The Broken People [Book 2]

Chapter Seven: Viewfinder

The overwhelming feeling of déjà vu overtook Mark. The familiarity of sitting by the sidelines waiting for the match to start was so intense. It was ridiculous. The buzz of the fans. The freshness of the grass. The anticipation and the hype. It was all coming back to him.

The hair on the back of his neck rose as more memories began to intrude on his mind. The softness of Thomas' lips. The sound of his moans. The feeling of being inside...

Mark shook his head, hoping to send those memories back to where they had come from. Back to that small, quiet corner in the deepest, darkest place in his mind. He had a job to do, not think about that. 

His eyes wandered to where Lily was talking to a few guys who were clad in suits and the Coach. She would every-so-often take note of something in her notebook, not once taking her eyes away from the people before her. Thankfully for him, his job didn't require hanging out with her.

He really wasn't one to judge somebody based on stuff that had been told about them. But Lily Weathers was the exception. Her soft and cute exterior was pretty inviting and nice, but what lied underneath was a toxic, hateful woman. The money she had given to organizations trying to convert queer kids was enough to buy ten of Thomas's penthouses. On top of that, she was very vocal about her religion, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but her way of expressing her opinions and beliefs was horrific. Having to work with her was one of his worst nightmares, but at the very least he didn't have to be interviewed by her.

The roaring of the fans pulled Mark out of his thoughts and his attention was drawn to where the players began appearing. He wasn't exactly sure what to photograph, so he chose to go for everything he could. The warm-up, the line-up, and then the start of the action.

A few other photographers were using stands for their cameras, but Mark had decided against it. He preferred being in control of the angle and style of the photo he was taking. He was careful though not to get in the way of any other shot.

Around the end of the thirteenth minute, the guy with the dyed gray hair whose jersey wrote "Davie" passed the ball to Thomas. With absolute control and grace, Thomas made his way to the opposing team's goal. The goalkeeper readied himself, watching closely every move Thomas made. Thomas neared the penalty box and kicked the ball without hesitation. The goalkeeper leaped, but he wasn't fast enough. The ball flew past his fingers and hit the net behind him.

Mark managed to take two pictures of Thomas, one when he smiled brightly as the ball hit the net and another with Davie hugging Thomas and pulling him into the air. Slowly, Mark lowered his camera and parted his lips. He was barely breathing.

"It's incredible, isn't it?" Another photographer asked him, leaning closer. He looked somewhere in his fifties with a bald head and tired eyes.

Mark could not reply. He could only look around in awe and shock. More than half of the stadium was roaring out the same thing in unison. Heissmann. The feeling was overwhelming. The man next to Mark flicked his tongue and laughed to himself.

"The kid's like a god to them. And he's not even half my age! "He said, shaking his head.

Mark's teary eyes moved back down to the field, where Thomas was still celebrating with his teammates. Davie was now ruffling his hair with an endearing smile on his lips. Thomas pushed him off with a wide grin and for a moment his eyes met Mark's.

The contact was brief. The match kept going. Thomas didn't look that way another time. He kept on playing. When the final whistle was echoed, his name was the loudest to be heard. Four goals and one assist. The commenter nicknamed him Thomas the Golden Boy. Golden was always his color.