LUKE
Ambivalent. That’s the word. The perfect word to describe my state of mind as I walk with Jack while he’s on lunchtime duty. Actually, it’s the perfect word to describe me since being with Sam that morning.
Maybe I don’t really get it, you know? I mean, I love him and whoever he’s into is fine by me, I just . . .
I swallow a sigh and linger back when Jack moves to break up a scuffle.
Yes, Sam was accepting. I should be happy about that. But . . . it wasn’t as warm as I’d hoped. Of course, I’d have been disappointed with anything that wasn’t Sam coming out of the closet himself.
Why did it have to be Jeremy to figure out he’s gay?
I dig my hands deep into my pockets, as if I’ll find some peace of mind in there. There’s nothing but the feeling of paper scraping over my right fingers. Sam’s 20s Must-Do List.
It tingles my skin as I pull my hand out, and it’s the same feeling I got as I’d threaded my fingers through Sam’s hair and he’d moaned. Except that tingle had shot straight to my cock, and I had to focus on some nasty images to keep myself from boning up in front of him.
It barely worked. I was almost a gonner when Sam almost rested his head on me. I wanted to curve a hand around his neck and pull him to me, dye or not.
Jack says something to the bigger boy and sends him on his way. He looks over at me, rolling his eyes and chuckling. Before he can make his way back to me though, a girl taps his arm and asks a question.
I can’t hear them from where I stand, and even as I watch them interact, I’m still thinking about that morning. The moment Sam said we were family. The simple, sweet words keep coming back to my mind. They make me smile. Make me frown. We are a family. We’ve been one for seven years. We’ve just lived in separate houses.
“What are you scowling about?” Jack asks, nudging my arm.
“Nothing.” But that’s not true. Thinking of separate houses jumped me to another thought. The one when I told Sam I wish we lived together, and he’d somehow brought up the whole secret-girl thing.
At that moment, I wanted to laugh and cry at once. Laugh since I was happy Sam wasn’t keen on the idea at all. And cry because Sam obviously didn’t see me in any other light than as a close friend. Flatmates! There I thought I’d practically confessed my feelings, and Sam had completely misunderstood.
“Yeah, if that’s nothing,” Jack says, chuckling and motioning for us to continue walking toward the back paddocks, where kids kiss and hold hands behind the bushes, “I don’t want to know what something is.”
We walk quietly for a couple of minutes. The jingling of coins in Jack’s pocket and the kids in the distance make comforting background noise. I breathe in the scent of freshly cut grass and glance at Jack, who’s staring ahead, waiting patiently for me to say something.
I slow my step, and he mimics me. “I couldn’t say it to him.” I can tell from his nod he knows I’m talking about telling my neighbor I’m gay. I continue, “I don’t know why. I had the perfect opening.”
Jack hooks his thumbs into his pockets. “I know why.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He pauses, and then gives me a small smile before going on. “You’re scared you’ll know for sure how he feels and that it’s not the same way, and then you’ll have no more excuses to let you keep hoping.”
I let the words sink in, and I hate that they’re spot-on. “That’s exactly it. How do you know?”
He shrugs, and I think he’s not going to answer. He swivels as if to walk off in another direction, but then he stops. He looks at me instead. “Because I thought the same once.”
The way his gaze meets mine, I know he’s talking about us. This truth is both flattering and awkward, and I don’t know what on earth to say. Luckily, I don’t have to. He unhooks one of his thumbs from his pocket and slaps my arm. “But I moved on. Like you might have to as well.”
* * *
At four thirty, I find myself rolling the truck into the parking lot at Jeremy’s school. I figure since he has soccer practice, I can watch him for a bit and then talk to the team about the plans for the game on Sunday.
I walk to the field at the back of his school. The team is huddled together, some of the guys high-fiving one another. Jeremy says something to one of his mates, and then laughs before lifting his drink bottle and pouring water over his face. The soccer coach is chatting with Steven and gesturing toward the goal.
I take slower steps, feet crunching over the recently mown grass. Déjà vu hits me as I raise a hand and wave to Jeremy. It’s as if I never left for Auckland and this is just any other day I’d rock up to help out with the boys’ soccer practices or games.
“Luke!” Jeremy calls out, and his face breaks into a grin. He waves me over to him and the guys. “So, we still good to play the game against the Oriental Lions?”
I incline my head. “How’s Sunday at noon for you?”
“Wicked!”
