Milán
We make it to the stadium on Saturday with a sullen, silent Rory trailing a few steps behind me, dragging his feet and being as obvious as possible about his reluctance to be here for a person who’s apparently taken a vow of silence.
I’d say I don’t care, but there’s been something happening to me ever since I bribed Rory to be here.
Nerves.
They’ve been slowly gathering in my belly over the past few days. Gradually, so I couldn’t put a finger on it at first. But the uncomfortable, nagging feeling has intensified to the point where I can’t pretend it’s not there anymore.
I don’t understand it.
I don’t care.
What’s more, I don’t want to care.
All I want is to get Rory’s punishment sorted so I never have to go to his school again and deal with authority figures and rules and regulations. I get hives even thinking about it, so getting this thing off my to-do list is my sole goal.
Except seeing Jordan again.
It’s another thing I don’t want to admit to myself.
I want to see him again.
I don’t want to admit it, sure, but at least that wish makes sense. The man is hot and easy to hang out with. He’s a friendly face in my miserable sea of incompetence.
Now, Rory? That’s a whole other deal.
Somehow, between Thursday and now, instead of just wanting to make sure he showed up for soccer, I now find myself… rooting for him to enjoy himself.
Fuck knows where that’s coming from.
I want him to have a good experience. At first I told myself it was because it’d make things a lot easier, because then it’d be much less likely that he’d put up a big fight about going every damn time.
And that’s a part of it, sure.
Part of it, but not all of it.
I want him to have a good time just because I want him to have a good time.
It’s a perplexing realization, and since I’m not sure what to do with it, I refrain from poking at it.
I’m sure it’ll pass. I’m not actually known for being sentimental, so this is just a trauma reaction or something.
I’ll get over it eventually, and until I do, I will do the mature, healthy thing and pretend it’s not there.
We arrive at the stadium, and I point out the changing room to Rory. He looks down at his jeans and T-shirt.
“Oh, man. I forgot my change of clothes,” he says in an impressive monotone. An acting career is clearly not in his future, unless he plans to be typecast as a moody teenager until he grows facial hair.
“You’re in luck.” I give him a nice, wide grin and shrug off the backpack. “I grabbed them.”
I hold the bag out to him, and he stares back for a few seconds before he huffs, snatches the bag, and stalks into the changing room.
“I’ll be cheering from the sidelines,” I call after him. “T-shirts with your name on them should arrive shortly.”
He ignores me. I wait for a bit to make sure he doesn’t try to sneak out, then make my way to the field.
I spot Jordan as soon as I walk through the gate. He’s on the field setting up a series of cones while talking and laughing with two other people, dressed in the same kind of tight pair of sweats he was the last time I saw him: a V-neck T-shirt and a pair of light gray running shoes.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my own sweats and take a moment to enjoy the view whenever he bends down to place another one of those bright orange cones.
He turns around once he reaches the end of the field and absently scans the rows of seats. Could he be… Nah. I don’t think he’s looking for me. That’s an absurd hope.
His eyes land on me.
And he smiles.
I lift my hand in a dorky wave, and his grin widens before he jogs toward me.
“So?” he says when he reaches me. “Did the bribe work?”
“We now call it motivation. For posterity.”
He laughs, and I smile back.
“It got him here,” I say. “We’ll see if it gets him out of the locker room.”
“It will. Who wouldn’t want to come out here and sweat a bit for pencils.” He purses his lips thoughtfully. “You know, not to be judgmental, but at thirteen I was gunning for beer. At the very least, I would’ve asked for video games.”
“I know. I fear for the youth and am embarrassed for them in equal measure.”
We both laugh, and I try not to think about the fact that this is something people worry about with teenagers, and now that I’ve thought about it, I’m sort of worried too.
Jordan cocks his head to the side. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
“No, you definitely got the look.”
“The look?”
“Yeah. That slightly pale expression of horror I had when I found out they stopped making the deep-fried cherry pies they sold in the bodega down the street from our house.”
My lips twitch. “Was that a real blow for you?”
“I wrote to my local representative.”
I throw my head back and laugh out loud. “And did they fix the legislation to force the sale of deep-fried cherry pies?”
“They sent me two stickers and a pen. A few weeks later the bodega started selling deep-fried apple pies, and they were mentioned by some celebrity, so people lined up down the street to get them. But I didn’t buy any as a sign of protest and a way to bankrupt them.”
