Mind and Matter

25 | Leo

"Alright boys!" Coach Ed clapped his loud hands together, rounding us up like cattle. It was five o'clock on a quiet Monday evening, and the eighteen of us stood scattered across the field in the back of the school. Coach was still optimistic about us winning our last game, but Santiago and I knew better.

"I can't believe my parents spend money for me to play on this team," Santiago remarked, juggling his neon green soccer ball between his feet. "I think I should've just joined the football team. Their kicker kinda sucks, right?" He tilted his head, beckoning me to agree.

"He actually doesn't, but I get it. My high school team in New York was one of the best in the state. This shit is a major downgrade."

"Coach thinks we're going to win, but we're not." He passed the soccer ball to me, and I tried out a trick I had been waiting to show off. The ball flipped back over my head and landed at Santiago's feet again. Score.

"Maybe we could. We just have to be all offense." As we began to pass the ball back and forth, I picked up on a familiar smell. Cigarettes? "Why do you smell like smoke?"

"What?" he asked and began to look around him. He clutched his navy shirt and sniffed around the shoulder area, wrinkling his nose.

"Don't tell me you're—"

"Dude, relax," he said, rolling his eyes. "It's my stupid dad. He sends a cloud of smoke everywhere he walks around the house."

"Your dad smokes?" I confirmed, and he gave me a slight nod. "Well, then good for you for not even trying it. Hell, I got addicted even though my dad thinks cigarettes are the Devil incarnate."

He picked up his soccer ball and looked over at Coach Ed who was busy lecturing our goalie with exaggerated hand movements. Santiago's dark eyes meeting mine again, he answered with indifference, "If he wants to smoke himself into an early death, it's his problem. Now can we forget my dad?"

"Yeah, whatever," I replied, even though my brain was beginning to put two and two together. Whatever secret lay hidden in Santiago's family must have been rooted in his father, but what exactly it was, I wasn't entirely sure.

Damn secrets.

I spent the rest of practice questioning why I was even here and jogging to the other side of the field every time Franco approached me. If he pulled some shit again, I'd probably end up getting myself expelled.

But unfortunately for me, the other day while lost in my thoughts in the shower, I'd made a peace pact with myself. It involved not getting into any more physical altercations with people in this town, especially annoying little Italian boys from New Jersey.

I wasn't sure how long the pact was actually going to last.

Tired and mentally drained, I walked off the field fighting a yawn. Santiago and I parted ways, as he was walking home and I had a ride coming for me. As I walked through the parking lot behind the field, I heard muffled voices from in between two cars. At first, I thought nothing of it, because it was a parking lot of all places. They were inherently sketchy.

But as I walked deeper into the lot in order to get to the main road, the voices grew more distinct. One was a male's voice, deep and rough, and his words were impossible to decipher from where I stood. The other voice belonged to a female; it was high-pitched out of fear.

"Stop." I heard her say this once and then twice. His voice came through again, yet I still couldn't understand what he was saying. I sucked in a breath and began to walk in the direction of the voices. I wasn't sure if I was making a mistake, but my intuition was beckoning me to go and see.

"I said stop, Blake, seriously," she demanded, a little louder this time. I heard a shuffling of bodies and another cry. "This isn't funny!"

I dropped my bag onto the ground and maneuvered my way between two cars parked so close together, their side-view mirrors almost touched. Blake, a notorious tight end on our football team, hovered in front of an old silver sedan. He was huge, with beefy shoulders and arms and wore a ratty jersey. Pressed up against the car and Blake himself was...

Neve?

"Why are you being so pissy? We're seeing each other so we can make out, right?" He grabbed both of her arms, and he shoved her farther up against the car. She cried out again, whipping her head from side to side.

"No, Blake. You've been so pushy all week. Just give me some space please."

"You won't be saying that in a couple of minutes," he answered with a sardonic laugh, and his face crashed against hers. He came at her full-force with his version of a kiss as she cried and kicked at his ankles and shins.

I couldn't watch this.

"What the hell are you doing?" I called out and ran towards the two of them. I didn't know if I was digging my grave by approaching him, but the guilt would have eaten me if I watched this as some sort of spectacle. Even if it was Neve, whose existence I tried to avoid as much as Franco's.

"No one invited your ass," Blake spat, not even looking over. She looked over at me, her blue eyes begging me to do something as his hands began to roam.

I didn't blame her for not being able to fight back; this guy was at least twice the size of her.

"Get off of her before I beat your ass," I threatened, standing hardly a foot between them.

I then imagined if this scene was in a movie, the viewers would be falling off their couches laughing. A little spoiled Manhattanite was trying to fight someone who could probably hurl him across the parking lot and into the Chesapeake Bay.

Blake laughed again and moved his mouth away from Neve's trembling body but held onto her arms again even tighter. "Oh really, you think you could even manage a hit?" He stared me down with two cold green eyes. "I'm telling you to get lost, fucker, before you bring yourself into something that has nothing to do with you."

Screw the peace pact.

With a cringe, I sent a punch to the underside of his jaw. My knuckles collided with his rock-solid face and pain surged up my right arm. The punch seemed to set him on fire; he dropped Neve launched himself at me.

"Run! Go!" I called to Neve. She toppled over her feet in fear and without any hesitation, sprinted across the parking lot. I looked up at Blake and gulped, praying to God to spare me, for at least my intentions were right this time.

He lunged at me. I lunged at him. Pushing and shoving against each other, we slammed into the luxury cars around us, taking turns exchanging punches and jabs and setting off alarms. A couple minutes in, he had me in a headlock, and I could feel the air escaping me as his brawny arm tightened around my throat. Leeching off the adrenaline seeping through my veins, I yanked at his forearm until I reeled forwards out of his grip and onto my hands on the ground.

I didn't know what happened next. The angry, veiny fist that sailed into the right side of my face or the hand that grabbed onto the back of my neck and slammed me into the asphalt. The world grew fuzzier as blood oozed down my face and my strength to fight back dissipated.

Lord, spare my soul.