Chapter Four #2
And that’s how the first annual kick-off-shoe competition begins.
Martin drops any idea of continuing on his healthy run and we pump and kick our way to world record shoe-kicking status, carefully avoiding passers-by on the running path this time.
Neither of us ever make a shoe into the dog park, which is probably for the best because there are actual shoe-eating dogs in there, I’m sure.
But, we get mighty close. And when distance records are earned and recorded, we switch the game to the tournament-of-height and take turns judging each other’s efforts.
Charles, it turns out, can’t be beat in the height category, and we are all sad when his mom says it is time for him to go home.
I think we groan an “aw, mawm!” at her like real adults.
During one socked-feet-shoe-retrieval, Martin heads into the grove of trees.
I am across the field collecting my shoes when something pelts me on the back of my right shoulder.
I turn in time to see a round ball of something falling to the ground, then Martin snickering wildly and dropping to the ground to pick up more.
He rights himself again and launches another projectile in my direction. This time I dodge it.
“What are you doing?” I scream. “What is that?”
He’s reaching to the ground gathering more ammo.
Then I notice it. These beautiful sweetgum trees, which produce the most visually stunning leaves this time of year, also produce the most hideous seed pods, which are the size of golf balls, round and spiky with a small stem like an evil cherry.
They are everywhere in the grass under the trees, and Martin seems to be gathering them to launch at me.
Another one flies my way, this time with Martin’s added sound effects like it’s a missile.
I dodge again, grabbing two spiky balls from the ground under the nearest tree I can find.
I pitch one as hard as I can at Martin, but my aim is off.
A small barrage of spike balls come at me in rapid succession and I hear the roaring cackle of Martin’s laughter as I slide and duck.
“Oh no you don’t!” I declare, hitting the ground and collecting a handful of ammo.
I dive behind a large trunk and throw them at him one round at a time, grunting and yelling with each one.
Martin has incredible aim and his incoming sweetgum balls bounce off my protective tree.
I realize I can’t stop smiling, even though I’m trying to be an angry attacker.
My chest heaves with adrenaline and exertion.
I leap out from the tree to grab more from the nearest ground-supply, when I see Martin wind up like a pitcher and launch one at me in a perfect line.
I try to duck behind my tree, when it hits me smack in the middle of my back with a thud.
The pain is searing, and I fall into the tree trunk, holding on for dear life.
“My God, that hurts,” I scream, trying to reach around my back to rub the source of the pain, shoulder bracing the trunk.
Martin is laughing hysterically and begins to wind up again, and then stops mid-pitch when he sees I’m not ducking anymore. His laugh shifts from hilarious to moderate and he starts walking toward me, hands full of sweetgum balls.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No, I’m not,” I say. “I think it punctured my back!”
“No it didn’t,” he says, still coming at me, “I didn’t even throw it that hard.”
“Those things are sharp.” I’m breathing hard, and spinning a little still trying to feel how bad the injury is, but I can’t quite reach.
“Let me see.” Before I know what’s happening, he’s behind me lifting my shirt to expose my back. I instinctively raise my arms and allow my shirt to come up.
“I don’t see any damage,” he says, and then begins rubbing his hand along the spot of my back that stings.
The warmth of his hand causes goosebumps to sprout up my side and my spine stiffens, then slackens.
The pain is immediately replaced with a surge of euphoria and I drop my head.
He slightly massages the area with his strong fingers and I find myself strangely wishing for this moment to never end.
“There’s a red spot, but that’s it. Does it hurt to touch?”
Tingles are running up my neck. I have no words, so I shake my head. The blood pumping through my body slows and I feel light-headed.
“You’re fine,” he claims dismissively, lowering my shirt and grabbing my shoulder from behind, “You’re a big baby.”
I’m incensed, but smiling. Standing upright, I turn to face him. He’s smiling a big evil smile.
“Then you try a spike ball in the back,” I demand, “And see how you like it.”
“You gotta get me first,” he says, then before I know it he darts behind a protective shrub and is peeking out with more mortar rounds.
I scramble through the grass, grabbing sweetgum balls by the handful.
