Heal the Heart

52.

"It's up in the air and into the awaiting crowd. Wadavkar goes big for his maiden century! No stones left unturned, or should I say no balls left untouched." I waited as AJ finished his chortling laugh. "And O'Connell is left stumped near the stumps, hands on his head. It really should come as a wonder, AJ, for a veteran like him, and a pitch like this, this over should've cost USA a wicket."

AJ hummed. "He is a veteran, Neil. One who has proven time and time again that even a bowler can be a run-making machine."

"Brutal. Absolutely brutal. At a time when even singles are expensive, you can't go around giving fifteen, twenty runs an over. It simply is suicide." I glanced at the screen in front of me. "Twenty-two off the over, dragging down the required run rate to just five point four six! It will be a miracle if England can pull a win." And to conclude—"Hundred and fifteen for three. Thirty balls left. Time for drinks break."

I shook hands with AJ, thanking him for the entertaining company, and stood up, allowing the next commentator to take my seat. Leaving the commentary box, I headed for the stands right above USA's dugout, where Beck was seated.

Right then, the clouds parted, giving way for bright, blinding rays to illuminate the field. And along with it, Beck's imposing figure sprawled on the seat. He had his ankle tossed over his knee, with his chin resting on a fist. His hair had grown a bit, no longer that closely cut to his scalp. It finally returned to its natural auburn shade, seeming even lighter courtesy of the sun. Speckles of light seeped in at all the right angles, sharpening the contour of his nose and the tightness in his jaw. If it weren't for the dark aviators that shielded his eyes, I could've seen the beautiful, emotive storms swirling in them.

My fingers twitched, aching to draw him (but that could've also been them being bound to a splint for the better part of the last ten days). I'd stopped doing portraits a long time ago. I didn't have the necessary emotions to spend on drawing a person, and even if I did, selling that piece would be a hassle. My feelings didn't have a price, and I'd parted with enough precious memories in this lifetime.

Beck noticed me wiggling through the lines of seats to get to him, and his lips parted to reveal a broad smile. The sun's rays just highlighted his radiance even more.

"Hi," he said.

I just grunted as I sat down with a flourish. On the seat between us, I saw a tray with a plate of nachos, two hotdogs, and two chilled bottles of what I was hoping was beer. God knew I needed some ice-cold beer for this blistering heat.

"I got us some food. The one with no mustard is yours," he said while handing me a drink.

I took it from him, my stomach fluttering at the minute contact between our fingertips. Get a grip. You're not a teenager. I cleared my throat and took a sip of my beer, ignoring my stomach. It was probably just hunger. I nearly whined at the sweetness on my tongue. It tasted—I turned the bottle in my hand... Apple juice? From the colour, I was expecting a Corona. What I got was some fizzy apple juice that should never have been packaged this fancily.

"Really?" I held up the bottle, distaste clear on my face. "All above twenty-one here, you know? Even though it may not seem like it."

"You shouldn't be drinking," Beck said simply.

"And why aren't you?" I took another sip, immediately gearing up to complain, but—fuck, it tasted refreshing.

"I don't."

"You don't? You don't what?"

"Drink."

Huh? I was supposed to be the one with that habit. But I remembered—"You had a beer at the engagement."