Our intrepid Hero Defeats the Defiler, and our young Heroine Reveals her Power

And at that very moment, when even the teachers standing in the distance had started laughing, something resembling a small commotion began on the field.

"What's wrong with you, Golubev?!" Jerome Creighton's voice was heard.

"I sprained it... I think..." Valentin's voice was thin and uncertain, as if his leg had suddenly become embarrassed by the attention. He sat on the edge of the field, holding his ankle and squinting, as if he was about to cry.

"Well, great!" barked Jerome, who looked especially important today: his brand new boots sparkled as if they had been polished with English shoe polish itself, and there was not a single spot on his white shirt. "No replacement, then? That's it, we can disband the teams!

"Hey, let's..." one of the boys began, looking around.

And then the red-haired Petrov, always the first to shout something sarcastic, pointed his finger behind his back:

"Out! Let this one go! This... This ladies' man, he-he!" He laughed, looking at Xander, still standing a little to the side, behind the schoolgirls.

Xander shuddered. His hand twitched involuntarily - either to hide, or, on the contrary, to step forward. He didn't know.

"Are you crazy?" Jerome said with disgust, looking at him as if someone had suggested playing with a doormat. "He's the cook's son. From the house of York. Her errand boy!"

Some of the boys gasped. The girls froze as if on command, and one, especially curious, even stood up to get a better look at the "cook's son." Xander felt his ears burn, as if they had been peppered.

"According to the rules," Smirnov, well-groomed and wearing glasses, interjected, "only high school students participate. Only. It's written down."

"It's written where? On your forehead?" drawled the lanky Yermolov, lazily rocking back and forth on his heels. He always had an expression on his face as if he were laughing at something known only to him. "By the way, the Gospel says something completely different."

"In what other Gospel?" Jerome muttered.

"In the one you apparently read backwards", answered Yermolov, not without pleasure. "Judge not, lest ye be judged. And if the boy can run, let him run. The ball is round, it does not recognize castes.

Some of the boys exchanged glances. Delia lifted her chin slightly, as if she had heard everything but was not showing it. And Xander stood there, feeling how the ground beneath his feet had suddenly ceased to be so solid: either he wanted to fall through, or, on the contrary, to run as fast as he could.

Then a squabble began.

"How can you!" one of the well-fed and confident ones was indignant. "Cooks' children in football are like a frog in tea: the moisture is the same, but everything is spoiled!

"Nowhere does it say that it's forbidden," someone muttered from behind. "There's no sign on the gate: 'No entry for plebeians.'"

"Let him play if he doesn't get in the way!" Yermolov snapped, and someone next to him nodded. "What are we doing, a tournament on aristocracy?

"No, well listen, this is a match, not... Not charity!"

With each remark the voices grew louder, like those of market traders before the rain. The girls on the benches perked up, looked at each other, and one even asked, quite loudly:

"And the cook's children run worse?"

After this phrase, the argument suddenly died down - as if someone had slapped their hand on the table. Jerome darkened, pressed his lips together and waved his hand:

"Even if he is a gypsy baron himself, let him go! Just hurry up - our score doesn't add up!"

And that's all.

Xander suddenly realized that now it was really possible. No one grabbed him by the sleeve, shouted "stop!", shook a finger. He just went. One step, one more step, and here he was - on the field. On the grass that he had just seen from afar.

His cheeks were burning like a tomato forgotten in the sun. He hardly raised his eyes to anyone - he only saw the toes of his boots, which had suddenly become unbearably crooked and dusty.

"Over here!" someone shouted and waved his hand.

They put him in the stupidest position - somewhere on the side, right at the line, closer to the fence, almost under the acacia. A position where all you can do is catch dust and dodge balls thrown from afar. All the newbies started there. And Xander knew - it was no accident. It was Jerome. He had set it all up. He was probably smiling to himself, watching how the "cook's son" would puff himself up for laughter.

But the field is big. And the ball is round. And something clicked in Xander's chest - as if a locked door had suddenly opened. But here's the problem: right behind that door there were no flowers and applause, but dust, heat, and a ball hitting him straight in the stomach.

The first minutes were just torture. The ball, as luck would have it, bypassed Xander, as if he, the leather one, knew who the newcomer was and whose son he was. Xander ran, tried to hold his position, as he saw others do, but it all looked like he was just getting in the way. Once he almost collided with his own player, and the latter hissed: "Watch where you're going, kitchen hero!"

And then Jerome made a pass, seemingly by chance. Only it wasn't a pass at all, but a well-aimed projectile, and not towards the goal, but straight into Xander's stomach. The ball hit with a dry sound, like a slap on the back of the head from fate. Xander bent over and coughed, trying to catch the air that seemed to have left him along with the remnants of his dignity.

The girls' benches gasped cheerfully, then burst into giggles and whispers, like weeds. Only Delia jumped up and shouted something angry, but either the wind carried her voice away, or the girls' hubbub drowned it out. She remained standing, clenching her fists, and her lips moved, as if she were going into battle without a weapon.

Xander straightened up. His cheeks were burning, either from pain, or from resentment, or from the fact that he wanted to wipe his eyes - but he couldn't. Never.