Looking At Us

6. erick

Anybody who knew Ben Martyn would be sure to stand away from him whenever he kicked the ball in soccer. Unfortunately, my brain was taking a quick holiday and failed to notice the sphere heading towards my face until it was too late. 

     Later, in the infirmary, soaking a cloth in blood from my nose, Ben said, ‘’Oh, man. I’m really sorry, dude. Why didn’t you see me kick?’’

     There was blood on my jersey; a smudge of red on the number 17 over my heart. There was probably blood on my chin or my cheeks or whatever, but either Ben was just being ignorant, or there wasn’t anything there. Either way, I walked out of the infirmary tent looking and feeling like an idiot, wondering why I hadn’t seen him kick. 

     But that was before I walked into her. 

     Megan. 

     She was wearing jean shorts and a thin pink shirt over a white tank top. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun with loose strands falling out over her eyes, which sparkled intensely in the summer light. The only part of my face that hit her was my chin, right on her forehead since (thank goodness) I had finally gotten my growth spurt over the winter. Otherwise, we collided. 

     ‘‘Eep!’’ She steadied herself by grabbing my arms. I felt an impulse to hold onto her, too, but something told me that this wasn’t the time. 

     ‘‘Megan,’’ I said, my voice thick. 

     ‘‘Erick,’’ she replied, more out of surprise than desire, probably. ‘‘You have blood all over your face.’’

     I blinked, unsurprised. ‘’Oh, yeah. Ben’s fault.’’

     Ben made a loud noise of protest as he passed us. 

     Megan suppressed a gentle smile and pulled out a Kleenex from her pocket, using it to wipe the blood off my chin, nose, jaw, and cheeks . . . and I totally forgot why I was there. 

     Her eyes were a warm, summery paradise that I wanted to live in. 

     ‘‘There,’’ she said, too soon, too quickly. ‘‘That’s . . . slightly better. I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.’’

     ‘‘Don’t worry about it.’’ My throat was on fire. ‘‘Thanks.’’ 

     My coach called me back to the field as our game started, so I said bye to Megan (reluctantly) and headed back to my team. The sun threw up its heat on us. Megan took a seat in the bleachers. Sitting beside her was Shain, wearing that same blue toque like always, catching my eye and grinning. 

     On the other team was Darrin Domnall, one of the best soccer players in the school. His scarlet hair was wild. He was wearing expensive cleats. 

     He saw me and smirked. ‘‘All right, Erick?’’ 

     ‘‘Fine, thanks,’’ I replied coldly. ‘‘You?’’

     ‘‘Not too bad. Probably feel better after we kick your ass.’’ 

     The ref started the game, and I raced after the ball, determined to reverse his statement and, if possible, actually kick his ass.