Chapter 18 — Cards （Beck）
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I pushed into the locker room with my bag on my shoulder and stopped two steps inside.
My locker stood open the way I had left it that morning, clean shelf, light pooled flat across the concrete. Wet footprints crossed from the showers toward the far benches and dried as I watched, edges going pale. Two doors down, Cole's locker stood ajar, a black slit against the gray metal row.
I set my bag down and breathed in. Sweat, detergent, and metal.
The fluorescents hummed overhead in one long note.
A showerhead dripped somewhere in back. Weights clanked through the wall.
Cold came up through my pants from the bench.
On the drain grate near my cleats lay a torn strip of white wrist tape, ordinary locker-room debris, darkened by water.
I tapped two fingers on my left wrist, twice, brushing navy cord and the green thread she knotted hard against it.
I pressed my thumb to the green thread once and held it.
Her laugh sat in my head from the morning, that snort she hated, and I kept it there on purpose, warm, then put it away for later.
I lined my pens square on the shelf, caps all one way.
The small click settled my shoulders half an inch.
A head poked around the doorframe. Deon, hood up, bag slung crossways, grin already going.
“You're early. Good. I like it quiet in here,” I said.
“Man, it's a tomb in here,” Deon said, stepping in far enough to bump my shoulder with his fist. “Lights hummin'. Pipes drippin'. You love this spooky stuff, huh?”
“It's clean,” I said. “No noise in the pictures when it's empty.”
“Fair,” Deon said. He grabbed a roll of tape from his locker and tossed it once and caught it. “So you hidin' out, or meditatin', or what?”
“Neither,” I said. “I've got a scrap to run before film. Twenty minutes of quiet, then I'm yours.”
“Twenty minutes,” Deon said. “You schedule breathin' too, Picasso?”
“Only on Sundays,” I said. “Weekdays I breathe freestyle.”
Deon laughed off the tile and pointed the tape at me. “See, that's why I keep you around. Dry as toast. When's Nora gonna fix your jokes?”
“She likes my jokes,” I said. “She laughed this morning. Snorted, even. I'm the witness.”
“Oh, you're lovesick,” Deon said, hand over his heart. “Disgusting. I love it. What'd you do, huh? Flowers? Poems? Push-ups?”
“No push-ups,” I said. “I made her coffee. I remembered the cinnamon. That counts double.”
“It counts triple,” Deon said, laughing. “You're learnin', rook. Film in twenty?”
“Twenty,” I said. “Don't draw the whole offense without me.”
“That was my line,” Deon said, grinning, and backed through the door. “Pace yourself, rook. I've seen that face.”
The door sighed shut. The hum came back, bigger. I pulled a scrap of paper from my bag, a torn corner of a printout, blank on one side, and set it flat on the bench. I picked the black pen.
In the film room that morning the board had shown three looks I wanted to keep.
I closed my eyes and saw them again, lines and dots hung in white space, routes cut like constellations.
Near hash, safety high. Far hash, backer out, window under.
Red zone, bunch tight. I drew them fast on the scrap, small and clean, shapes not words.
My hand knew the shapes before my head named them.
I stared at the three little pictures a beat longer than I needed.
Then I wiped the ink hard with the side of my thumb until the lines smeared gray.
I tore it small, then smaller, and dropped the bits deep in the trash by the showers.
Same habit, smaller surface. Nothing stayed on boards overnight.
Her morning hand on my cheek flashed through me, warm palm at the corner of my mouth, and I shut it down fast and pressed both feet flat to the cold floor.
“I've got her laugh in my head and I'm keeping it there,” I said, low, to the empty room.
I stood with the damp towel in my hands, folding it edge to edge, when the glove fell.
It dropped out of Cole's ajar locker two doors down with a soft slap on concrete, white receiver glove, fingers still curled from wear.
The door had drifted wider. Inside, the dark smelled like Cole, citrus spray and old leather.
Spare gloves stacked neat on the shelf. Tape rolls. His practice jersey hung crooked.
I bent, picked up the glove, and stepped the two doors down. I hung it back on its hook by the wrist strap, straight, fingers flat. That was all I meant to do.
Behind the spare gloves, tucked where the shelf met the side wall, stood three small cards.
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
I knew that hand before I knew what I knew.
Thick black marker, letters big and round, routes drawn as shapes, stars for breaks, a square for the ball.
Freshman fall, my dorm desk, late nights, my own wrist cramping.
I had drawn hundreds like them back then, pictures for plays, because the words swam and the pictures held still.
