The day classes started Richie looked through the history class schedule
and found a time when he could go talk to Miller. He had been completely
embarrassed when approaching the older immortal, but Miller understood and
admitted to Richie that he had been hoping he would ask; he hadn't had a
decent sparing partner in over ten years. And he was anxious to see if
there was any truth to the rumors of Richie's ability. They set up a
weekly match at 5:30 a.m. every Thursday morning on an old baseball field
just out of town.
It turned out Miller was pretty good, a little rusty, but Richie could tell there was a real force to be reckoned with after their first match. Miller also turned out to be a great teacher and decided that he would teach Richie some new tricks so next time Duncan decided to pick on him, Richie could surprise him with some new moves. Richie liked the idea of having something in his repertoire that Duncan didn't teach him. And having another immortal around to talk to was nice, too. There were some problems that John and Heather just wouldn't understand.
. . . . . .
"Bet you wish you were back in Paris now, don't cha squirt?" O'Neal laughed stealing the ball from Richie and taking off down the court.
"I'd rather stay here and send you," Richie mumbled in French to himself before following O'Neal. O'Neal shot and made a three pointer (a shot he had been working on since Richie started showing off how accurate his was) and they set up for the next play of the scrimmage.
As Richie moved into position a buzz crept through his body. He froze where he was and tried to spot the offending immortal; there was nobody to be seen besides his fellow teammates. Maybe it was just Miller coming to check out practice, but he had never done that before and had even told Richie during one of their weekly sparing matches that he didn't have the faintest interest in the sport. Something was amiss and Richie didn't like it.
"Ryan!" someone yelled snapping Richie's attention back to the game. But it was too late, Sinclair (a large junior that looked like he belonged more on the football team) ran directly over Richie. Richie fell hard to the court landing heavily on his left wrist . he heard the snap.
"Holy hell!" someone yelled also hearing the bone break. In a split second the entire team surrounded him and hauled him to his feet.
"Coach!" Someone yelled. "Hey Coach!" They ran back into the office and brought the coach and the mystery immortal out onto the court.
"Ryan, what happened to you?" Coach Roberts demanded spotting Richie leaning heavily on Sinclair. He felt nauseous and couldn't form any words to explain that he had felt another immortal and had gotten distracted, but he would be as good as new in no time.
"It's my fault, Coach," Sinclair explained for him. "I ran over the little guy." Richie was in too much pain to be annoyed by the comment. "Snapped his wrist like a twig."
"Ryan, talk to me, say something," Coach Roberts said gently.
"I think I'm gonna puke," Richie moaned, his voice cracking.
"Let me see your wrist," Roberts said holding out his hand. Richie held out his left arm, his hand seemed to almost be bent completely sideways. At the sight of it Richie began to sway a little. Sure he was immortal, it would heal soon enough.but that didn't mean he had to take pain well. "We have to get you to the hospital," Roberts decided. He looked up at the man standing next to him, the immortal. "Can you run practice until I get back?"
"Sure thing, Coach," the immortal replied. Richie tried to get a good look at the immortal, but he couldn't seem to get his eyes to focus. Roberts took Richie by the shoulders and guided him out into the parking lot.
In the time it took them to get to the hospital Richie's wrist was still very broken. Not as broken as it had been, but broken just the same. They whisked him off for x-rays and then sent him to get a cast put on. When they set the bone Richie could feel it begin fusing back into one piece. How he was going to explain this one he had no idea.
"How is he?" Roberts asked putting a protective arm around Richie as they met with the doctor in the hall.
"Well, I have to tell you, Coach," the doctor started. 'Does everyone call him Coach?' Richie wondered idly still working through the side effects of the pain pills he had been forced to swallow. "It was pretty close to a clean break." Richie tried not to grin. 'It was a clean break, at first,' he thought. "I give him a month at the earliest until he can get that cast off, maybe longer. It just depends on how fast of a healer he is."
"I'm pretty quick at it," Richie assured him.
"After that we'll have to see what to do from there. There might be some permanent damage," the doctor told them seriously. Richie tried to look worried, but he was so deeply drugged he wasn't sure what his face was doing. "We won't know until he starts healing."
"Permanent damage?" Roberts repeated. "Are you telling me I might have to bench my star player?"
"Well, defiantly for the next month or so, then like I said, we'll see."
Roberts looked gravely at Richie. "Your father's going to kill me."
. . . . . .
