Heal the Heart

22.

Being in a stadium was a million times different from a regular turf with fake grass that sent electricity running up your arms whenever you touched someone. And not in the good way. The fake grass did have its perks, though. Like mud not splashing all over me whenever I played in the rain or being able to face plant on the ground without dirt settling in my molars.

The university did a good job with its football stadium. With blinding floodlights and large towering stands circling the immaculate green pitch, it stood like a majestic mosaic of concrete and steel. If only the team did as good, perhaps the stadium wouldn't be open on Sundays for any and all to play to make the board feel they didn't just waste millions of dollars on a losing team.

Some of the guys were re-marking the football pitch with aerosol, spraying it on each other more than on the field. The scent of freshly cut grass loomed as I walked along the side, my eyes strictly on Beck, who was on his feet talking to Diego and a couple of the other players lacing their boots. He looked radiant as ever, hair messy from the wind, hands snug in his jacket pockets, magenta tinted nose and cheeks, undone shoe laces, a lazy smile just stuck on his face like it belonged there. It did belong there. I stood a few feet away, just taking him in. He was so relaxed and at ease; I wanted to imprint him in my mind's eye so I could imprint him on paper later in the night.

"Hey hey!" I bumped fists with Diego and Nakamura. And gave a cheeky As-salamu alaykum to Ahmed, who returned the sentiment.

"And here we thought you forgot about us," Chen said when I plopped down beside him on the unsturdy bench to lace up.

"Nah, bro, just been busy. This sem is crazy, plus I've got work. Only on Sunday evenings I can pretend the world's gone to shit and sleep like a log."

"D'Costa just doesn't want to let us see how rusty he's gotten, eh?" Diego hollered from the other end. "I had to call the fucking hockey player to get him down here."

Speaking of the hockey player, I was deliberately ignoring Beck.

And I succeeded.

For a grand total of five seconds before he sat down beside me and pulled on my sleeve. "Dude! You know these guys? How? What? And why do I not know this?"

"I've been playing with these losers since freshman year."

"Man, can't believe we're almost halfway through our third year," Nakamura said, bouncing on his toes.

"And I can't believe you all still suck. Some would say having such a good player," I gestured to myself, "in your vicinity would make you wanna work harder. Instead, you all are just moving backwards."

Ahmed flung his head back and had a hearty laugh, as though he wasn't part of the university team that lost almost every match they played.

"Let your skills do the talking, bro," Chen said, slapping me on the back. "Light up the field and then we'll have a chat, eh?"

"My skills don't just talk, Chen." I lunged for him and pulled him in a headlock. "They scream."

One holler, more than a few boos and a lot of fuck-offs made their way to me. Chen wrestled out of my hold, shoved me and then went for laps with the rest of the guys who came to play, leaving me and Beck.

"Twenty-one," he said, referring to the number on my back.

Yeah, Beck. 21. Our number.

I was wearing my school jersey. It looked just as old as it was with its tattered hem, weathered dye, fading print, and the school crest that was almost ripped. But it was the only non-cricket jersey I had with my name on it. When I was in the eleventh grade, one of the forwards had broken his ankle and was out for the district championships. I didn't mind filling in the empty spot, as long as the number 21 was mine. It was just for two weeks and I was travelling with the rest of the squad for the cricket league anyway, so it made sense for them to take me in.