Simon and Darryl, the team’s defensive players, grunt and punch each other’s shoulders. “We’ll thrash them.”
A soccer ball rolls out of the net next to Jeremy, and I hook it onto my foot and balance it. “It’s just a social game,” I tell them.
“Yeah, we know,” Simon says. “But we have a wager going.”
I kick the ball up, catch it, and tuck it under my arm. “Wager?”
Steven strolls up to us then, hooking his arm around Jeremy’s neck. It looks like he goes to hook his other arm around Simon and thinks better of it, keeping his arm at his side. Friend dos and don’ts. It seems like there’s a whole political thing to it. “The losing team pays for the winning team to eat all they want at Pizza Hut,” Steven says.
“They’ll so be paying for our dinners,” Darryl chimes.
Jeremy shrugs. “I think we have a shot.” He looks over toward the chain-link fence that separates the schools’ playing fields. “I have their captain’s number, so I’ll tell them the deal.”
I nod toward the coach, and say to the guys, “Twelve o’clock at Kresley Intermediate. Excuse me for a sec.” I weave through the team and shake the coach’s hand. I should know all of Jeremy’s teachers—but his former teacher/coach left around the same time I did.
I introduce myself and tell Mr. Charleson how I usually help out and that I’d like to start doing that again for the next school year. “I’m also happy to ref social games or practice.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get.” He laughs as he moves to grab the cones they used for drills. “Simon! Help me and take these and the balls back to the lockers, would you?”
I throw Simon the ball I’d picked up. Except Simon seems to be lost in his thoughts, gazing over toward Jeremy and Steven, and the ball hits his chest and thumps to the ground. He startles out of his thoughts and hurriedly picks up the ball.
The coach grins, points to Jeremy and says, “That’s your boy, right? He’s talented that one. A little cocky on the field, but his footwork is impeccable.”
My chest swells with pride as I nod. Yeah, that’s my boy. “He’s always been good at center and left wing.”
Mr. Charleson nods. “He has a great rhythm when he works with Steven. They know each other so well, they can zip around the field like no-one’s business.”
I’m smiling so much on the inside, I can’t respond. I glance over at Jeremy who’s juggling the ball I bought him just before I left to help my mum. “Those two have been friends forever.” And are maybe more than that now. I shake that thought off. It still doesn’t feel right to think of Jeremy as anything more than a kid. “They know each other well and have practiced together forever.”
“Hey, Luke,” Jeremy calls out. “You wanna see if you can still take the ball from me?”
To the coach, I say, “Seems I’ve been challenged. I gotta show the boy he’s still got tricks to learn. Let’s see if I can’t scrub some of the cockiness out of him, eh?”
He laughs. “Well I’m outta here. Sorry I can’t make the game on Sunday.”
Steven is suddenly next to me. “Thanks for running another training today, Mr. Charleson,” he says. “We won’t let you down, promise.”
“You’re good, kid,” Mr. Charleson says. “Just remember it’s about having fun in the end.”
I clap Steven on the shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll see you around before Sunday.”
“Try tomorrow, Mr. Luke.” Steven spots a loose ball under the heap of bright orange practice pinnies, scoops it up and jogs after Simon, who’s halfway across the field.
I move over to Jeremy, whose arms are balanced out as he uses his head to control the ball.
“Give it here,” I say, and he lets the ball drop between us, but before I can snatch it with my foot, he’s snagged it back and is rolling the ball around me.
“Cheeky boy. Yeah, you’re smiling now. Just you wait.”
I race after him as he dribbles toward one of the goals. For as far back as I can remember, this has been our game. The first few years, I didn’t have to work that hard to take the ball from him, and even made myself lose on occasion.
Now, though—now it’s tougher. I know I’m going to have to pull out some serious stunts to take and keep the ball from him.
“First to score,” I say as I nip the ball with the outside of my foot, just enough away from Jeremy that I have a chance to get control of it. If I’m fast enough.
I almost manage. But Jeremy takes back his advantage and does a hip swivel, reversing direction and taking the ball with him. It’s a well-executed move, and I want to tell him so—I’m about to tell him so—when he says, “Come on, old man. Is that all you’ve got?”
Game on.
He’s not getting away lightly with that. “I’ll give you old.”
We play at this for close to twenty minutes. Soon it’s just us on the field and the evening sun is dipping low at our backs.
