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I’m also not ready for Rae to bite his lip once the call is over like he’s wondering the same. Then his gaze locks on something else behind me, and I turn to see what he’s spotted.
Noah takes a turn in goal and faces Teo.
That would be fine against any of the other kids I’ve seen play here, but he’s up against a formidable right foot. I also know he’s desperate to be treated the same as all the other kids here—Iknowthat—but I also know why he can’t be. Not yet.
Rae comes to the same conclusion. “Shit. He probably shouldn’t?—”
“Get a ball straight to the chest?”
No, he probably shouldn’t after surgery that only proves how quickly Rae has bonded with this group if Noah has shared it with him. Or maybe it was Luke who shared that information. A quick glance up at his study window shows him in the window, watching. Nothing about his body language screams that I need to take action.
He’d shout if Noah shouldn’t be doing anything this physical, wouldn’t he?
I want to believe that, but I can’t risk this game leaving Noah as broken as m?—
Rae shoots away before I can, darting across the grass towards the goalmouth while shouting, “Hey. It’s my turn in goal. You shoot, Noah.”
“No, it’s my turn.” I race Rae then, and who knew I’d start my Friday by making myself a liar on a football pitch, because I told Kirsty I wasn’t playing, didn’t I? That’s exactly what happens though, and yeah, I’m years out of practice, but I still stop every shot Noah fires until Teo switches places with him.
I told Kirsty I wasn’t coaching either, yet I call out instructions that only make my time in goal harder. Teo was good already. A few adjustments to his run-up later and he almost knocks my block off.
I have to work even harder to stop his second shot, which slams into my chest where a river boulder already bruised it, but thank fuck it’s my ribs that take that blast instead of Noah’s.
Teo listens to my winded feedback and his next shot is incredible, even if I have to strain old wounds to save it.
“Hey!” I shout after I stagger upright. “Take it easy on an old man, won’t you?”
Teo’s last shot shoots straight past me, a cannonball to the back of the net, a perfect top corner that I don’t see coming.
I can’t.
Not with my eyes suddenly blurring.
I blink stinging dampness away as Rae jogs over, and I don’t argue when he shuffles me out of goal and takes over. All I can do is focus on a second blurring. This time, the grass between my feet smudges. So does the white line of paint between my work boots. Both are still fuzzy when the bell rings again, the school day starting in five minutes, and the kids run to make it inside in time for their classes.
Rae’s hand lands on my shoulder. It rests right over a scar, his pats there oh-so gentle because he knows what my shirt hides from other people. “You okay?”
Okay?
I can’t see.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t do anything but let his voice wrap me.
It’s another boa, feathery and soft around my throat, which only slowly loosens. Finally, I can chuff out something close to laughter along with the reason for being this choked up before nine in the morning. “Dad used to say that to me.”
Rae asks, “Yeah?” and I’m usually the gruffer of the two of us. Not today. This comes out even lower from him. “When?”
“When he took a turn in goal for me.” Knowing that Rae pictures the same posts as I do means I can let out what I’d usually try to swallow down or forget. Today, remembering is easier, if still painful. “He’d say, ‘Take it easy on an old man.’ I’d forgotten, Rae. Hearing it again? Being the one to say it? Caught me off guard, that’s all.”
Rae’s hand slides to the small of my back. Then it tugs on my elbow, and I don’t know when I stuffed my hands into my pockets, but he pulls one free to plant on his chest. There’s noway to tell if it shakes. Not when both of his hands cover mine completely.
He presses, and I feel the rise of his inhale under my trapped palm.
His exhale is an audible gust—a different reminder—this time of the man who last breathed with me through a tough moment.
I flash a look up to the study window again, which is thankfully now empty.
