- - -
We’ve come a long way since we were kids, haven’t we?
- - -
The dull roar echoes around and around the stadium, through the tunnels, into the locker room, and through your headphones; even here, in the inner workings of the stadium, the fans insist on making themselves known to you. But with each match, the noise of the crowd seems to melt more and more into the background of the music, and listening to it is becoming a natural, even welcome part of the pre-game routine.
A teammate slaps your back and you jump. He laughs good-naturedly.
“Hey, come on man. You can’t let me sneak up on you like that. Spatial awareness, buddy.”
You glare at him (“oh, fuck off, Leo,” you say), but he knows, and you know that he knows, that there’s no bite behind it. This is a relationship forged through years of sharing in the most exciting victories and the most devastating losses. You can’t spend the happiest and saddest moments of your life without at least growing a little close—the intensity of reluctant, sweaty practice drills in the hot sun and the monotony of passing the day away in an air-conditioned plane on its way to yet another exhibition match.
- - -
Somehow, it never really changed.
- - -
The current song ends, and you hit pause before the next one starts, putting your headphones in your locker.
It’s that paradoxical boredom and excitement that draws you to the game. That’s what soccer is, isn’t it? It’s the half-delirious excitement of a clutch goal after 85 minutes of nothing, it’s standing perfectly still, coiled like a spring ready to release, putting all your hope in one person to block the penalty kick… it’s looking out the window of your mother’s minivan, it’s scuffing your tiny cleats against the grass waiting for something to come your way…
It’s orange slices and juice passed from teammate to teammate after a game. It’s friends, and it’s family, and it’s home.
And it’s Dave, you think, as you look at the orange slices that you still bring to every match—the comfort of being able to come back to your locker and take part in those memories of childhood, when you were happy after every Saturday game because your mom would ruffle your hair and take you and your friends out for pizza, no matter if you won or lost.
- - -
Somehow, we never really changed either.
- - -
“I’ll order the ‘za, alright?”
“Please don’t call it that,” you tell him, and you hang up.
With your busy schedules, it’s not always easy (you’ve probably met more times on the field then off of it), but you always manage to make time for each other. Sometimes you grab a bite to eat, sometimes you hit up a local bar together, and sometimes both of you would rather stay in, order a pizza, and watch a shitty movie, talking over it the whole time.
The night before the match is one of those times, and upon hearing a knock you open the door of your hotel room and see Dave leaning against the opposite wall looking into the distance, trying and failing to look cool, dark curly hair falling over his eyes.
“Get in here, dumbass,” you say.
- - -
Even if I lose, I’ll still be happy that I got to see you.
- - -
Hours later, the pizza box is empty, the tv is off, and the both of you are halfway through a bottle of wine, talking about nothing and everything. Too tired and tipsy to stay alert, your eyelids flutter closed and you sink a bit further into the couch.
“You think you’re gonna win tomorrow?”
“Hell yeah I do,” Dave responds. “Trust me, we’re a lot better now. How about this, loser treats the winner afterward. Real fancy restaurant-type shit.”
You nod in response.
He pauses. “Although maybe staying up late the day before isn’t a great idea.”
“Hey, I’m doing it too,” you murmur back.
In a haze, you struggle to recall the last time you played against his team. You remember how your striker slipped the ball through Dave’s grasping hands, seeing the bitter twist of his mouth, the adrenaline rush of victory. You remember saying goodbye at the airport, unsure what to say, wondering whether or not an apology would just offend him.
But now there’s no animosity in his voice. He would be an enemy on the field tomorrow, but for now you feel the light pressure of his arm over your shoulder and you can’t help but lean into his chest, dimly registering how quickly your confused heart is beating. You aren’t entirely sure if he’s stroking your hair, but you’re too afraid to look up and risk him stopping, so you stay there, breathing against his shirt and keeping your eyes squeezed tightly shut.
- - -
And I’ll count the days until I get to see you again.
- - -
You hold the small plastic bag, bouncing it in your hand, remembering the closeness and the warmth of last night.
“I’ll be right back,” you tell Leo, and you dart out of the locker room, jogging through the underbelly of the stadium, listening as the noise of the crowd gets louder.
You cradle the bag of orange slices, careful not to drop them, and once you get to the other side of the stadium you slip into another locker room, this one filled with unfamiliar people. You try to be discreet but your uniform colors stick out, brazenly unsubtle.
Dave is there, near the back of the room, sitting on the bench by his locker and tugging on his cleats. You shake the bag of orange slices near his face.
“Hey,” you say, and he looks up in surprise. “Little present for you.”
You sit next to him on the bench and he takes it, laughing. “What is this, some kids’ game? You gonna give me a Caprisun too?”
But you can tell that he appreciates the sentiment, and you look at his eyes and you think that he, too, is dwelling on those same idyllic summer weekends.
“You better go,” he says. “If the rest of my team notices you they’ll probably kick your ass.”
“Oh come on, I can’t be here to wish them luck? I mean, you’ll probably need it.”
He doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, he opens the bag and picks out an orange slice and waves it in front of your mouth, offering it. He’s unbearably close and you dodge the orange, opting instead to peck him on the cheek. His eyes widen and he reddens.
“Wh-”
“I’d better go,” you say. “Don’t wanna get caught being somewhere I’m not supposed to be, right?”
You stand up to leave, but Dave catches your hand and pulls you in. He kisses you, for real this time, and you think that it cannot possibly matter if you get caught. Right here with Dave, in a swirl of memories and feelings and years gone by, is exactly where you belong.
![:]](./images/smilies/icon_smiling.png "Cheerful Smile"){kind=icon}