Richie got put under some strange form of 'dorm arrest' for the weekend. He wasn't supposed to work, go out, do school work, anything. All Roberts wanted him to do was sleep. All Richie wanted to do was call Duncan, but John or one of the guys from the team was always around checking on him. Under any other circumstances Richie would have thought it was kind of nice. He had always secretly loved it when Tessa would fuss over him when he got hurt or sick. But what he needed to talk to Duncan about wasn't fit for mortal ears. Richie breathed a sigh of relief when Monday night practice rolled around, he wasn't allowed to go and the rest of the team had to. That gave him two hours to work everything out.
"MacLeod," Duncan answered gruffly.
"Whoa, catch you at a bad time?" Richie asked.
"Richie?"
"Yeah, what's wrong?"
"Let's just say I'm starting to remember why I stuck you with all the paper work. What's going on?"
"Well," Richie started unknowingly slipping into the same tone he had been using for years when he knew Duncan was going to yell at him.
"Something wrong with Miller? Did he try to pull something? Are you okay?" Duncan rushed out.
Richie smiled and shook his head. So much for not worrying. "No, like I said, Mac, he's one of the good guys. He's even teaching me this two sword technique."
"It sounds like there's something more to the story."
"Well, there is someone else here. I don't know who, though."
"Did they see you?"
"Oh, yeah," Richie drawled. "I was kinda hard to miss."
"Stop stalling, Rich, what happened?"
"How long do you think I can fake a broken wrist?" Richie asked slowly. There was a slight pause, then a steady flow of high-paced-Scottish- accented questions. "Slow down, Mac. I can't understand you."
"What happened?" Duncan demanded. Richie went into the story careful to add every detail he could remember. "So you've been to the doctor's?"
Richie tapped the phone on the hard plaster incasing his arm. "Yup, that was the cast. They want me to go back in a couple weeks for another x-ray. What am I'm going to do?"
"Stall, it's the only thing you can do. And if they get you in there anyway, complain about pain, muscle spasms, anything you can think of to make it sound like you're still hurt."
"But, Mac," Richie protested. "The longer this thing stays on, the longer I can't play. We're about to start the Big Twelve. We're up against OU! I hate those guys; I wanna beat 'em!"
Duncan chuckled lightly on the other line. "You have three more years, Rich. Right now, you have to play hurt."
"What about the immortal?" Richie asked. "If we get into it, all he has to do is take out my good arm and I'm screwed. I can't hold a sword in my left hand, there's a cast in the way."
"So stay away from him. Talk to Miller; work something out. If he's as good as you say he is you guys can come up with something. In the mean time, I'll talk to Joe, you talk to Mike and we'll see if we can't find out who this other immortal is."
"Okay," Richie agreed. "I guess that's all there is we can do. I'll talk to ya later, okay?"
"Richie, are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, just anxious, and worried, and confused, and mad, and.and tired. I think I'm just going to call it a night."
Duncan could tell he was lying, but let him go. "Okay, I'll talk to you later. Call me if you find out about this immortal."
"Sure thing. Bye."
"Bye."
They hung up.
. . . . . .
Richie woke with a start early Tuesday morning. There was an immortal near by. Quietly he got out of bed and crept his closet, drawing his sword from its hiding place, then went to the door. He stood silently trying to gather up the courage to unlock the door. Taking a deep breath, he slowly turned the lock gripped his sword firmly, and opened the door. He looked up and down the hall but couldn't see anybody. He heard the ding of the elevator arriving on his floor. Deciding he wanted to know whom it was he stepped out of his room and ran quietly down the hall. He turned the corner just in time to see the elevator doors close.
"Damn!" he swore quietly turning and going back to his room. He stopped when he spotted a note taped to the door. "Damn," he swore again. He leaned his sword against the wall and opened the note.
'Richie, it's been too long. Meet me in the gym at eleven. I know your class was canceled, so you have no excuse not to come. You don't need a weapon.'
"Oh.shit," Richie decided. He heard John moan and begin to wake up so he quickly hid his sword once again and grabbed his cell phone before going down into the common room.
"Pick up, pick up ." His knee bounced as the phone rang. He heard the click of someone picking up on the other end. "Mac!"
"Richie?"
Richie paused. "Amanda? What are you- - I don't wanna know. Is Mac around?"
"Richie, we're a little busy," Amanda laughed.
"I don't care, I have to talk to Mac now. Put him on," Richie insisted.
"Fine," Amanda huffed.
"Rich? What's wrong?" Duncan asked as soon as the phone got passed to his hands.
"He found me," Richie answered. "And he wants to meet me this afternoon."
"Who found you?"
"The immortal."
"And he wants to meet you?"
"Yeah, at eleven."
"Crap."
