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“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks after a while, his head tilting to the side.

“Forgetting what?”

“I offered you a truth. Now, it’s your turn. Care to share?”

“There’s nothing to share. My mother died and my father is as good as dead.”

“As good as dead,” he repeats slowly. “I imagined that type would be common, but not this common.”

“You’re familiar with the experience?”

“If you mean having a useless father who would’ve been better off dead, then yes, I’m extremely familiar.” He strokes the back of my hand, but the gesture isn’t affectionate; however, it’s not threatening either.

It’s a mixture of both. The gray that slashes through the black and white.

The calm that precedes and comes after a storm.

Said storm manifests in his eyes as they pin me down through the mask. “Seems you and I have more in common than I initially thought. Maybe that’s why you stood out to me in the first place.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“If you’re lucky, neither. If not, both.”

“And how do I know whether or not I’m lucky?”

“You’ll know when it’s time.”

“Why can’t it be now?”

“There’s no excitement in knowing when the goal is going to score. Predictability is boring.”

“Not always.” I stare at him, once again trapped in the way his height and build nearly fill out the horizon. “And don’t tell me you’re a jock?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Your analogy about goals.”

“Anyone could use that analogy. It’s not a privilege that’s exclusive to jocks.”

“Well, are you?”

“What if I am?”

“I would be surprised. You…seem well-read.”

“And all jocks are supposed to be fucking idiots? You know, those same stereotypes paint redheads as witches that should be burned at the stake.”

“I…didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that all the jocks I know are arrogant assholes.”

“And I’m the exception?”

“No, you’re the king of the crowd. Why did you become a jock when you seem well off?” The jocks from our school are chasing the NFL dream to switch social classes.

“To control the bursts of adrenaline.”

My steps falter, partly because of his answer. Partly due to his tightening hold on my hand. “Why do you need to control it?”

“Some of us are wired differently and have an abundance of that stuff, so we search for coping mechanisms to control it.” He motions ahead. “We’re here.”

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