige.
Every PE class, he would find a shady spot on the sidelines, read a few pages of a book, and occasionally look up to watch his classmates running around on the field.
Today, he had planned to do the same.
He had the book *From the Sanctuary to the Pulpit* tucked away in his bag and figured he could use the class time to read a few pages.
But his plan was interrupted.
About ten minutes into the game, Hugh was dribbling the ball down the right wing when a sturdy boy from the opposing team slide-tackled him from the side.
It wasn’t a malicious foul; the other player was just a beat too slow in pulling back his foot.
Hugh rolled half a turn and crouched on the sidelines, clutching his left knee with both hands, his face twisted in pain.
"Are you okay?" Richard looked up from his book.
"My knee hit the ground... It hurts like hell." Hugh grimaced. "Can you ask Mr. Thompson to excuse me?"
Before he could even ask, Warren was already running over from the field.
His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his face wore a look of dogged determination.
"Hugh’s out? Then we’re short a player."
His eyes landed on Richard.
Richard shook his head.
"Come on." Warren bent down, grabbed his arm, and started pulling him up.
"Just stand in the back. If the ball comes your way, kick it back. You don’t have to do anything else."
"I don’t play soccer."
"Just for today. Think of it as helping us out."
"I..."
"Please, they have an extra man on us. Our defense is as leaky as a sieve."
Warren had already half-dragged, half-hauled him up from the ground.
Behind them, Hugh, still clutching his knee, gave him a thumbs-up as if to say, ’Go on, brother, avenge me.’
Richard was pushed onto the field.
The PE teacher, Mr. Thompson, glanced at him from the sidelines and frowned, probably wondering if the kid would just collapse on the turf as soon as he stepped on.
But he didn’t stop him, only blowing his whistle to resume the game.
Richard stood in the right corner of his team’s half of the field.
Warren marked out a small area for him, about five paces long and three paces wide, roughly the size of a parking space.
"Just guard this spot. If the ball comes, kick it away. If it doesn’t, just stand there. Don’t run around."
Richard quickly accepted his role as a "human roadblock."
After taking his position, he glanced down at the grass beneath his feet.
The field’s turf wasn’t well-maintained, and the area near the sideline was particularly bad.
Most of the grass was yellow and withered, revealing dark soil underneath that was a full shade deeper than normal brown earth.
’The soil at the edge of the field has been soaking up trace amounts of Ether for decades.’
’The withered turf isn’t just a maintenance issue.’
’Plants constantly steeped in a low-concentration Ether Field, unless they have a special affinity like Ashen Grass, are actually chronically suppressed.’
’It’s like watering flowers with distilled water; it’s missing minerals. It looks like it’s getting water, but it’s actually malnourished.’
While he was thinking this, the ball went back and forth in the midfield. The few times it flew his way, it was a high ball that sailed over his head and was intercepted by someone else.
He was starting to get a little bored and began observing the scenery.
On the other side of the line, the girls were lined up for calisthenics.
The female instructor leading the exercises had a booming voice, shouting out the tempo so loudly the whole street could probably hear.
After the second set of exercises, the girls began walking in pairs and threes along the edge of the field to cool down.
Lillian and two of her friends were walking side-by-side on the outermost track, near the boys’ side of the field.
She wore a short athletic skirt, revealing a pair of pale white calves. Her steps were small but rhythmically even.
The three girls were chatting about something in low voices, occasionally bursting into laughter.
Richard’s attention had already drifted over to them. Watching girls walk was, of course, far more interesting than watching boys play soccer.
Meanwhile, Warren took the ball and charged into the center circle, faking out one of the opposing players.
He pushed forward, dribbling the ball all the way, with two opponents chasing him from behind.
Just as he was about to attack, the opposing center-back intercepted the ball.
The intercepted ball was sent flying with a long pass to the other team’s right wing—Richard’s defensive zone.
Richard glanced at the players’ positions.
’It’s empty behind me, and Warren is still upfield.’
