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My cheeks heated, and I curled my hand, wrapping it tightly around the strap of my backpack. If I’d known I’d be scrutinized that closely, I would’ve worn gloves or something. They definitely didn’t want to see the raw, red skin underneath the Band-Aids.
Don’t look. Keep walking.But I couldn’t help myself. I glanced over my shoulder at the group of students, most of whom looked bulky—let me guess, football players?
My gaze landed on a handsome guy with dark hair, who was the only one not snickering in my direction. In fact, he seemed annoyed. And he looked older—or was it more mature?
Why did he look so familiar?
All at once the bell clanged noisily—so that was what it sounded like—and my head whipped toward the tower standing prominently behind the gardens. On cue, most students rose, likely those of us who had classes at ten after eight, and converged toward the steps leading to the main building while a few walked in other directions.
I was hyperaware that the group poking fun was behind me, and not wanting to entertain anymore scrutiny, I stepped aside to let them pass.
“C’mon, Henners,” one of the guys said, jostling the handsome dude’s arm. He seemed in a daze, or maybe just tired on a Monday morning.
Suddenly a memory from my time in the hospital hit me:“My teammates call me Henners.”
No, it couldn’t be. Henry Albrecht? His hair was longer on top now but still cut short on the sides, his bangs framing those dark eyes. Except now he was a giant. Tall and hulking, he could probably lift me off my feet with one arm.
When I saw the scar bisecting his eyebrow, I knew I couldn’t be mistaken. He’d told me the story during arts-and-crafts hour—how he’d received the injury during soccer practice at a young age.
My stomach dipped with excitement. Holy crap, my old friend.
I lifted my hand in a wave, but he just stared at me like I’d gone mad.
I spluttered, my lips unable to form words and explain that he looked familiar, that maybe I was mistaken, but it was too late; he’d already walked inside. I put my head down and followed behind the other students.
2
HENRY
I was chillingwith my teammates in the crisp morning air the first day of my sophomore year at Roosevelt College. It was a refreshing contrast to the hot summer football practices, which had been brutal, not only physically exhausting but also mentally, from all the expectations put on us—on me—by the school and my father. But at least we were ready for the season.
This was my dad’s alma mater; he and Coach went way back, so Coach had agreed to keep my health records on the down-low. Dad insisted I do the same—no way would he want a repeat of his own experiences with an illness. Besides, he only wanted me to succeed. The pressure in my chest every time he reiterated the sentiment didn’t help either.
“Who the hell is that?” asked Frank, a.k.a. Flash,our all-star wide receiver. “And why is his jacket so shiny?”
“Made of vinyl, maybe,”replied Bruce, nicknamed Bones because he was a linebacker and built solid.
“What’s with the Band-Aids on his fingers?”A-Train asked. His real name was Allister, which he hated. He was our kickass center and blocker.
My head whipped in the direction of the guy walking toward the entrance wearing tan pants, a polo shirt, and a black leather jacket. He screamed freshman, and not only because he seemed timid and a bit lost. I wasn’t one to fuss about clothing or labels, but it was obvious his worn jacket wasn’t real leather. More like pleather or maybe vinyl as Bones had pointed out. But who cared? Maybe it was a favorite and he thought it balanced out the nerdy, preppy wardrobe the university’s dress code encouraged. After all, most of us were dressed the same.
When the bell in the tower rang—a sound I’d come to enjoy—I hopped off the table to head inside to my first class, absently wondering why the freshman looked so familiar.
Something about the unruly curls or his green eyes that held a hint of melancholy? Had he heard them making fun of him, or did he always look like that?
When his eyes met mine and he awkwardly lifted his hand in a wave, I was thunderstruck, my feet briefly faltering as I was jostled alongside my teammates into the building.
My stomach tumbled, like it always did when I thought a guy was attractive, but I ignored it. There was no room for that in my life.
Once I got inside, it all came flooding back. I was twelve and in the cancer ward and had met this kid named Lark whom I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again. Partly because I’d wondered if he’d even make it. IfIwould make it. The idea that you might not wreaked hell on your psyche.
The relief that both of us had pulled through swamped my system, and I felt momentarily light-headed.
All those days spent in the children’s ward, where I was sicker than a dog, but having another kid there my age had helped. When Lark had arrived, he was small, with plump cheeks and thin, gangly limbs. I wasn’t much better, having lost a significant amount of weight. But now he was all grown up—taller, though still small-boned, with angular cheekbones and thick eyelashes.
Back then, Lark was usually reading or listening to music in his earbuds—normally tracks from Broadway shows—his fingers tapping on his thigh when he didn’t think I was looking. And here he was again, an enigma.
“You know that kid?” asked Spencer, my roommate and best friend. He was also our talented team kicker.
