Chapter 18 — Cards （Beck） #2
The corridor ran long and white toward the film room.
Our steps echoed, falling into rhythm and out again.
Cole talked the whole way, fast, hands flying, about the scout look, about fries, about a song on the bus, about nothing.
I counted ceiling tiles to keep from counting his tells.
Twelve tiles. A vent. Twelve more. His voice bounced too bright off the walls.
“Did you see that safety bite the second clip?” Cole asked, snapping his fingers. “Jumped it so hard. Lunch money, gone.”
“I saw it,” I said. “I've drawn it. Pictures. Clean Thursday.”
“Pictures,” Cole said, step hitching half a beat. “Love pictures. Fastest way. Why read a paragraph when a picture does it?”
“No reason,” I said. My throat felt full of the question I did not ask. I swallowed it. “How'd your feet feel in the wet? Slippin' on cuts?”
“Nah, cleats bit fine,” Cole said, too quick. “Best drainage in the conference. Somebody should write a poem. Elite drainage.”
“Elite,” I said. “Poem pending. You sleep okay? You tossed around two.”
“Slept like a rock,” Cole said. “Baby rock. Great dreams. Touchdowns. That one song.”
“Hum it,” I said. “I'll tell you if I know it.”
“Lost it,” Cole said. “Songs are slippery. Like fish. Anyway, we've got 'em this week. I swear, I'm locked in.”
“I hear you,” I said. “I've got you. Same page.”
“No chaos,” Cole said, knocking the wall twice. “This week we're monks. Football monks. Silence and speed.”
“You talk too much for a monk,” I said.
“I'm the talkin' monk,” Cole said. “There's a hat. There's a robe. There's a whole deal. You'd look good bald, by the way. Real monk skull.”
“Hard pass,” I said. “I like my hair. Nora likes my hair. The hair stays.”
“Whipped,” Cole said, grinning. “Certified. Put it on a plaque.”
I would tell Nora what I saw. I still would not corner Cole in a hallway full of ears. Loyalty wasn't silence anymore; it was giving him one clean chance to speak before fear chose the words for him.
The film room door stood open, light spilling warm across the tile.
Deon dropped his bag and claimed the back chair with his foot.
Cole followed, still talking, voice echoing off the whiteboard I wiped clean every night.
I watched them arrange themselves, loud one and steady one, and three cards and shaking hands and a laugh that broke kept nagging at me.
“Scoot,” Deon said, shoving a chair out with his foot. “Park it, Picasso. You're drivin' me crazy hoverin'.”
“Sittin',” I said, dropping in. The plastic felt cold through my sweats. “Start at the red-zone bunch. I want the corner's feet.”
“Bossy,” Cole said, flopping down, chair squeaking. “Say it again, slower.”
“Red-zone bunch,” I said. “Watch the feet. Tell me what you see.”
“Feet watch,” Cole said. “I'm the foot guy now.”
We ran the reel. Routes bloomed on the screen like frost. I called the looks low and Deon nodded along.
Cole leaned forward, elbows on knees, jaw working.
Halfway through, his phone lit in his pocket, buzzing once, then again.
He glanced down, and his face dropped like a cut rope.
Color left his cheeks. He shoved the phone back deep.
“Everything straight?” Deon asked, eyes still on the screen.
“Yeah,” Cole said. “It's nobody. Really. Don't worry about it.”
“Nobody texts twice,” Deon said, half grinning. “Tell nobody I said hey.”
“Drop it,” Cole said, flat. “It's handled. Watch the reel.”
“Dropped,” Deon said, hands up. “You want the lights up? You look pale, bro.”
“I'm fine,” Cole said. “Projector makes everybody look dead. Rewind the bunch. I missed the feet.”
“Rewindin',” I said, rolling my pen once across my knuckles, breath counted silent behind my teeth. “There. Feet first, hips second. Tell me the tell.”
“He opens early,” Cole said after a beat, real focus breaking through. “Hips lie, feet don't. Somebody coached that. Probably us. Geniuses.”