"He's been researching me or somethin', he knows I don't have class," Richie answered a slight edge of panic in his voice.
"You've talked to him?"
"He left me a note on my door. He said meet me in the gym, I know you don't have class so you have to come, don't bring a sword." The note shook in Richie's hand as he spoke. "What am I going to do?"
"You have to meet him. Take your sword, keep as much space between you as possible," Duncan instructed slowly. "Don't accept or issue any challenges. Just go, see what he wants and leave."
"Okay," Richie answered. "Mac, what if it's an ambush?" Richie's time with Duncan had taught him quickly that some immortals go to any length to get what they wanted.
"Not in the middle of a college campus. Richie, you don't have a choice, you have to go. Just keep your wits about you. You'll be fine," Duncan assured him unsure of the words himself. "Call me as soon as you leave tell me what happened."
"Alright, sorry to interrupt," Richie offered in a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood.
It worked. "Don't worry, it's nothing we can't pick back up," Duncan answered a smile in his voice. Then his tone took on a serious edge. "You did the right thing, calling me. Don't worry about it."
"Bye, Mac. I have to go figure out how to get my sword to the gym."
"How about the traditional method of putting it in your jacket?" Duncan offered.
Richie blinked a couple times; he had been wearing so many sweatshirts he had forgotten about his jacket's special accessory. "I will have none of your common sense so early in the morning!" Richie scolded. "I gotta get some sleep. I'll talk to ya later." They hung up.
. . . . . .
At exactly eleven o'clock Richie stepped into range of the other immortal's senses, but kept himself hidden behind the bleachers in the gym.
"Right on time," the immortal commented.
"What do you want?" Richie spat.
"To talk, Richie. You don't have to be scared of me. Come out where I can see you."
"That's okay, we seem to be communicating just fine like this."
"Richie, I didn't mean to startle you; I know this is your territory. I've been watching you and I just want to talk."
"Are you trying to sound like a stalker on purpose?" Richie asked smugly.
"Richie, please come out and talk."
"Tell me who you are first."
"You know me, Richie. I want to tell you to your face."
"You one of Mac's 'friends'?" Richie asked putting icy stress on the word friend.
"I'm one of your friends, Richie," the stranger insisted. "Please come out. I'm not going to yell this to a gym."
Richie took a deep breath drew his sword and stepped cautiously into view. "So tell me. Who the hell are you?" The stranger and Richie locked eyes. Richie took a ragged breath. "Holy shi-"
"Ah! Watch your language."
"Oh, my God," Richie whispered.
It turned out Miller was pretty good, a little rusty, but Richie could tell there was a real force to be reckoned with after their first match. Miller also turned out to be a great teacher and decided that he would teach Richie some new tricks so next time Duncan decided to pick on him, Richie could surprise him with some new moves. Richie liked the idea of having something in his repertoire that Duncan didn't teach him. And having another immortal around to talk to was nice, too. There were some problems that John and Heather just wouldn't understand.
. . . . . .
"Bet you wish you were back in Paris now, don't cha squirt?" O'Neal laughed stealing the ball from Richie and taking off down the court.
"I'd rather stay here and send you," Richie mumbled in French to himself before following O'Neal. O'Neal shot and made a three pointer (a shot he had been working on since Richie started showing off how accurate his was) and they set up for the next play of the scrimmage.
As Richie moved into position a buzz crept through his body. He froze where he was and tried to spot the offending immortal; there was nobody to be seen besides his fellow teammates. Maybe it was just Miller coming to check out practice, but he had never done that before and had even told Richie during one of their weekly sparing matches that he didn't have the faintest interest in the sport. Something was amiss and Richie didn't like it.
"Ryan!" someone yelled snapping Richie's attention back to the game. But it was too late, Sinclair (a large junior that looked like he belonged more on the football team) ran directly over Richie. Richie fell hard to the court landing heavily on his left wrist . he heard the snap.
"Holy hell!" someone yelled also hearing the bone break. In a split second the entire team surrounded him and hauled him to his feet.
"Coach!" Someone yelled. "Hey Coach!" They ran back into the office and brought the coach and the mystery immortal out onto the court.
"Ryan, what happened to you?" Coach Roberts demanded spotting Richie leaning heavily on Sinclair. He felt nauseous and couldn't form any words to explain that he had felt another immortal and had gotten distracted, but he would be as good as new in no time.
"It's my fault, Coach," Sinclair explained for him. "I ran over the little guy." Richie was in too much pain to be annoyed by the comment. "Snapped his wrist like a twig."
"Ryan, talk to me, say something," Coach Roberts said gently.
