Page 30 of Escape Velocity
“Hello,” Mason says.
“Hi,” Callum says, his voice higher than usual.
Callum looks at the lattes in Mason’s hands.
Mason looks down at the drinks and holds one out to Callum. “I, uh—I got you some coffee.”
Callum rubs the back of his neck, not taking the drink. “I can’t drink coffee.”
Disappointment sinks through him. “Oh.”
He puts the drinks down on the bleachers and plunks his backpack on the other side.
“Guess I can have both of them.”
“Sorry, I’m just… not allowed caffeine,” Callum mumbles.
“It’s fine,” Mason mumbles back.
He blows out a breath and sees mist billow into the chilly morning air.
He takes his backpack, pulls out his list of questions from his file folder.
He takes out his pen from behind his ear and starts clicking it over and over as he scans the list.
There’s a mix of personal and professional questions. He’s nervous about the personal ones. He knows a lot of the answers already.
At least, he thinks he does.
They were best friends at one point, but seeing asCallum is a self-proclaimed “changed man,” maybe Mason doesn’t know any of the answers anymore.
Mason used to know Callum better than anyone else, and Callum knew Mason better than anyone. But now, it’s different. They’ve spent years apart, and Callum is likely a new and improved person. Someone who doesn’t have the same favorite color, TV show, or stuffed animal to go to sleep with.
Mason takes a sip of his latte, clears his throat, and decides to skip past any pleasantries.
“So, I’m just going to ask some questions about you and football. And just like I did with the game, I’m going to make it sound nice and professional. And it’ll get published inThe Goldberg, of course,” Mason says, still clicking his pen.
“Can you stop doing that, already?” Callum asks in annoyance, but there isn’t much bite behind it. Mason sees Callum’s eyes focus on his thumb on the pen, and stops mid-click, wincing as he has to click it one more time for the ink head to come out so he can write.
“Sorry,” Mason mumbles.
He shakes his head. “So—uh. I’ll start off with the easy stuff. How long have you been playing football?”
Callum inches towards Mason, to which Mason instinctively moves an inch back, likely unnoticeable to Callum.
Callum furrows his eyebrows at Mason. “Don’t you already know the answer to this?”
It’s more of a statement than a genuine question. Mason knows the answer, and Callum knows that Mason knows the answer too.
“You’re supposed to answer the questions, not me,” Mason answers plainly.
Callum puffs out a breath and shakes his head. “About seven years. During junior high.”
Mason nods and writes it down in his notebook. He remembers the day that Callum started practicing. He was tired and terrified of losing, but he still loved it.
Mason feels like that was the day he started losing him.
“Okay—why are you playing football?”
