Amy Tucker didn’t know much about football, but even she knew something was wrong.

Although the horn for halftime had sounded almost five minutes ago, both teams still lingered on the sidelines. From her perch in the highest seats in the home-side bleachers, Amy could faintly hear the coaches and referees shouting angrily down by the away team benches. The cheerleaders and fans whispered to themselves while the marching band shifted restlessly in the endzone.

 “Hey Tucker, you’re good at magic, aren’t you?”

Amy jumped at the unexpected call from someone approaching her. She’d been so focused on the field that she hadn’t noticed Mr. Armstrong climbing up the steps. How could the big shop teacher, who also served as one of the school’s assistant football coaches, possibly be so stealthy?

 “A little,” she replied hesitantly. “I mean, I get good grades in Mrs. Hillard and Mrs. Thomas’s classes.”

Truth be told, Amy had long surpassed the lessons given in the standard magical theory classes that Charleston High School offered. She’d been going online for more material to challenge herself. She eagerly awaited an early graduation in December so she could get away and head off to college.

Amy’s foster parents had turned around from their seats three rows down to look up at their foster daughter of seven years with disapproving looks in their eyes. The Browns took a rather dim view on magic, having grown up through the tumultuous times of the 60’s, first the Portal Crises and then the Reawakening. They had resisted allowing Amy to take magic classes and had only relented when Pastor Arbuckle had given his very definitive words of approval.

Mr. Armstrong leaned forward to whisper, “Could you come down to the field and help us with something? I’d like to take care of this quickly.”

Amy shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Isn’t there someone better who could help out? Maybe one of the teachers or one of the parents who works at Eastern? I’m just a student, after all.”

Despite his obvious irritation at the situation, Mr. Armstrong looked pleased at Amy’s humbleness.

“You’re the one who’s here, Tucker, right here, right now. And I know you got that scholarship to University of Chicago. You’re the best we’ve got at the moment.”

Other people were taking notice, and Amy preferred to remain unnoticed. She already stood out, not just for her relatively rare gift of magic, but also for being a tall girl of noticeably east Asian heritage amongst a sea of white bread, rural Americana. It helped that the local University drew in international and Otherworld folks. But on a night when the locals celebrated the red-blooded American ritual of Friday night high school football, anything overly far from the familiar tended to be unwelcome.

“All right,” Amy stood up, stretching leg muscles that had gotten stiff from almost an hour of sitting on a cold, metal bench. “But I can’t promise anything more than my best attempt.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Armstrong smiled, quickly waving away the Brown’s unhappy protests. “That’s all I would expect from any of my players.”

 

Amy followed the coach out of the stands, across the track, and toward the home side benches. Several of the spectators voiced brief comments of curiosity that Mr. Armstrong mostly ignored. He did pause long enough to confiscate a sparkler bearing some decidedly prohibited enchantments on it from a pair of rowdy-looking junior high age boys.

While they were relatively isolated, Amy whispered, “What do you need me to do?”

Mr. Armstrong pointed toward the players milling about.

“I’ll let Larson and White explain.”

George Larson and Terry White were in Amy’s Careers in Magic class. Although she didn’t consider either of them close friends, they all held each other in mutual respect. Amy relaxed slightly at the prospect of talking with people who would take her and her abilities seriously.

In the glaring, artificial light of the stadium, George’s usually blue-grey eyes looked dark and bottomless, giving his youthful, freckled face a grim cast.

“Tucker, you’ve got to go check out their guys with that magic aura sight of yours. I can just feel they’re using something. I know it’s not a full-on spell or some such, but it’s making my head buzz.”

“Yeah, they’re definitely magicking something,” Terry agreed, his thick, sweat-soaked red curls bobbing as he nodded. “It’s not anything big, but I swear there’s something fishy going on. It’s gotten worse in the second quarter.”

Mr. Armstrong leaned closer to add in a low rumble, “And before you ask, no, this isn’t just because we’re down twenty-one to seven. That’s what the other side keeps saying, that we’re just being poor sports about being behind.”

Amy felt all eyes upon her. It took considerable courage not to shrink away from the pressure of the situation. Although she didn’t have much practical experience, she’d read plenty of books and web articles and watched hours of videos. She drew what courage she could from that well of knowledge.

“Could you describe any specific magic effects?”

George and Terry whispered to each other briefly before Terry spoke first.

“It sounds stupid when I say it, but their breath really stinks, like weird mojo stinky. And I might’ve imagined it, but I swear we saw sparks from their mouths a couple of times. Tiny little flashes, like static electricity.”

“And it feels like they’re not getting as tired as bad as they should,” George added. “They’ve been playing really hard all half. We’re barely keeping up. And they shouldn’t be doing this well, seeing as how Paris has got just as bad a record this season as we do.”

The rest of the players grumbled unhappily at that admission, but no one argued against George’s reasoning.

Amy’s mind started with the obvious possibility, “It could just be something mundane, like drugs in their water or the like. Have you asked the officials to check for that, not just spells or potions?”

Mr. Armstrong had a ready reply, “We already asked the refs to check. Twice. They assured us that they’d taken samples of cooler water at the beginning of the game. They checked at the quarter and again five minutes in when we asked them to. That’s part of the problem. It looks bad to ask them to draw samples a third time. It makes us out to be the bad sports.”

Amy didn’t fully understand the intricacies of the IHSA rules regarding fair use of magic during athletics events. She did know that consumed personal physical enchantments were mostly in the same class as performance enhancing drugs and the like, and communication magic was equally forbidden.

“Well, I could take a look, but I can’t promise I’ll find anything. There’s so much latent spirit energy from everyone being so excited that trying to see auras tonight leaves me pretty much blind for a minute or two. I’ve had to sit way up in the top of the stands just to get away from the worst of it.”

She probably should have admitted that sooner, but better late than never.

“Just do your best,” Mr. Armstrong assured her. “And I’ll come with you just in case one of their coaches or players tries to give you any grief. I’ll get Stan to join us.”