"I think I'm gonna puke," Richie moaned, his voice cracking.
"Let me see your wrist," Roberts said holding out his hand. Richie held out his left arm, his hand seemed to almost be bent completely sideways. At the sight of it Richie began to sway a little. Sure he was immortal, it would heal soon enough.but that didn't mean he had to take pain well. "We have to get you to the hospital," Roberts decided. He looked up at the man standing next to him, the immortal. "Can you run practice until I get back?"
"Sure thing, Coach," the immortal replied. Richie tried to get a good look at the immortal, but he couldn't seem to get his eyes to focus. Roberts took Richie by the shoulders and guided him out into the parking lot.
In the time it took them to get to the hospital Richie's wrist was still very broken. Not as broken as it had been, but broken just the same. They whisked him off for x-rays and then sent him to get a cast put on. When they set the bone Richie could feel it begin fusing back into one piece. How he was going to explain this one he had no idea.
"How is he?" Roberts asked putting a protective arm around Richie as they met with the doctor in the hall.
"Well, I have to tell you, Coach," the doctor started. 'Does everyone call him Coach?' Richie wondered idly still working through the side effects of the pain pills he had been forced to swallow. "It was pretty close to a clean break." Richie tried not to grin. 'It was a clean break, at first,' he thought. "I give him a month at the earliest until he can get that cast off, maybe longer. It just depends on how fast of a healer he is."
"I'm pretty quick at it," Richie assured him.
"After that we'll have to see what to do from there. There might be some permanent damage," the doctor told them seriously. Richie tried to look worried, but he was so deeply drugged he wasn't sure what his face was doing. "We won't know until he starts healing."
"Permanent damage?" Roberts repeated. "Are you telling me I might have to bench my star player?"
"Well, defiantly for the next month or so, then like I said, we'll see."
Roberts looked gravely at Richie. "Your father's going to kill me."
. . . . . .
Richie got put under some strange form of 'dorm arrest' for the weekend. He wasn't supposed to work, go out, do school work, anything. All Roberts wanted him to do was sleep. All Richie wanted to do was call Duncan, but John or one of the guys from the team was always around checking on him. Under any other circumstances Richie would have thought it was kind of nice. He had always secretly loved it when Tessa would fuss over him when he got hurt or sick. But what he needed to talk to Duncan about wasn't fit for mortal ears. Richie breathed a sigh of relief when Monday night practice rolled around, he wasn't allowed to go and the rest of the team had to. That gave him two hours to work everything out.
"MacLeod," Duncan answered gruffly.
"Whoa, catch you at a bad time?" Richie asked.
"Richie?"
"Yeah, what's wrong?"
"Let's just say I'm starting to remember why I stuck you with all the paper work. What's going on?"
"Well," Richie started unknowingly slipping into the same tone he had been using for years when he knew Duncan was going to yell at him.
"Something wrong with Miller? Did he try to pull something? Are you okay?" Duncan rushed out.
Richie smiled and shook his head. So much for not worrying. "No, like I said, Mac, he's one of the good guys. He's even teaching me this two sword technique."
"It sounds like there's something more to the story."
"Well, there is someone else here. I don't know who, though."
"Did they see you?"
"Oh, yeah," Richie drawled. "I was kinda hard to miss."
"Stop stalling, Rich, what happened?"
"How long do you think I can fake a broken wrist?" Richie asked slowly. There was a slight pause, then a steady flow of high-paced-Scottish- accented questions. "Slow down, Mac. I can't understand you."
"What happened?" Duncan demanded. Richie went into the story careful to add every detail he could remember. "So you've been to the doctor's?"
Richie tapped the phone on the hard plaster incasing his arm. "Yup, that was the cast. They want me to go back in a couple weeks for another x-ray. What am I'm going to do?"
"Stall, it's the only thing you can do. And if they get you in there anyway, complain about pain, muscle spasms, anything you can think of to make it sound like you're still hurt."
"But, Mac," Richie protested. "The longer this thing stays on, the longer I can't play. We're about to start the Big Twelve. We're up against OU! I hate those guys; I wanna beat 'em!"
Duncan chuckled lightly on the other line. "You have three more years, Rich. Right now, you have to play hurt."
"What about the immortal?" Richie asked. "If we get into it, all he has to do is take out my good arm and I'm screwed. I can't hold a sword in my left hand, there's a cast in the way."
"So stay away from him. Talk to Miller; work something out. If he's as good as you say he is you guys can come up with something. In the mean time, I'll talk to Joe, you talk to Mike and we'll see if we can't find out who this other immortal is."
