My mom gave him this—a small break from the chaos and nightmare at home.
It makes me forgive her weakness for the moment.
Owen is pulled from the game with five minutes left, the coach opting to sub in other players, thanks to our sizeable lead. And as much as Owen is still invested in the game, this rest—his body being idle—lets the bad start to creep in again.
I wait at the bottom of the bleachers for Owen to walk out, and one-by-one everyone leaves, until there’s only me, a few students I don’t recognize, and a man in a blue-and-white sweater, an expensive-looking briefcase at his side.
Owen finally exits the locker room, the exhaustion hitting him, his body dragging as he slides his feet to me, his bag with his uniform slung over one shoulder, his hair still wet from his shower. The closer he gets to me, the faster his steps come, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to need to catch him when he reaches me.
“Owen Harper?” the sweater man says, stepping out from the edge of the bleachers. Owen shakes his head quickly, his guard up instantly.
“Yes?” Owen says, stepping to the other side of me, pulling me in to him close, his squeeze tight.
“I’m Lon Mathison. We haven’t met officially, but I’ve sent you a few letters,” he says, reaching his hand out to Owen. Unlike other times, when Owen hesitates, he doesn’t here. Though his body next to me is rigid, and frozen, his arm manages to work, moving out toward our new acquaintance, shaking his hand.
“Right, yes…nice to meet you. Were you…I’m sorry, here for the game tonight? I didn’t know you were coming,” Owen stammers, looking to me and back to Lon, his brow wrinkled.
“I’m heading to Wisconsin, actually. A few appointments, but I figured…you know, Woodstock was sort of on my way,” Lon says, his voice coming out in a singsong way, his head bobbing from side-to-side. “You really handled that team from Union tonight. The Kellis brothers are supposed to be pretty good defenders. Didn’t seem to slow you down though, did it?”
Owen blushes from the compliment, pursing his lips in a tight smile. It’s the same face he makes anytime someone compliments his play. It’s more than humble; it’s almost like he’s afraid to admit to being good, afraid if he acknowledges it, his talent will disappear.
Or maybe he’s afraid people will notice.
“Well, I plan to send a few more letters. So, maybe just hang on to this,” Lon says, flipping open his wallet and handing Owen a card. I glance quickly, reading “DePaul University” before Owen slides it into his back pocket.
“Right, well…thanks for coming out,” Owen shrugs, his hand back in mine, his thumb tapping over mine, his anxiety absolutely boiling.
Lon nods once, then looks to me, but doesn’t bother with introductions. He’s out the door and pulling away in his car by the time we exit the building. We make it all the way to Owen’s truck without him bringing it up.
“So…DePaul, huh?” I say, trying to get something out of him.
“Yep,” he says, his answer short and clipped. Great, I’m getting this Owen again. I stare at him, waiting for him to break, to share more. Instead, he stops hard at the light, then turns to me. “Look, Kens. I don’t want to talk about it. That guy, he’s all dreams and opportunity and shit. And I’m just not feelin’ it.”
He reaches his hand over to my arm, holding it tightly, his eyes penetrating me.
“That’s nothing on you. I just need to get myself ready to go back into war. Please understand,” he says, my stomach falling to the floor of his truck, my heart stopping and my mouth watering with dread. I force it all—all of those feelings—down deep, hiding them from him, and I pull my lips in tight, hoping that somehow a smile is produced, and I nod.
“Okay,” I say, cupping my hand over his.
His phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, tossing it to me as the light turns to green. “It’s a text, from House. Read it to me?” he asks, and I open it and recite House’s words.
“You and your chick in for Sasha’s? Nick scored some PBR,” I read aloud.
“Pabst,” Owen says, noticing my eyebrow rise at PBR.
“Ah,” I say, opening the reply, my thumbs ready to type.
“Just type back ‘James.’ He’ll know what it means,” he says, and I do what he asks. Seconds later, House replies:
Sorry bro.
I put Owen’s phone away, and grab his hand again, and I hold it until we get home. His mom’s car is back in the driveway, and the lights are on in my house. We both have places to go, places with things that need to be tended to—things we both would rather ignore. But all I want to do is sit here, in his truck, in the dark driveway under the thin fingers of winter branches of the giant trees in our yards. Owen seems to want the same, because we both remain motionless for minutes, never breathing a word, until the first tiny, white flake hits the glass of his windshield.