I realize that Martin has the aim advantage, so I’m going to need another strategy.
My peek-out-from-behind-a-tree method will never amount to much, so I blitz.
With a handful of balls and one ready to launch, I sprint toward him at full speed with a terrifying roar.
He hears me coming and screams, then turns to run away.
My attack strategy, which puts me in close range and him in a defensive run, also increases the force of my throw. My first shot smacks the center of his back, and he curls backward, falling to the ground like a bad stunt actor.
“Ow!” he’s screaming. “That’s a kill shot.” He’s writhing on the ground, trying to reach around to grab his back where the gruesome ball hit. I’m laughing so hard, it takes me a second to understand that he’s in pain. “I think I’m bleeding.”
“No you’re not,” I protest, coming toward him, reloading a new round.
“I think so.” He’s still trying to grab the wound, but his broad shoulders are in the way.
“Let me see,” I say disbelieving. He’s half on his knees, looking like he’s hugging himself in desperation, his shirt taut against the muscle of his back, so I kneel behind him and lift his shirt.
A darkening red spot appears on his left side, but I can’t keep my eyes off the cords of taut muscle rippling across the expanse of his back as he keeps trying to reach around.
I reach out to touch the spot, my hand rubbing the red, which turns white, and he stops moving.
I feel the warmth of his skin against my fingers and it surprises me, sending a surge of adrenaline all the way to my chest. I keep rubbing the smooth muscle, without thinking.
“Is it bad? How bad is it?” he asks.
“It’s just a little red,” I hear myself saying, but not really registering that we’re talking. His skin feels thin and warm against the thick muscle.
“Is it bleeding?”
I keep rubbing the spot in larger and larger circles, my hands caressing the thick cords of his back. “No. Just red.”
“Those things hurt!” he says, turning to me, still half-kneeling.
“I told you.”
Before I can form another thought, he lunges at me, tackling me to the grass and I feel a sweetgum ball pierce my spine from below.
I grunt and curl up toward him as he wrestles me to the ground, pinning my arm down.
I drop the handful of balls in the other hand and grab for his shoulder, flipping him onto the grass with a groan.
I’m straddling both of his thighs, pressing his heaving chest down with one hand, fighting off his strong hands with my other arm.
He grunts with a smile, and then one of his flailing arms grabs me around the shoulders like a hug, and he throws me over on the grass, pinning me to the ground as he straddles me.
He holds both of my arms above my head. His face is inches from me and I watch his muscled torso heaving for breath where his shirt is still pulled up.
We’re both gasping for breath, and smiling.
“I gotcha,” he heaves. Bits of spit hit me in the eye when he speaks and I feel his hot breath on my face.
I feel his thighs flinch around my midsection and the warmth of his core holds me still.
His puzzle piece necklace dangles near my chin, and I’m hypnotized by it.
For being so pointedly defeated, I’m feeling a surge of joy, or something I can’t name, rock through my body.
I relax into the comfortable warmth of it all, watching the puzzle piece swing gently, glistening.
Then, suddenly, he pushes off from where he’s holding my arms, and sits up straight, looking down on me, still straddling my torso.
I try to focus on his face, but I think my eyes travel all the way down his torso, taking in all the heaving muscles of his chest, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and the smirk on his face.
I think he notices, but I have no control over my gaze.
With a start, he hurls himself onto the grass next to me, laying his head near my armpit, almost on my bicep, and exhales.
I start laughing uncontrollably, and can’t stop. He’s laughing now too, and we turn our heads awkwardly to see each other’s faces, as we become hysterical. The laughter rolls on for what seems like eternity, until I heave a deep breath, spent and breathless.
“Liam, that was fun,” he says, folding his hands over his torso, sending his elbow into my side. The electricity of it against me is too much, and I turn on my side, propping my head up on my hand, trying to look him in the eyes.
“I feel like a kid again,” I sigh.
He turns his head to lock eyes with me and I see something trigger that I don’t understand, like I’ve just explained something meaningful. He stares at me for a long minute, then looks back to the sky, exhales deeply, and says, “Like a kid again. That’s how it feels.”