“There's the receiver brain,” Deon said, grinning. “Knew you had one behind the jokes. Say it again for the reel. Louder, for the fans.”
“No encore,” Cole said. “Genius is fragile. You scare it, it flies away. Like a bird. Like a fast bird with great hands.”
After film the sky had gone wet concrete, dusk low over the lot. Rain threatened and did not come. We crossed to the parking edge, breath smoking, bags banging our hips. Lamps buzzed on, orange pools on blacktop. My truck ticked as it cooled beside us.
“You good to drive?” Deon asked me. “Eyes look tired.”
“I'm good,” I said. “Short road. Heater works.”
“Cool,” Deon said, bumping my shoulder softer. “Thursday. Bring those pictures. We'll eat.”
“I'll bring them,” I said. “Count on it.”
“You rollin' straight home?” Deon asked Cole. “No detours?”
“Straight home,” Cole said. “Scout's honor. Well, never was a scout. But the vibe is honor.”
“All right, vibe,” Deon said, laughing. “See you at breakfast. Sleep's a weapon, Beck.”
Deon jogged off, arms tucked. Cole hung back by my truck, bag strap twisted in both hands.
Lamp light cut hard across his face, shadow under his cheekbones.
For a second he looked eighteen again, freshman hall, homesick.
My chest ached, pressure behind the sternum, heat with nowhere to go.
I unlocked the truck, locks thunking loud in the cold.
“I'll see you at home. Don't stay out late,” I said.
“Yeah,” Cole said. “Straight home. Just gotta handle a thing first. Ten minutes. Nothing.”
“No porch light,” I said. “I've retired from dad duties. Drive safe.”
“Always,” Cole said, grin almost holding. “You're a good roommate. Best I ever had. Don't let Deon tell you different.”
“Filed under facts,” I said, throat tight. “Text me when you're rollin'.”
“Will do,” Cole said. He backed off, hands in pockets. “Whatever you saw back there, or didn't see, forget it, yeah? Lockers are boring. I'm boring. Borin' is good.”
“Okay,” I said. “Borin'. Now go before the frost wins.”
He headed for his car without looking back.
I sat in the truck with the heater running and watched the mirror.
He sat in the driver's seat a long time without starting the engine, head bent over the lit phone.
Then he started up and pulled out fast, tires spitting grit, taillights red at the exit.
I kept my hands on the wheel and breathed until the windows cleared.
The road home ran dark between fields, ditch water shining, bare branches combed against the sky. I drove under the limit and counted mile markers. Her voice came back from that morning, sleep-warm, hand on my cheek.
“Come back to me tonight. I'm saving you the warm side,” she had whispered, half asleep, fingers sliding to my jaw.
Heat ran up my neck. I pressed my thumb to the green thread and kept my eyes on the white line. Our promise sat warm in my chest: no secrets. I hadn't told Nora about the cards yet. At the next stop, I would.
At a stop sign I sat a beat too long. The locker room came back behind my eyes. The ajar door. The fallen glove. The three cards in the dark. His hand shoving them deeper. The unasked question sat in my chest like a swallowed stone.
Why did he have them? Why hide them? What did he need them for that he couldn't say aloud to me, his roommate since day one and the same hand that drew them?
At the stop sign, I pulled out my phone before loyalty could turn into another closed door.
I texted Nora: Found something in Cole's locker. Three picture cards I drew freshman year. He hid them when he saw me looking. He's scared. I don't know what it means. No secrets.
Her reply came before the light changed: No solo protecting. I'm coming over. Don't confront him alone.
I pressed my thumb to the green thread and breathed. Telling her did not betray Cole. It kept fear from choosing the next play for all of us.
When I reached the apartment, his car was gone. I stood in his open doorway with my phone warm in my palm and the three old cards bright behind my eyes.
Behind his spare gloves had stood three small picture cards, drawn in my own freshman hand—and now Nora knew exactly where they were.