"Okay," Richie agreed. "I guess that's all there is we can do. I'll talk to ya later, okay?"
"Richie, are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, just anxious, and worried, and confused, and mad, and.and tired. I think I'm just going to call it a night."
Duncan could tell he was lying, but let him go. "Okay, I'll talk to you later. Call me if you find out about this immortal."
"Sure thing. Bye."
"Bye."
They hung up.
. . . . . .
Richie woke with a start early Tuesday morning. There was an immortal near by. Quietly he got out of bed and crept his closet, drawing his sword from its hiding place, then went to the door. He stood silently trying to gather up the courage to unlock the door. Taking a deep breath, he slowly turned the lock gripped his sword firmly, and opened the door. He looked up and down the hall but couldn't see anybody. He heard the ding of the elevator arriving on his floor. Deciding he wanted to know whom it was he stepped out of his room and ran quietly down the hall. He turned the corner just in time to see the elevator doors close.
"Damn!" he swore quietly turning and going back to his room. He stopped when he spotted a note taped to the door. "Damn," he swore again. He leaned his sword against the wall and opened the note.
'Richie, it's been too long. Meet me in the gym at eleven. I know your class was canceled, so you have no excuse not to come. You don't need a weapon.'
"Oh.shit," Richie decided. He heard John moan and begin to wake up so he quickly hid his sword once again and grabbed his cell phone before going down into the common room.
"Pick up, pick up ." His knee bounced as the phone rang. He heard the click of someone picking up on the other end. "Mac!"
"Richie?"
Richie paused. "Amanda? What are you- - I don't wanna know. Is Mac around?"
"Richie, we're a little busy," Amanda laughed.
"I don't care, I have to talk to Mac now. Put him on," Richie insisted.
"Fine," Amanda huffed.
"Rich? What's wrong?" Duncan asked as soon as the phone got passed to his hands.
"He found me," Richie answered. "And he wants to meet me this afternoon."
"Who found you?"
"The immortal."
"And he wants to meet you?"
"Yeah, at eleven."
"Crap."
"He's been researching me or somethin', he knows I don't have class," Richie answered a slight edge of panic in his voice.
"You've talked to him?"
"He left me a note on my door. He said meet me in the gym, I know you don't have class so you have to come, don't bring a sword." The note shook in Richie's hand as he spoke. "What am I going to do?"
"You have to meet him. Take your sword, keep as much space between you as possible," Duncan instructed slowly. "Don't accept or issue any challenges. Just go, see what he wants and leave."
"Okay," Richie answered. "Mac, what if it's an ambush?" Richie's time with Duncan had taught him quickly that some immortals go to any length to get what they wanted.
"Not in the middle of a college campus. Richie, you don't have a choice, you have to go. Just keep your wits about you. You'll be fine," Duncan assured him unsure of the words himself. "Call me as soon as you leave tell me what happened."
"Alright, sorry to interrupt," Richie offered in a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood.
It worked. "Don't worry, it's nothing we can't pick back up," Duncan answered a smile in his voice. Then his tone took on a serious edge. "You did the right thing, calling me. Don't worry about it."
"Bye, Mac. I have to go figure out how to get my sword to the gym."
"How about the traditional method of putting it in your jacket?" Duncan offered.
Richie blinked a couple times; he had been wearing so many sweatshirts he had forgotten about his jacket's special accessory. "I will have none of your common sense so early in the morning!" Richie scolded. "I gotta get some sleep. I'll talk to ya later." They hung up.
. . . . . .
At exactly eleven o'clock Richie stepped into range of the other immortal's senses, but kept himself hidden behind the bleachers in the gym.
"Right on time," the immortal commented.
"What do you want?" Richie spat.
"To talk, Richie. You don't have to be scared of me. Come out where I can see you."
"That's okay, we seem to be communicating just fine like this."
"Richie, I didn't mean to startle you; I know this is your territory. I've been watching you and I just want to talk."
"Are you trying to sound like a stalker on purpose?" Richie asked smugly.
"Richie, please come out and talk."
"Tell me who you are first."
"You know me, Richie. I want to tell you to your face."
"You one of Mac's 'friends'?" Richie asked putting icy stress on the word friend.
"I'm one of your friends, Richie," the stranger insisted. "Please come out. I'm not going to yell this to a gym."
Richie took a deep breath drew his sword and stepped cautiously into view. "So tell me. Who the hell are you?" The stranger and Richie locked eyes. Richie took a ragged breath. "Holy shi-"
"Ah! Watch your language."
"Oh, my God," Richie whispered.