Slant with a star cut. Post with a double star.
Out with a square boxed twice. Corners soft with handling. Ink faded gray at the folds.
My thumb found the green thread and pressed hard enough to hurt. I breathed in through my nose, out slow, twice, and my jaw unclenched on the second exhale. The showerhead ticked in back. My pulse beat in my throat, thick. I said nothing.
Footsteps scuffed in the corridor, and Deon came back through the door with a fresh shirt over his arm.
He read the air in one glance and stopped.
He crossed to me and clapped my shoulder once, palm heavy and warm, and left it there a beat longer than usual.
The weight ran down through my chest and loosened something locked there.
“You've got that look. Don't overthink it, rook,” Deon said, quiet.
“I'm good,” I said. My voice came out flat. “Just shook off a memory, that's all.”
“Uh-huh,” Deon said. His eyes cut to Cole's open locker, to my hand near the shelf, and back to my face. He did not ask. “What's the damage? Talk to me.”
“No damage,” I said. “Glove fell out. I've hung it back. That's the whole story.”
“That so,” Deon said. He squeezed my shoulder once and let go. “Listen. We'll run routes Thursday. You'll call 'em, I've seen you.”
“Thursday,” I said. “I've got the red-zone bunch ready. Pictures, not words. It'll hit.”
“I know it will,” Deon said. “Whatever that is over there, it ain't yours to carry tonight. Let it sit. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” I said. “Let it sit.”
“Good man,” Deon said, backing toward the corridor. “I'll hold chairs. Don't be long. And breathe. You look like you swallowed a whistle.”
Fast steps hit the corridor, laces slapping, and Cole blew through the door with his bag half zipped and his hair wet from the rain starting outside. He saw me at his open locker and stopped dead, grin slamming into place a beat too fast.
“You're in my locker, man. What's up, you need tape?” Cole asked, voice high and loud off the tile.
“Your glove fell. I've hung it back, that's all,” I said. I stepped back one step, hands open, towel still in my left fist.
Cole laughed, fast, wrong at the edges, and crossed in three long strides.
He saw the three cards where the spare gloves had shifted.
His hand shot out and shoved the cards deeper into the dark, behind the stack, out of sight.
The spare gloves toppled and he stacked them again, too quick, fingers fumbling.
“Dude, boundaries,” Cole said, grin stretched thin. “A man's locker is sacred. There's rules. Geneva stuff.”
“Noted,” I said. “Geneva.”
“Good,” Cole said. “Don't touch my system. It looks like chaos, but there's a method. Ask Deon.”
“Deon's gone,” I said. “It's just us. I'm not touching anything.”
“Cool,” Cole said. He spun a tape roll, dropped it, caught it off his thigh. “So you're just loungin' in the gloom?”
“I'm waiting on film,” I said. “You're early too. Thought you'd be home.”
“Rain. Lines. The world conspired,” Cole said, waving at nothing. “You know Sundays. Slow as hell, then fast.”
His hands shook. I watched the shake run from his wrist to the tape roll and back. The laugh had failed in the middle and left his mouth flat. My chest went cold and tight, dread pooled low, winter water under ice. I kept my face plain. I kept my mouth shut.
“Quit starin',” Cole said, waving at my face without meeting my eyes. “That laser stare. That quarterback autopsy stare. Cut it out.”
“I'm fine. Seriously. Don't give me that stare,” Cole said, sharper, chin up. “I'm good. Locked in. Don't do the worry thing.”
“Okay. I've dropped it. Let's hit film,” I said.
“Film,” Cole said, too loud. “Yes. Love film. Let's watch ourselves be awesome in high definition.”
“Grab your lid?” I asked. “Door keeps slammin' in the wind.”
“Got it, got everything,” Cole said, yanking his bag shut. “Tape, gloves, mindset. Mindset with a capital everything.”
Deon stuck his head back in. “Grab your stuff, slowpokes,” Deon said. “Coach'll lock the door and leave us in the rain. That'd be a story, though.”
“We're comin',” Cole called. “Tell the projector to make me look fast.”
“It can only do so much,” Deon said, and ducked out laughing. “Hurry up. I'm savin' chairs, not the row.”
I shut my own locker after a last look. The decoy notebook sat there where it always sat, black cover, grid pages, patient as bait.
The real one rode safe with her across town, and the thought steadied my hands as I zipped my bag.
I left the pens squared, caps one way, and followed Cole out.
The door sighed. The hum cut off behind us.