Looking At Us

8. shain

After school, days in May were typical: Megan’s phone played Ed Sheeran on our walk home, I had my oh-shit-I-forgot-my-homework moment, we bought smoothies at Timmy’s, and then we walked to the soccer field to watch my brother Damien play soccer. 

     I never watched Damien, though. 

     The game between the Bolts and the Hawks raged 1-1. Beneficial for the Hawks’ team: Darrin Domnall, Bradley Patterson, Damien Watts, and Matt Hunter. Beneficial for the Bolts’ team: Cody Spentz, Oliver Steinberg, Ben Martyn, and Erick Lockhart. 

     Goals for the Hawks: Darrin Domnall, one point.

     Goals for the Bolts: Erick Lockhart, one point. 

     After Erick’s goal, I said, ‘‘Megan. Who are you texting?’’ 

     She didn’t answer. Which meant that she was engrossed in the conversation. 

     I remembered Cori’s warning in English. ‘’Is it Cris?’’ 

     Megan looked at me and rolled her eyes. They were the color of the sky. ‘‘God. No, I’m not texting him. Weren’t you listening to Cori earlier?’’

     ‘‘So who is it?’’ 

     Back on the field, Erick scored again, top corner, straight through the outstretched arms of the goalie. The blue team cheered. The red team swore. Erick ran back to his end, slapping the hands of his teammates and grinning insanely. 

     Erick’s hair was the color of roasted coffee beans. His eyes were a sea of green, deep and lush. He was taller than me now, taller than Megan, tall enough to touch the sky like it was his kingdom . . . 

     Megan pinched my elbow. ‘‘Shain! Wake up. You’re looking at him again.’’

     ‘’Ow. I was not.’’

     ‘‘You were. You were freaking staring at him.’’ 

     Blush walked across my face, settling down in my cheeks. I pulled my toque tighter onto my head and tucked my curls in, a habit I’d adapted since I’d decided to let my hair grow longer. 

     ‘’Hi, Megan,’’ said Erick’s voice. 

     I flinched, because suddenly he was standing right in front of me. Well, he was looking at Megan, but his stomach was inches away from my knees. He was plastered with sweat and his hair was sticking up in a matted but incredibly sexy way. 

     ‘‘Hi, Erick.’’ Megan gave him a grin. It was fake. I knew this because she told me that she would never go out with Erick—he reminded her too much of her eighth-grade ex, Spencer. ‘‘Good game out there. You’re on fire.’’

     Erick blinked. He said, ‘‘Thanks,’’ uncertainly, like he was trying to figure out how his mouth worked. 

     I stepped on Megan’s toes with my Nikes. Too much. Back off. 

     She got the message. She said, ‘‘Come sit down with us.’’ 

     Erick did. There was no space beside Megan, so he took a seat next to me, and my heart doubled its pace. 

     ‘’Hi, Erick,’’ I mumbled. 

     He kept his eyes trained on Megan, like he hadn’t heard me at all. 

     ‘‘Darrin’s out to get me,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s really mad.’’

     ‘‘Darrin Domnall?’’ she asked. 

     He nodded. ‘‘Yeah. Domnall.’’

     Darrin Domnall. 

     I was about to ask if him and Sasha Hawk were still together when the ref blew his whistle and Erick went back on the field. Megan wished him luck. I did too, but it came out quieter. 

     The play started with Ben Martyn kicking the ball out from the goalie crease, landing at Erick’s knees. He dribbled up the side closest to us, dodging players, preparing for another shot at net. 

     I heard Darrin swear, and I watched him slam into Erick. 

     It was a clash of the opposites: red and blue jerseys, crimson and coffee hair, expensive and second-hand cleats. Lonely and popular. Single and taken. Attentive and ignorant. 

     Darrin was hitting him. Erick was hugging the ground, and there were new stains of red on his face. His coffee-roasted hair was a defenseless shield from embarrassment. 

     ‘‘He’s bleeding again,’’ Megan murmured, beside me, with me, hearing me. 

     I sat there and watched Erick getting beat to death, wondering what blood tasted like the second time it was spilt.