I’ve managed to steal the ball from him twice, but before I managed to score, Jeremy blocked me. But it won’t happen a third time. . . .
I can feel the sweat rolling down the back of my long-sleeved T-shirt, and I shove up the arms. Jeremy is holding the ball under his foot and grinning at me. He’s just outside the goal area.
“Don’t look so smug. You haven’t scored yet.”
“Yeah, but I will. You’ll see.” He does a fake pass with his instep, pulling the ball back with his sole. This time I am ready for it.
“That was just lucky, Luke,” Jeremy says, scowling as I roll the ball away from him.
It’s my turn to smirk. “You see who’s still got it? This old man.” I dribble up to the penalty arc and then head toward the goal again.
I have to shield the ball as Jeremy marks me close. I scissor over the ball in an attempt to throw him, but he’s too good. I’m not about to say that to him though. I can see what his coach meant by being a little cocky on the field.
“If I can get that ball from you and score in the next five minutes,” Jeremy says, “will you buy us fish and chips for dinner?”
“Tell you what,” I say, making it a few more feet toward the goal. “I’ll get you your fish and chips if you win, but if I score you’re making dinner tonight. From scratch. I got a whole bag of dirty potatoes that need peeling for a Shepherd’s Pie.”
I know for a fact the boy hates peeling potatoes, and I laugh at his groan. But all too soon the cockiness is back. “You’re on, Luke. I’m gonna order fish, a spring roll, and a corn fritter. And a deep-fried Moro bar.”
I pull a vee around him in a sharp, well-timed move.
Jeremy is taken by surprise, and swears under his breath.
I take off toward the goal. I yell out as I hook the ball and score. “Yeah!” I run up to the goal post and high-five the top of it. “And that’s how it’s done, boy!”
He’s clutching his hair and groaning as he catches up to me. “Crap. That shouldn’t have . . . how’d you . . . damn.”
I grab him into a hug, rubbing my knuckles over his hair. Then I pause and lift my nose into the air. “Do you smell that?”
“Don’t say it’s the smell of victory. That’s so lame.”
I shake my head and pick up the ball. “Nope. But I smell shepherds pie.”
“Double or nothing?” he tries, pulling a hopeful face.
I shake my head. I’m done for the day. Plus it would be stupid of me to risk it when Jeremy had the upper hand for most of our session. “It’s only potatoes. You should be thankful you don’t have to rub my sore, old feet.”
His nose wrinkles. “Ugh. Gross.”
I laugh and shift the ball to my other arm. “Let’s—”
Go. The rest of my sentence is lost as I look up. Across the field is Sam, standing at the sidelines with his hands shoved into his pockets, smiling at us. The sun is hitting the side of his face, bathing him in a warm orange. He pulls both of his hands free and claps. “Nice show, boys.”
“What. The. Frack?” Jeremy comes to a halt, then hisses to me, “What is that thing on Dad’s head?”
“You mean his hair?” I say, unable to pull my eyes away from Sam and his lithe grace as he moves toward us with long strides.
“What happened to it?” He starts laughing, and gets louder the closer we get. His eyes glisten with tears. “Holy Moly. No freaking way. A mohawk?”
I smother a grin. “Not quite.”
“Close enough!”
“Luke,” Sam says, catching the ball I throw to him. “Should have guessed you were going to pick him up after practice. Came here and saw your truck in the parking lot.”
“Thought I’d tell the team the plan for their big game.”
Sam throws the ball up and tries to catch it on his foot to juggle, but it drops. “You guys make it look so easy,” he says with a sheepish grin.
Jeremy snorts, picks up the ball and starts showing his dad how it’s really done. “You look ridiculous, Dad.”
Sam seems pleased with that, but I snag the ball mid-air and bounce it off Jeremy’s head. “He looks just fine, kiddo.”
It’s hard to tell with the light, but it looks like Sam’s blushing. I have an urge to hook an arm around both my boys and hold them close to me.
I let myself daydream about what it would be like to have nothing to hide, to lean over and kiss Sam on the lips in front of Jeremy.
I get lost imagining the feeling, and miss what Sam has said. “Sorry?” I try not to let my gaze dip down to his lips.
“Looks like you scored this round,” Sam says, hooking his thumbs into his jeans.
I steal the ball from Jeremy again. “Sure did.” Then I move with Sam, shoulder-to-shoulder, toward the parking lot. “Jeremy’s making us dinner, by the way.”
Jeremy groans.