Read Divisions (Dev and Lee) for Free Online

again. And this time, Miski lets him go. The big tiger charges straight through the line.
    The Pilots got so used to him covering the fox that this catches them off guard. Their quarterback is good, though; he realizes right away that this means the fox is uncovered and cocks to throw in that direction.
    And Marvell is right there, pacing the fox stride for stride. The quarterback hesitates, moves to his second read, and then he has to dodge out of the way of Miski to avoid being sacked.
    He doesn’t quite make it.
    The crowd goes as still as their quarterback, and then, like him, they get up again, cheering their team on as they line up for fourth down. There’s no question of a field goal now; they need to get a first down. The quarterback lines up in the shotgun, takes the snap, drops back to pass. And the Firebirds are blanketing all his receivers, all of them. Miski sticks to the fox like glue. The corners and safeties jostle with the wideouts. And here comes the leopard, Carson Omba, the other outside linebacker, escaping his blocker and charging the quarterback.
    Gamely, the lion tucks the ball down and tries to run, but he has nowhere to go. He runs into his own line and the leopard grabs him and he falls and he’s on the forty-four of Chevali and it’s Firebirds ball and that’s it, that’s the ballgame. The Pilots don’t have enough timeouts to stop Aston from kneeling and running out the clock, and the final score stays up there on the scoreboard no matter how much we rub our eyes: 20-19. Firebirds win.
    I can’t believe it. This kind of thing just doesn’t happen.
    Lee runs past me, out of the box. I get up just as the door swings shut behind him, but I resist the urge to follow him. Instead, I just put my ear to the door and listen. Brenly gives me a disapproving look, so I smile back.
    All I hear at first is gasping, and then there’s laughing and then, finally, a long, sustained cry of “YEEEEEESSS!” A thump, like a body slumped against a wall in relief, and a high-pitched sound like tension being vented through a steam whistle.
    I chuckle to myself and leave the kid to celebrate. “I’m curious,” I say to Brenly as I sit down. “It’s why I’m a reporter.”
    “You’ve certainly got a passion for it,” he grumbles.
    The weasel and his friends stand, packing up their stuff. They thank Ponaxos for the seats, talk about when they’ll see him again, and file past us without saying anything. As the weasel passes us, he drops a clump of bills into my lap.
    “Thanks,” I say, but he doesn’t even turn.
    I give Brenly his forty just as Lee comes in from the outside, his smile as big as I’ve seen it. “Perfect end to a perfect weekend,” he says.
    He’s been in the hospital, in jail, and this is a perfect weekend? Brenly’s last comment to me echoes in my head, and it clicks, then, the heart of my story. It’s the passion—not just the attraction to each other, but Lee’s passion for life, Miski’s passion for football. That’s what binds them together. That’s what Cim and I never had, that’s what got Miski to come out on TV and Lee to drive five hours to pick a fight with a tiger twice his size and Miski to fly up there to get him and Lee to stand here pressed against glass for three hours devouring every scrap of action that happens on the field. It’s a passion for life, when you get right down to it.
    With that realization comes jealousy. I’m older and wiser, I tell myself. That makes up for it. But there’s no getting around the fact that this kid feels something I’ve never felt before, akin to what the kids down on that field feel every week, or what the cougar walking past us out of the box feels with his business.
    But just because I haven’t felt it doesn’t mean I can’t write about it. I’ve got my story now, and I’m already composing the end of it in my head as I stand with Brenly.
    “Lee,” Brenly says. “Coming?”
    The kid puts his paw up and