Page 9 of The Way Home
I sat on my bed and set my laptop beside me, searching for videos of the Stony Creek varsity team over the last few years. As I watched, I took notes of successful plays as well as the fails. You could learn as much from what didn't work as what did. I paid careful attention to the opponents and their coaches, trying to see if I could get an idea of the calls they made.
I might never be as smart as Riley—the guy was a whiz with numbers and science—but sports required its own kind of math with pattern recognition, timing, and careful calculations. Sure, my jock ass wasn't going to save the world, but it could move a ball into an endzone against all odds. At least, that was what I hoped to portray.
Stony Creek. I couldn't believe I might be back at my alma mater, sharing something I loved with a new generation. I could practically feel the burn of the bright stadium lights and hear the sound of the obnoxiously loud buzzer. Was the scoreboard still missing the “M” on the home side? We were proudly,unofficially, the Stony HO_Es throughout my high school years, and even when we returned for the alumni games. It had been a running joke forever. At one point, a group of parents raised money to fix the sign, only to have the Mmysteriouslydisappear again within a week. They must have given up at that point.
A smile stretched my lips as I thought of the bonfire we’d had, destroying any evidence. I never said I was perfect, and I was certain my dad suspected my involvement, especially as the team captain, but he never said a word. But then he'd had plenty of stories from his own varsity days at Stony Creek. Once a HOE, always a HOE.
Feeling nostalgic, I put my senior year into the search and felt a grin stretch my lips when the familiar games came up. Even just seeing the thumbnail and brief game description brought back the memories as if they had happened a month ago insteadof years. My dad and I have re-watched the videos several times, analyzing or celebrating each play.
I ended up selecting the game that sent us to the CIFs. Though I’d never watched this particular video, it was a game I knew by heart, full of sensory memories. From the scent of wet grass after an unexpected downpour earlier, to the way we slid in the mud, and the looming storm we were hoping to beat. There was something in the air that night. An energy, an electrical charge, that made both teams practically feral. The cheers were louder, the throws were stronger, and the hits were harder. It was so intense, it felt like we were in a battle to the death.
Fourth quarter, third down, and only minutes left on the clock. Sitting in my room, watching the video, I braced myself with my hand resting on my chest without thought, knowing what was about to happen.
I'd taken some pretty hard hits before, but feet away from the endzone, a body slammed into me with such impact that when I hit the ground, it knocked the air out of me. Time ceased, and, for a moment, I wasn't sure I'd be able to breathe again. A cold sprinkle landed on my cheek as I lay on the field, and thunder cracked in the distance. The sensations were all locked together in my memory. Rain, thunder, breathless. The pain and the shock of it was still so real all these years later.
Instead of watching myself in the video, prone on the ground beneath the starting rain, wondering if I was going to die, I let my eyes shift to the crowd. In the video, everyone was on their feet with concern. The crowd was completely hushed, except for one lone cry.
“Jeremy!”
I'd heard it back then, back when I was waiting for my brain and my lungs to work again. I thought it had been in my head, thought it had been my own mind screaming from within, trying to snap me out of it. But seeing the video now, it was clear ithad come from the stands. From a lanky boy with unmistakable medium-length, black hair whose hands were clasped over his mouth. Despite the camera being zoomed out and focused on the field, I knew his face enough to see the horror and pain etched into it.
Alone in my room, I gulped in a deep breath at the same time younger me was finally able to breathe in the video. The length of time seemed to be encoded into me. It was seconds. It was eternity. After a decade, I still had times when a storm rolled in that I would stop breathing for the exact amount of time as I did on that field.
It wasn't a feeling I liked to relive, so I wasn't sure what compelled me to watch this particular video, when I usually skipped it. Although the comeback and winning touchdown were memorable for much better reasons.
I watched the boy in the crowd. Watchedhimwatching me as I stood up, brushed myself off, and waved to the stands. My smile had been forced, still trying to push back the panic of not being able to breathe, but Riley's had been real. It wasn't clear in the video, and the camera panned to follow me as I walked to the bench to get checked over. In my mind, though, I could see him grinning wide with tears streaming down his face with the relief that I was alright.