“Did it work?”
“Revenge takes time, so they’re still open, but I’m betting it’ll be any day now.” He crosses his fingers.
“I’m sorry about the pies. As a sign of solidarity, I shall not buy any of those deep-fried apple pies from… What’s the address? So I can definitely avoid buying those apple pies that don’t sound delicious at all.”
“Thank you for understanding.” He lifts his chin toward me. “So? What was that look about, then?”
I shake my head. “Just remembering when I was a teenager and trying to estimate how much of my behavior might have been caused by genetics.”
“Because you were a proper young gentleman and are trying to determine if it was a fluke or if history will repeat itself?”
“I did so much unbelievably dumb shit.”
He laughs again. “I think that’s par for the course.”
“How are you so calm about this?”
“No point in preemptively freaking out.” He shrugs.
“Okay, and how do you do that? I’d prefer highly detailed instructions.”
He laughs and throws his arm over my shoulders to steer me toward the stands. “Come on. Let’s get ourselves some good seats.”
We watch the boys start to come out of the changing rooms. Some walk alone, others in small groups.
Rory is the last to emerge, dragging his feet, eyes firmly set on the ground.
He stops in the entrance and frowns at the toes of his sneakers for a bit before he takes a quick glance around.
Our gazes meet. He doesn’t acknowledge me, exactly.
But he doesn’t frown or glower at me either.
For some bizarre, unexplainable reason, it feels like a win. I’ve seriously lowered my standards for what I consider an accomplishment.
We make it to the stands behind the players’ bench, where a few other parents are standing around. Most are chatting with each other, but there’s a woman who looks up and smiles widely at Jordan when she sees him approach.
“And here I was starting to think you’d abandoned me.”
Jordan shakes his head. “I would never. Just roping in more free labor so I can sit around and do nothing. Like a pyramid scheme for lazy parents.”
She swats him on the chest and laughs. “You would never.”
“Milàn, this is Chloe. Chloe, Milàn.”
She holds out her hand, and we shake.
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“I’ll grab the food,” Jordan says.
“Do you need any help?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “It’s just one box. I can manage.”
He walks away, and I try not to stare too much.
“Which one is yours?” Chloe nods toward the field.
“The surly one,” I say.
“You have to be more specific when they’re that age.”
I really don’t, though.
The kids all stop by the bench and drop off their jerseys, and Chloe directs them to keep everything in order.
She grins when she sees me looking. “If there’s nobody to lecture them they’ll just throw everything in a pile, and it’ll take ages to figure out which clothes belong to which kid.
Plus, there’s always leftovers absolutely nobody is willing to claim as theirs because taking them off sixty minutes earlier is immediately followed by amnesia of some peculiar kind.
I’ve had kids here ready to go home without a shirt because they cannot fathom that if there’s one boy without a shirt and just one shirt in the lost and found pile, it means it has to be theirs.
Sorting clothes into piles makes it easier for everybody. ”
“Makes sense.”
“So,” Chloe says when all the kids have headed back to the field, “how do you know Jordan?”
“Rory goes to school with Theo,” I say carefully.
“St. Patrick’s? You must have a smart one in your hands. St. Pat’s is known for their academics.”
“I…” I frown. “…suppose?” I say. Truthfully, I haven’t given much thought to how Rory’s doing at school.
I usually consider it a win if I don’t get a call telling me he hasn’t shown up.
But now that I’m thinking about it, I haven’t actually been contacted by any of his teachers about him missing an assignment or about his grades.
Considering how many times he’s failed to even show up, he’s doing remarkably well.
He’s a good student without putting much effort in.
Kind of makes you wonder what he could achieve if he applied himself.
Jesus Christ. Applied himself? What have I become?
You know what? Fuck it. That’s for Aiden to figure out. But I do make a mental note to talk to him about it.
“There you are. I was this close to missing you,” Chloe says, and her eyes light up. I turn my head and watch Jordan approach before I glance at Chloe again.
Her smile has kicked into high gear, inching toward dazzling, and she playfully pushes Jordan’s shoulder.
“The cooler wasn’t cooperating,” Jordan says, and Chloe laughs like it’s the best joke she’s ever heard.