One Shots

The Boy Who Smoked (PG-13)

A/N: Just so you guys know, this is based in England so football is soccer to all you Americans! And I think it's kinda set in the 80's period, but I'm still a bit unsure about that. I don't know. Anyway, enjoy!

                                        The Boy Who Smoked

    I used to know a boy when I was fourteen. Not personally, he was just always there. Every time I walked out from football practice on Thursday evenings, he'd be lingering behind the sports hall. I liked to use the back door since my house was just across the street, in that direction.

    I'd see him standing against the wall of the tennis court, which was directly opposite the back of the sports hall. He'd always have his left leg propped up against the wall and a lit cigarette between the fingers of his right hand. We'd catch each others eyes and my feet would stall on me. It'd take a minute or so for my brain to kick-start back into action.

    He'd give me a subtle smirk, then hide his face in the shadow of his dark hair, as he lowered his head against the sun, tapping his index finger on the tip of his cigarette. I'd watch the ashes float to the ground, then look up at him one last time before stumbling off in the direction of home.

    I didn't know his name, at least not until I worked up the courage one day to say hello. My dad was supposed to be picking me up after practice - my parents were divorced, my dad had me every other Thursday and I'd stay at his place until Monday - but that evening, he was running a bit late. It was a perfect opportunity.

    I put my hands in my red shorts' pockets, but not before adjusting my kit bag so that it was only hanging over one shoulder. I was told by my mate, Rob, that it looked cooler. The only reason I did it was so that when I reached the wall the lad was leaning against, I could let it slide down to the ground by my feet with ease.

    "You alright?" I greeted, scratching behind my ear. It was a bad habit, did it when I was nervous. That, or I'd continuously run my hands through my hair or scuff my feet against the floor.

    The lad blew out a cloud of smoke that drifted its way past my nose in the warm evening breeze. Menthol filled the air around us. I narrowed my eyes, trying to see despite the glare of the setting sun invading my vision.

    The boy lowered his chin slightly. I could make out the small curve of a smile on his lips. His black hair was all mussed up, like everyone's was at the end of a long day. Yet it still looked so fluffy and soft.

    That was the first time I'd ever looked at a boys hair and actually wanted to reach out and run my fingers through it. I knew it was a bit weird. I mean you weren't supposed to want to do that to another lad. It's not like we were cats or anything, you can't casually reach out and pet them just cause they look soft to touch.

    It was the first time I'd ever heard his voice when he replied to me with, "Ye' dad running late, is he?" He had a pretty deep voice, all raspy and mature-like. The kinda voice I wished I had. The kid had to be about the same age as me, since we were almost the exact height as each other. At least, that's what I thought. Yet he somehow seemed so much older, and sounded it too.

   I felt like a child beside him. Like an annoying kid brother that his mam was forcing him to hang out with. I hoped he didn't think of me that way.

    "Aye," I answered, staring at the small rock I was kicking between my feet. His hand holding the cigarette caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I watched as he moved it up to his lips and inhaled. "Always getting something wrong, me dad is." I muttered, completely entranced by the smoke that was exhaled through his nose.