From the Ashes

[37] Eyes of Wim

Roman puts his shirt on to cover his painted back, saving it for his match, and he disappears into the crowd to go find and talk to Sage. I watch him leave from the edge of The Gazebo, my heart stirring with emotion and admiration. I’m pretty sure I grow more fond of that boy every day.

I make my own way through the groups of kids that stand around under the structure, taking our used bowls of paint to a designated bin. I keep a lookout for Roman as I retire against one of the wooden posts on the edge of The Gazebo. Scanning the faces of the masses underneath the torch-lit space, my eyes catch on a smoky pair on the far side. They don’t belong to Roman. But they are boring into me with an intensity that almost startles me. They belong to a tall guy, and I look away briefly with unease before my gaze flits back in curiosity. He’s still staring at me through waves of copper-colored hair, his eyes close to the same color as Roman’s, if not more green. His darker eyebrows rise as he offers me a smile from all the way across the crowd, and I blink rapidly in a questioning response. A dark shadow of stubble covers his lean cheeks, and a thin chinstrap runs along his strong jaw. Two silver hoops hang from the cartilage on one of his ears that poke out from his long hair. He mouths something that I can’t decipher, so I mouth “what?” back, even though it’s a lost cause. I’m terrible at reading lips. He mouths it again with a warm, amused smile, and I shake my head as it evokes a small smile of my own. I give a half-shrug from where I stand, offering an apologetic look. The handsome stranger just gazes back at me, a calm and steady smile on his lips. He holds a finger up in a “hold on” gesture, before starting to make his way through the crowd of kids.

“There you are! Sage is gonna fight soon, come on,” I break eye contact with the far-off guy as Mazie grabs my wrist, dragging me excitedly to the other end of The Gazebo, where the fighting mat is. Her blonde messy-bun bounces ahead of me, leading me through the crowd to stand near the edge of the mat beside Sage. I peer up at his handprint-face, telling Mazie she did a good job with the paint.

“Good luck, Sage,” I say, giving him a firm clap on the back as he grins down at me.

“Thank you, Allie.”

I fall into conversation with Mazie, asking her what she was up to today. She shows me a wicked-nasty bruise on her side, and tells me about her sick wipe-out on a quad earlier.

Once the current match ends, Mazie grabs Sage’s arm.

“You ready, champ?” she beams, and he wrinkles his nose at the nickname.

“As long as you don’t call me that,” he grins. I watch them push their way through the crowd as the last match ends, the winner’s hand is raised, and his title is announced as the winner. Soon Sage’s name is called once the other fighters clear the mat, and I spot Mazie in one corner pumping him up.

“And now we have Sage, The Cannon, against Jeremy, The Bear!” the announcer’s voice calls, and I notice it’s the same thin kid from last weekend. I smile and add my voice to those supporting Sage as the whistle is blown for the start of the match, and The Cannon and The Bear begin to circle one another before making jabs and dives.

“I said, you’re quite a new face here,” chills rocket down my spine as a tenor voice whispers right in my ear, the owner’s lips brushing against it. I whip around, startled, to come chest-to-chest with the stranger from across the crowd. I step back abruptly, bumping into whoever was watching the match behind me, and my face turns hot as I quickly apologize over the noise from the cheering.

“Easy now,” he speaks again, the hint of an accent that I can’t quite place accompanying his pleasant voice. He gives me a gentle smile as he puts a steadying hand on my waist, and I let out an exasperated chuckle.

“Don’t mind my tendency to derp,” I say, wrinkling my nose as he leans his head down to hear and speak to me.

“You’re fine,” he laughs, the crowd pushing at us periodically, causing us to stand toe-to-toe. “I didn’t recognize you when I saw your match last weekend,” he continues, and I glance once or twice at his thick curly hair, his stubble, his lips. His deep, steady eyes always draw me back.

“Oh yeah?” I say, tilting my head up to half-shout in his ear. He nods, the copper-colored hair falling in his eyes.

“I’ve been coming to this camp and these kinds of events for many summers. I know a lot of people, and you caught my eye,” he chuckles with those supple, smiling lips. I run a hand through my fading pink hair and shrug.

“I blame the hair,” I mutter with a half-smile, and he reaches up to brush his fingertips through it. The hair on the back of my neck rises when his touch graces my cheek.

“It is very unique,” he nods with a wide smile. Hand returning to his side, his eyes hold mine in a steady gaze. “My name is Wim, by the way,” he says, and I notice the accent again.

“Allie,” I say, holding a hand out. He slides his into my outstretched one, and as I begin to shake it, he brings it to his lips. I have to suppress a shiver when his warm lips make slow, light contact with the top of my hand. I blink a few times as his gaze disappears behind closed eyes and a curtain of curls. A light flutter of alarm stirs in my stomach. He releases my hand, and I involuntarily rub the top of it with my other hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Allie,” he says with a smile, and I return the formal greeting. “Where are you from?”

“Worthing. It’s a tiny town, no one ever knows where it is,” I grunt, “It’s about 2 hours south here, near Bellport, if you’re familiar.” Wim nods with a chuckle.

“Yes, I’ve heard of Worthing. Roman and Sage are from Worthing,” he murmurs. I give him a nod as I cross my arms loosely over my chest.

“Yeah, I came here with them.”

“I figured, since you are Roman’s pillar,” he says, “Too bad, too, I wish I would’ve met you earlier to ask you to be mine,” he laughs. I raise my eyebrows with a smile and a shrug.

“I probably would have said no,” I growl with a right-hook to his shoulder, connecting with solid muscle. He gives a guffaw, grabbing my fist and pulling me toward him. I raise a brow at him, his amused smile inches from me.

“You might have said yes,” he whispers with a chuckle, and that flutter in my gut returns from the look in his deep eyes. I look away from him with a slight smirk, my attention returning to Sage’s match. I grin when I see him kicking the crap out of a kid who looks like he matches him in physical stature.

“Are you fighting tonight?” I ask Wim, noticing that he doesn’t have any face paint on.

“Later tonight, I am. My pillar isn’t here yet,” he tells me as he turns to watch Sage’s match with me, the front of his arm and side pressing into the back of mine because of the crowd.

Mazie’s on fire, supporting Sage like a WWE coach as he goes for a final lunge, taking the kid down and scrabbling on the mat with him before holding him on his back for a few counts. The whistle screams, the crowds of kids cheer, and Mazie flies across the mat to tackle Sage. I beam with excitement, cheering loudly for the exhausted, sweaty blonde as he gets his name and title announced as the winner, and stumbles off the mat with his arm across Mazie’s shoulders.

“I’m gonna go find Roman now,” I tell Wim, standing up on my toes to shout in his ear. He nods, and I give him a smile before pushing my way through the throngs of people, keeping an eye out for Rome on my way.