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I reached out, and Jake took my hand; I could breathe again when I was holding him. I hardly took a step when Jake asked, “Does Zeke want to come?”
I looked over my shoulder, and my heart tripped.
“Love to.” Zeke smiled and then dragged his hand through his hair with an exaggerated grimace. “But I just have to warn you, I’m pretty bad at soccer so don’t expect much.”
Jake laughed, and I could’ve cried.
“I’ll be right over here if you need anything, bud,” Stan called as we walked away, his confidence oozing from every syllable like oil leaking from an engine. He wasn’t shaken or concerned; he knew he had every power in this situation, and he was relishing it.
But one day, he wouldn’t have that power, I reminded myself. One day, I’d never have to worry about him again.
“I’m not good at soccer either,” Jake confessed, looking at Zeke as we approached his forgotten ball.
“I bet you’re better than me,” Zeke promised. “The last time I played, I got hit in the head and got a concussion.”
Jake’s eyes went wide.
“Yup.” Zeke nodded. “My own fault, too. Ran right toward this big guy who was kicking the ball, and one minute, the ball was flying straight for my head, the next, I was waking up with everyone on my team looking over me.”
“What happened?” Jake wondered, completely enthralled by Zeke’s story.
“Well I guess I was mumbling something about flying hot dogs, so they figured I should go to the hospital.”
Jake cackled, and even I couldn’t contain my laughter. “Flying hot dogs?”
Zeke shook his head. “I think someone said something about when pigs could fly which made me think of pigs in a blanket and then…”
“Flying hot dogs.”
He grinned. “Yeah.”
Jake stopped in front of the soccer ball, looking at it and then back at Zeke. “But you didn’t have to play again after that?”
Zeke shook his head. “No. My grandmother let me quit.”
Jake wrinkled his nose. “Maybe I could try to get a concussion, and then my dad would let me quit.”
“Jake…” My breath caught.
“You don’t want that,” Zeke chimed in easily, and then used his foot to roll the ball over between his feet.
“But I’m not good at it.” Jake rocked back on his heels.
“Well, good things don’t come fully grown,” Zeke replied and kicked the ball to Jake. “You have to practice. Give your skills time to grow. Did you know Michael Phelps played soccer when he was a kid?”
“What?” I swore I heard Jake’s jaw hitting the ground. “Really?”
I had no idea how Zeke knew this, but I watched him nod his head. Jake passed him back the ball with a soft kick.
“He played soccer and lacrosse before he went completely into swimming,” Zeke went on, stepping back and returning the ball a little harder. “So, who knows? Maybe he learned a thing or two from those sports that help him grow into one of the best swimmers.”
“One of the best?” Jake squealed. “He is the best!” He launched the ball back to Zeke, and this time, his enthusiasm was notably different.
‘Thank you’I mouthed to Zeke when he spared me a glance, and the wink he sent back in return made me shiver.
“Alright, why don’t you show me what you’ve learned?” I asked, pointing between the two of them. “I feel left out of the passing game.”
Minutes blurred into memories as Jake gave me a full rundown of every kick and trick he’d learned at camp before we started to pass the ball around in a circle.The whole time, he asked all kinds of questions about how I was doing—what I was doing. Where I lived. If it was near a pool. If I’d gone swimming.When I was coming home.
