Page 23

23

Ben Stirling

Breakfast with the team was better and worse than I could have imagined. I guess I haven’t fully appreciated how much I needed the distance I’ve had from the Blackeyes since I moved to Seattle. Seeing them again, being in that space, in that place where I’m supposed to be the old me but nothing about me is the same was hard. It was a lot.

I don’t know how to process it.

On the one hand, it was good. I love those guys. They’re my team. My friends. Of course it was good to see them and catch up. Who doesn’t like catching up with old friends, especially when catching up means being regaled with tales about Sev’s ex slashing the tires of his brand-new Beemer? The way he told the story was hilarious. His confusion, even though he richly deserved what he got, was palpable. T-Dog spent the entire time he was talking interjecting with poorly received advice about how to avoid getting into this kind of situation in the future. T-Dog got pissed, and Sev got defensive. It was like no time had passed.

I discovered that Bryce’s wife, Kel, is pregnant with their first child. She’s three months along. Bryce didn’t call with the news because he wanted to tell me face-to-face. He was so happy and proud that you’d swear he was the first man to ever father a child. It was really sweet.

It was good to see the rest of the guys too. Every single one of them means something to me, and I know I mean something to them. They still miss me. I still matter. There’s still a me-shaped void in the team.

It was the worst, too, because life goes on. Life has gone on for them. Things have happened I wasn’t part of. Games have been played. Practices have been hard. Jokes have been cracked. The team has been restructured. Bryce was the best assistant captain I could have wished for, but his leadership style is different from mine and it’s changing the dynamic of the team. Not for better or worse. Just changing it.

I felt like I was home, back in my own skin, and like an alien at the same time. The good, the bad, the old, and the new all merged by the time I said my goodbyes, winding themselves into a band that wrapped itself around my head.

I’m glad I went, but I feel awful now. Spaced out and overstimulated. Sad with lashings of loneliness. I indicate left and look both ways before turning onto Thickwood Drive. As I do it, the band around my head tightens, squeezing so hard my vision blurs. The gnarled metal jaws of a vise constrict around my temples, pressing hard enough to pierce skin and crush bone.

I park in the driveway and get out of my car, not trusting myself to negotiate my way into the garage littered with the last boxes I’ve yet to collapse. I get out and lock the car door. The sun is bright arctic white. Blistering rays bounce off pale walls as though they’re slabs of ice.

Jeremiah appears in my field of vision. Translucent lines and stars fan out around his head. His voice comes at me from a long way away.

“Ben. Are you okay?”

He’s closer now. His hand is on my shoulder and his face is in crystal-clear focus. His hair is glossy and dark and a thick mop of curls spills onto his forehead. His eyes are filled with concern.

“I have a headache.”

The hand on my shoulder applies pressure. “Looks like a bad one. Your eyes look weird. Are you seeing an aura?”

I close one eye and look at him out of the other. “D’you mean to tell me you aren’t wearing a halo?”

“Nope. ’Fraid not. Though Lord knows, it would suit me.” He chuckles and then goes quiet. “Where does it hurt? Temples, neck, shoulders?”

“All of the above.”

“Ugh, you poor thing. You need a myofascial release and a good deep-tissue massage.”

“Is that an offer?” I ask.

There’s a shift in his posture, a slight correction that lets me know I’ve read the situation wrong. He wasn’t offering. He was simply giving me professional advice and may have intended to refer me to someone for treatment.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Why not. I have the time. I don’t have plans. I could do it now.” He’s uncomfortable, talking faster than usual. So fast, I can’t get a word in edgewise to tell him not to worry about it. “My table is at home. It only takes a second to fold it out. It’s… Yep, it’s no problem at all. I can absolutely massage you. I’m a professional massage therapist, after all.”

He’s walking fast too. I stumble along behind him at a brisk pace, and by the time he finally stops talking for long enough for me to tell him he doesn’t need to do this, we’re in his house, the table has been set up, and Jeremiah is shaking out a large, fluffy towel for me to lie on.

“Shirt off,” he says brightly.