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I chase the echo of his voice out of my head as I walk to yearbook production. That and band are pretty solid classes, wrapping my day on a high note. It’s not over yet, though.
After marching band practice, I trudge from the band field to the soccer one. I don’t take my marching drum gear home, but today I’ve got my cello, even though I won’t play it again till spring concert band. I miss the thing—it’s my favorite instrument that I play—and I’ve decided I might practice sometime when the dickface is out of the house. I’m already cleated up and ready for soccer. It’s gonna be short—only an hour. I’ll have to wait another twenty for him. Football practice doesn’t end until 4:30.
As we do sprints, I'm overly aware of the football practice field behind ours. Once, I hear Coach Nix shout "Masters." I try not to listen, though, or look. We have a quick but pretty aggressive scrimmage, and I get a "good job" from Coach McGee.
Since football practice is still going strong, I head into the locker room to shower. I used to hate to shower in here, but last year they renovated, and now they've got stalls. I take my time in the steam, trying not to think of Ezra's hand as I soap my dick.
Why'd he do that? Was he lashing out because I saw him cry? Is he a homophobe and he wanted to fuck with me out of pure hate?
I think of him this morning, standing in the red dirt of the old ball field.
"You wanna fight it out? You get the first shot."
He knew he’d been a fucking asshole; I could tell.
I'm rolling my balls in my soapy palm, imagining it's his hand—even though I know I'm fucking crazy for it—when someone shouts, "Miller?"
Brennan’s voice echoes off the locker room walls. “Yeah?” I answer.
“You’ve gotta come! I hit your brother hard and he went down. Coach said to get you."
"You hit him?" I ask, turning off the shower.
"By accident. I knocked him out. He was blinking when I ran off, but they want you out there."
"Fuck."
I towel off and throw some clothes on, my heart racing as I jog out after Brennan. We sprint all the way to the football practice field, where I spot Ezra sitting in the grass, surrounded by all of the coaches.
He blinks at me, squinting in the sunlight.
"Josh," Coach McGee says. "Can you get your mom or Ezra's dad on the line?"
Ezra's eyes widen slightly, latching onto mine. He shakes his head as I start to say "yes."
"They're out of town tonight. On business," he says. His voice cracks on the word "business," but his eyes on mine are hard. "It's just the two of us tonight,” he says.
I frown. That's not true. He shields his eyes with his palm, and I look at Coach Nix. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened," Ezra says, getting to his feet. Coach Nix reaches out to steady him, but Ezra steps away.
“I'm fine,” he says, sounding weary.
Brennan looks upset. "I'm sorry, man."
“Don’t be sorry. Just went down for a second.”
"You’ll have to see a doctor, son,” Coach Nix says. “When someone gets hit like you did, we can't let them play again till clearance. You may have to sit out for the rest of the week."
"I feel—" fine, I’m sure Ezra is about to say.
But Coach McGee cuts in. "Miller, can you take your brother up to Fairplay Hospital? Someone needs to look at him. It won't take long."
Coach Nix flashes a light from his cell phone at Ezra's face, and Ezra recoils.
"He needs to go," Coach Nix says gravely. He looks from Ezra to me, and back to Ezra. "Any headache, sensitivity to light or nausea, spinning, dizziness, or weakness—that's all signs of a concussion. You go down and don't get up and don't remember, that's concussion stuff. I want you boys going to the ER. It won't be a long wait."
"Okay." Ezra nods, and I can tell it hurts because his eyes tighten a little. "Josh will take me."
The coaches look at me and nod, and Brennan offers to carry my cello case, which makes me laugh. "I've still got two arms, man."
"So do I," Ezra says darkly. Brennan steps over to the pile of backpacks in the grass and scoops up Ezra’s black one. I grab it from him.
"I can get it."
Ezra swipes the thing out of my hand like a damn raptor, tosses it over his shoulder, and starts striding toward the parking lot.
"Make him do it," Brennan hisses.
"I will."
For all his bluster, Ezra's walking slowly. I catch up to him in just a minute. “Your head hurt?”
"No."
"Stubborn ass."
"Doesn't hurt, dude. I'm not going to the fucking Small Town General Hospital either."
"What? You have to."
He scoffs. "Says who?"
