The End

Chapter 8

                “I- we-“ I stammered. He looked so different without the ski mask. His smile seemed to fit, not just a pair of identity-lacking lips exposed by the black cloth. Laughing, he shook his head.

            “It’s fine. I’m only teasing. I’m Jason, by the way,” he said, extending his hand. Hesitantly, I took it. “Have you talked to Stephens lately?”

            “No, why?” I inquired. That is the second time in twenty-four hours that someone has asked this question, and I, too, am beginning to wonder what he’s doing.

            “No reason,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but his eyes told of fear that he had problems disguising. “So how is school?”

            “It’s different-“

            “I see you’ve made a friend, though,” he smiled, looking at Duke, who was stretching on the sideline. Though I tried to fight it, my cheeks grew hot at his suggestion. I nodded slightly, horrified as his smile broadened.

            “Only the young,” he said wistfully.

            We continued with the surface level conversation until the game actually began, players running up and down the field as warm-up.

            Duke and another boy from Seneca Valley stepped into the large circle at the center of the field with two boys from the opposing team. A man in stripes blew his whistle, and Duke took off like a rocket, his red jersey a streak as he ran down the field knocking the ball between his feet. Jason cheered loudly, encouraging his son. It was odd; seeing a man actually proud of the child he brought into being, that he raised. Jason turned to me, and smiled gently. Realizing I was confused, not about what, he began to explain.

            “The point of the game is to get the ball into the other teams net without using your hands.”  Looking back to the field, he quietly added, “Duke is the best they’ve got.”

            His eyes glowed, pride radiating from his skin. You could tell, just by watching him, he loved his son. When the striped man blew his whistle at Duke, his caring gaze turned steely. Under his breath, he muttered rude things about something called a ‘referee’ and a ‘foul’. His explanation did little to abet my confusion, but his reaction did. Not everyone was rigid, having no feeling. It was possible for a parent to love their child—but I didn’t have a parent.

            Jason and Duke shared many subtleties, which made the father-son relationship recognizable. The gray eyes, the brown hair, the broad shoulders, the manner of speech, it was all similar, but the variation was noticeable.

            While Duke’s eyes were guarded, compared to his father’s, they were an open book. Jason’s hair was neat, clipped short and combed sideways, tinseled lightly with silver. Both were tall, but Duke’s posture was more relaxed than his fathers. Their choice of words and effortless speech matched perfectly, though Jason’s voice was deep and weathered.

            Duke’s features were delicate, almost feminine, his skin soft and smooth. In the way of features, I can only assume Duke looks like his mother, as his fathers were terse, guarded though he smiled, like he was hiding something.

                                                *                      *                      *

            When the whistle blew, announcing the end of the game, a tired, yet satisfied Duke left the field.

            3-2, Seneca Valley.

            Of the three goals, Duke scored two. I sat patiently on the bleachers while Jason went to congratulate the team. Duke joked with his teammates, showing me a side of him I’d never seen before. I didn’t recognize any of the boys he spoke to, none of them in my classes. He actually had friends. He wasn’t the moody Punk Boy I assumed he was. He knew everything about me, yet I knew nothing about him, or his past.

            Glancing down once again, I caught him staring. He smiled and hurriedly bid his friends farewell. Running up the stairs, his spiked shoes echoed loudly on the metal. His grin grew with each clang that resonated through the stands.

            Finally reaching my seat, he looked exhausted, rushing to sit in the spot Amber had previously occupied.

            His hair matted against his forehead with sweat, he panted, trying to catch his breath after the events of the previous hour.

            “Hey,” he breathed, nursing a side sore from sprinting. He looked truly happy, his eyes shining, his face practically glowing.

            “Hi,” I responded shyly. Why would something so beautiful waste their time with the self-destruction I was headed for?

            “How did you like your first soccer game?” he asked, still breathing heavily.

            “It was interesting. Are you okay?” Midway through the third quarter, he had taken a rough slide-tackle.

            He smiled. “I’m fine. Are you?” he asked, suddenly looking concerned.

            “Yeah.”

            “Did my dad talk to you?” I nodded.

            He visibly blanched. “What did you talk about?”

            “Only embarrassing events from your childhood.”

            He grew paler.

            “I’m kidding,” I joked.

            He laughed, looking relieved.

            “Do you want to go out with me tonight?” he asked suddenly. “I mean, with the team? I’ll drive,” he offered.

            “Um, okay.”

            He relaxed.

            “I’m going to go shower, unless, of course, you think this is hot,” he joked, pushing his chest out. I laughed, playfully shoving him away.

            “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said, helping me stand. He gently kissed my cheek, pushing my hair back.

            Looking me in the eyes, he kissed me again. He grabbed my hands, our fingers instantly knitting together. He glanced down, staring at where we met.

            “Perfect fit,” he mumbled, “like we were made to be together,” he whispered. Suddenly, he looked up, kissed my cheek, and ran away before I could ask the question that swam into my sinister mind—were we?