’I’m standing in my five-pace parking spot. I just need to stop this guy.’
He didn’t consciously think about the process; his body had already made the adjustments automatically.
His stance stabilized, his center of gravity dropping slightly.
His positioning was perfect, forcing the opponent to slow down and change direction.
Richard seized the opportunity and stuck out his foot, poking the ball out from between the opponent’s legs.
Just as he extended his foot to pass it back, he noticed the ball’s trajectory was off.
This patch of turf was especially bald, and the exposed soil was uneven.
The ball hit a clump of grass and shot straight toward the girls’ side of the field, where they had their backs to the game.
To make matters worse, Lillian was in the middle of turning her head to speak to a friend, completely unaware of the ball rolling toward her feet.
’If she steps on that rolling ball, she’s going to take a nasty fall...’
Richard didn’t have time to think.
Four paces away. Ether surged up from the soles of his feet, making him as swift as the wind.
After a whoosh of wind, Lillian turned around.
Her two friends had jumped back to either side, one with her mouth still hanging open, the other nearly dropping her water bottle.
When she looked up, Richard was standing three paces diagonally in front of her.
The boy’s cheeks were faintly flushed, the wind had messed up his brown hair, and his shoelaces were untied, dangling loosely on the ground.
"...What happened?" Lillian asked.
"Intercepted a pass. A ball was rolling over." Richard knelt to tie his shoelaces.
In the distance, Warren had already run back to the midfield and was craning his neck to look in their direction.
Richard walked over, picked up the ball, and juggled it once with the top of his foot.
The ball bounced high into the air and landed back on the boys’ side of the field.
Warren looked down at the ball that had rolled to his feet, a dazed expression on his face.
"...When did you learn to juggle?"
Richard ignored him and walked back to his "parking spot."
Back with Lillian, her two friends had already closed in around her.
One kept looking back toward Richard, while the other was covering her mouth and laughing.
The tips of the girl’s ears turned red, and she jabbed her laughing friend hard with her elbow.
News traveled faster than a soccer ball.
Thirty or forty people had witnessed it firsthand, and once they all dispersed into their own little circles, the story began its first round of fermentation.
The initial version was reasonably faithful to the facts: "The ball rolled over to the girls’ side, and Richard went over to intercept it."
By the second telling, it had become: "Richard rushed over to block the ball for Lillian."
The third: "Richard made a diving leap and sent the ball back with a bicycle kick."
The fourth version had completely escaped the pull of reality:
"Richard ran from halfway across the field and stopped the ball with his chest just before it could hit Lillian."
By lunchtime, the cafeteria was noisier than usual, with several tables buzzing about the incident.
Warren slammed his tray on the table and started defending himself before he was even properly seated.
"First, let me clarify, that ball was a long pass to the right wing after they intercepted it. It wasn’t my missed shot."
"Oh, come on, what’s done is done." Mason, on the other hand, was more interested in the person who’d stopped the ball.
"Speaking of which, Richard, that kick of yours looked just like Stanfield."
Warren stuffed a piece of potato into his mouth.
"You used to just sit on the sidelines reading during PE. When did you get so quick?"
"I’ve been feeling better lately."
"A little better and you can run that fast? You couldn’t even make it one lap around the field before."
"I couldn’t even understand a Latin conjugation table before, either." Richard took a sip of hot tea.
Warren decided not to press the issue.
He had learned a lesson after the Divination Disc incident: there were some things about Richard Williams that simply couldn’t be explained.
’If something can’t be explained, don’t try to explain it. It’s much easier to be a friend than a detective.’
Mason, however, wouldn’t let the topic go. He slapped the table and said:
"Seriously, if you started playing, I think you could be a full-back.
"Quick reflexes, good positioning... your stamina’s a bit lacking, but..."
"Not playing." Richard refused flatly.
"Why not?"
"It’s easy to get injured playing matches. My health has just started to improve; it’s not worth the risk."
"...That’s true."

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