This is the first we’ve danced around the uncle-team-movie topic since our conversation at the dive bar, and I wish I had my camera on. But I don’t, and I’ve been curious about Arthur’s motives for bailing on his uncle without trying to talk to him first. Although family means everything to me, I’m aware that Arthur and I come from different worlds. There are only two types of movie sports childhoods: the overworked prodigy—uncomfortable to linger on, avert your eyes from their absent parents—or the marginally talented rich child, spoiled with the best coaches—not very bootstraps, roll the next clip. We love sports success until we learn how it was born, because inside every great athlete is a child who started too young, somehow.
And because it’s either sob on a plane or continue this conversation with Arthur, I give in to my curiosity and keep texting him.
Is that why you want to go back to Leone so bad? You want to get away from overbearing family?
Good question. You ever drive a Leone?
Arthur.
Right. They’re the best cars. Golden arrows, we call them. Go so fast it feels like you might die if you botch it, but you’re a better man for surviving. I need to get back to that.
Huh, I type back.
I steal a peek at him. Maybe I was wrong about his tells, since Arthur’s face is perfectly calm. He’s settled back in the chaise, one long leg bent, the other stretched out, clean white sneaker dangling off the edge. He doesn’t look like an adrenaline addict plotting ways to strap back into a single-seat death trap. He looks relaxed. Well, the Arthur version of relaxed: fingertips drumming on the back of his phone, bent knee swaying back and forth, corners of his mouth tucked down, ready to pounce.
My phone vibrates.
Like what you see?
Ugh. How did he catch me looking at him? His eyes didn’t leave his phone.
Not really.
That was a long stare. You need to be more subtle if you don’t want the love story narrative.
I reply with a . Then,
It’s the movie maker stare.
Hot.
Ha.
You trying to figure me out, Graywood?
I know you already.
Go on then. I love to hear about myself.
Ahem, I type out.
Pro athlete. Close to thirty, so tri-life crisis. In-your-face confident (overcompensating?). Sexually explicit (overcompensating?). “Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven” vibes.
Arthur stares at his phone for a good thirty seconds, then texts back.
I’m going to live til 90?? Wow.
I swallow a giggle.
Probably had a saltburn/succession childhood.
Are those movie titles or did you just cast a spell on me?
Have you *ever* watched a movie?
How do I say this…
David Cronenberg?? Lynch???