Something about hearing him call out my name in a panic stirred something deep in my belly. I always thought I imagined hearing my name ring through in that frozen moment. By the time of that game, a full year had passed since we'd broken up, our families officially joined, and our connection seemed to have died. We had been living together but might as well have been in different states for how much distance had grown between us.
There was no faking his reaction, though. Seeing it now, when he was in the same cabin with me, a cabin so full of memories, hit me harder than that storm-powered player.
Whatever this icy weirdness was between us, there was something beneath it. We had something real once, and it wasn't just one-sided. When Riley broke things off, it hurt. It hurt like hell. Still did. What I wouldn't give to get him back in whatever way I could. Under me, beside me, in my arms, or in the same room. Maybe it was all just fucked, but if I couldn't have him as my partner, I would settle for having him as a brother.
Growing up as a single child, I always hoped for a brother. When I found out my dad was dating Riley's mom, it felt like the best of both worlds. Someone who would always be my confidant and partner in crime, someone to play table hockey with, and maybe some tonsil hockey, too. Instead, it ended up being neither, and I couldn't decide which hurt worse.
Unless this whole thing was beyond any hope of repair, I wasn't going to let him push me away anymore. This had gone on too damn long. It was time to either turn up the charm or annoy him into accepting my presence. Perhaps both. I still didn't know why he was here at the same time as me, but I refused to simply be two passing ships in the night, existing in the same ocean but not engaging.
It was time to engage the hell out of him, whether he liked it or not. If I could write plays for a team on the field, then I could damn well strategize someoff-fieldplays as well. Thinking of the moment in the kitchen when I threw the sponge at him, when his wall came down enough to let a smile crack through, gave me hope. He wasn't unreachable. God, I wanted to see him smile again. It was brief, but it felt like the sunlight reflecting off the lake's calm water.
It took every ounce of strength not to cross the hall to check on him, but it wasn't the right time to start things. I just had to accept the tiniest inkling of a win when he came back out to help in the kitchen. No, tonight, I had to give him space. But starting tomorrow, well, that was a different story.
I put my laptop away and flopped on my back, staring up at the top bunk. It didn't creak or groan from Riley settling in, but I thought of him there anyway. “Goodnight, Ri,” I whispered as I had every night we'd shared this room. Most of the time, the response was as quiet as it was now in this empty room, but sometimes…sometimes, I would hear the faintest reply that left me wondering if I’d imagined it.
“Goodnight, Jem.”
On those nights, I would fall asleep with a smile on my face and dream of our summer love. The dream never lasted, though, not when I would wake to find him pushing me away and keeping his distance. Still, I reveled in those quiet moments in the dark when a whisper floated through the air like a dandelion fluff, and I would catch it and make a wish.
Fuck, if the guys on the varsity team had ever heard me talking like that, they would have given me so much shit for it. It wasn’t that they were homophobic. They all supported me through my pansexual parade of hookups, but bros were still bros and duty-bound to give each other grief—friendlygrief—which I was always happy to give right back.
Damn, being back in this house with Riley was dredging up a lot of feelings, and my mind was all over the place. I found myself thinking of the very naked Riley I’d surprised in the shower, and his sexy dark treasure trail, which had only been a spattering of hair when we were younger. Needing to distract myself from the grown-up image of him, I rolled out of bed, landing harder than I meant to with a thud, and crawled toward the duffel bag I'd thrown on the floor.
I was still kneeling on the floor, rifling through the side pocket of the bag to find my ear buds when the door flung open and slammed into my side, sending a bolt of pain through me and knocking me sideways.
“Jeremy! Did you fall? Are you hurt?” Riley stood above me, concern etched onto his face, reminding me of him screaming out my name when I'd been hurt on the field.
I held back a wince as I straightened and stood up. With a teasing tone, I said, “Well, I was fine until you came in.”
His brows lifted high, and he looked at the floor, realizing he'd been the one to knock me over. “Oh, shit! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. I just heard something and thought… I don't know. I'm sorry. Are you okay?”
