the Devil and the Sea

8| The blond-haired guy

In the early evening of the next day, we gather at the football field that Phil recommended to us. We love to play beach soccer because of the sea breeze, the sand and because we can go swimming right after. But nothing compares to the feel of the grass under your feet, the control of the ball, the feeling of competition. 

We don't go to football fields that often because... well, you have to pay for it. And the beach is free! But today Phil invited us to try a field near his house. Phil, our outgoing guy, met the manager at the bar and got the place for free. So, I test the turf, roll the ball between my legs, play with myself.

When I get bored - and I get bored quickly - I lie down on the grassy lawn and feel a barely perceptible coolness on my back. I turn my head: Ricky and my brother Joan are standing nearby and chatting about something. Joan stands hunched over, his long arms shoved into the pockets of his shorts. If he straightens his back, he will be at least two meters tall. I envy him, because he went to my father's height, and I went to my mum's - and here I am, I'm only about one meter sixty!

My brother's gray eyes (which he inherited from my mother) meet mine, and he playfully slaps Ricky on the back and says something to him. Then he looks at me again.

"Give me a pass," Joan screams.

"If you need a ball, come and take it yourself." I wave it off, slightly pushing the ball away from me with my hand, and it rolls back no more than a meter.

"Well, let's play." Joan is not far behind.

"I don't want to, play with Ricky." I cut it off. I'm jealous that Ricky spends more time with my brother, I'm jealous that my brother is closer to Ricky than to me.

"How did I miss the moment when you turned into such a bore?" Joan teases.

I rise, resting on my elbows and looking at my brother, I make a funny grimace, making him smile. And he rarely smiles. He completely lost his taste for life when the girl of his dreams left him, leaving to study in Germany.

The heart contracts with sympathy; from realizing that the person you are most drawn to is usually unavailable.

The girl my brother fell in love with was two years older than him, by the way he is eighteen years old. But who cares about the age difference when it comes to love, right? What do you think are the possible obstacles in the way of love? Personally, I think that none, if, firstly, it's true love, and secondly, if it is mutual. And thirdly, if love exists at all.

I have not found answers to these questions.

I look around, gliding across the empty stands, then gazing at the hills in the distance. I'm seriously considering sneaking home, but the thought that Phil's friend from England is coming with him today makes me stay. I turn my gaze to the sky, stretch my hand up and "clamp" the plane flying in the sky with my thumb and forefinger.

Finally, after about six minutes, I hear Phil's approaching voice. I push myself up on my elbows again and look to where my friend's voice comes from. Next to Phil is a tall guy with glasses, apparently it was about him that Phil was talking about.

Tall, muscular guy with light brown hair. It is immediately noticeable - he behaves as if leaving the house he convinced himself that the whole world belongs to him. And yes, he's wearing a damn Chelsea shirt. I instantly lose interest in Phil's friend. Because, firstly, I do not like blondes, especially with glasses. Secondly, I hate Chelsea. And thirdly, because all this is combined in one person. This tall guy in a Chelsea shirt. It is true that sometimes we become hostages of our stereotyped thinking. But what can you do? Hang labels on people, we know how to do it and we love it.

I sigh in disappointment: all the hopes of a summer adventure are lost somewhere in the sun glare reflecting from this Englishman's glasses.

"How is your wound? Is it healing?" Standing next to me, Phil looks at me from the top of his height and, smiling broadly, points to the patch over my left eye.

I instinctively bring my hand up to my face to check if the patch is firmly attached to the skin.

The blond-haired guy follows Phil's gaze and gives me a strange look for a barely noticeable second, then this look instantly changes, and now his blue eyes seem to look through me. I, too, briskly pretend as if this Englishman standing at my feet does not interest me at all.

"Yeah, but I still hate you." I answer Phil and lean back on the grass smiling good-naturedly at him so as not to seem rude, especially after ignoring him all day yesterday.

The blond-haired guy from England lets out a haughty chuckle, and I swallow a sudden wad of excitement. I immediately realize that I have heard this chuckle somewhere before.

In confusion, I cover the upper part of my face with my forearm and try to discreetly examine this fair-haired guy who looks at this world through the lenses of his glasses. Why didn't he choose contact lenses? Light brown hair cut short, high cheekbones, plump lips...

Similar to those that were reflected yesterday with a graphic pencil on my canvas.

"I'm sorry I hurt you then." Phil leans over me and examines my face intently.

"It's okay, no need to apologize." In fact, I'm angry with him, but I understand that he is not to blame for anything.

"Okay, can I offer an ice cream?" Phil winks at me and straightens his back.

"Are you trying to buy my pardon with ice cream?" I wink back and Phil laughs nodding in agreement.

I try not to look at the Englishman that Phil brought in anymore and blankly shift my eyes to my brother and Ricky.

"Will you play? Or are you afraid now?" Phil asks with obvious mockery.

"If I muster up the courage." Sitting down on the grass, I shrug and catch Phil smiling apologetically. "I don't need your pity."

Phil's face changes, now his smile gives off warmth, and he and the Englishman, as if by mental agreement, simultaneously step towards the guys. Phil shakes my brother's hand, then Ricky's, and introduces them to the blond.

His name is Vincent.

How typical of him. Vincent from London.

I continue to quietly watch this friend of Phil, who behaves quite freely and confidently, and even pretends to be having fun, or he is really interested - I don't know.

I hear him laugh when Ricky makes a joke. It seems to me that I have seen this Vincent somewhere, he reminds me of someone. I have definitely seen a person with a similar energy.

I keep my eyes fixed on Vincent and scan all of his movements, even the movement of his lips as he speaks. Every second I get more and more worried.

Can't be.

Something my sick imagination played out - it can't be that stranger from the beach. It's just impossible. Why the hell can't I forget that damned stranger, and why do I see him now in others?

"I once did football freestyle..." I can't hear what Vincent says next with his funny accent: an arrow of awareness pierces me, - I swear, it's an arrow, - I already heard that damn voice and laughter.

Vincent bursts into laughter again when Phil pats him on the shoulder and the guys start laughing out loud at something.

Devil!

This is exactly it! It was Vincent who bullied me the day before yesterday on the beach when I was vulnerable. It's definitely him. I can't be wrong.

I feel the shivers again because I fucking really wanted to kiss him that time on the beach. To kiss this handsome Englishman.

Damn Vincent. It really was him. Then he was wearing no glasses. And no fucking Chelsea shirt either.