Exotic - Chapter 26: Chapter 26

The drive to Max's game was long, long enough to make me consider what I was doing - namely, whether it was sensible. My conversation with Caleb in the locker room seemed like it had happened months ago, but I remembered being told in no uncertain terms that I was not welcome to intrude in his life that way. Of course, back then we had been texting each other our locations just so we wouldn't bump into one another.
We'd come a long way.
I also remembered Max saying that Caleb's entire family came to his games. That fact alone nearly had me barrel rolling out of Aaron's car at the first traffic light.
But Max was chatting animatedly in the backseat, orange socks pulled up to his knees and juggling a soccer ball between his hands, ignoring his brother's plea to put it in the boot before he took out a window, and I reminded myself that I wasn't going to be there for Caleb. It would just be a bonus for my Saturday.
Aaron was wearing orange studs in support of his brother's team, though Max had pointed out they were not quite the same hideous shade that the Truman Monarchs advertised themselves with.
"They're burnt orange," Aaron argued. "We've discussed this. Monarch butterflies aren't neon. Your team name is a lie."
"O'Connor Prep claimed burnt orange as their team colour," Max told him. "That's why we hate them, remember?"
"I thought we hated them because they beat you, every season," I piped up.
"That too," Max admitted.
The pitch wasn't as grand as I'd built it up in my mind. It was larger than the one back at school, which consisted of one block of raked, plastic seating and change rooms off to the side. Roman Senior was another public school, so its pitch reflected its budget. It had an L-shaped platform off to the side of the pitch and a chalkboard-style scoreboard, with seven rows of elevated seating and benches around the rest of the pitch. The seats were filled with the home teams family and friends, so Aaron and I set ourselves up on one of the biting cold benches as Max ran off to join the Truman Monarchs warm-up drills.
I pooled my jacket over my bare legs – shorts were a misguided decision – and watched Max dribble a ball with a trio of teammates I recognised vaguely from classes I shared with them.
"Explain soccer to me," I asked Aaron, who had brought a thermos filled with what I could presume was a heartattack's worth of coffee.
"Hmm," he sipped it loudly. "It's pretty much that..." he pointed to Max and his teammates, "... but longer and with more screaming."
As if on cue, Mr. Troutman started yelling for a huddle so loudly that we could hear him from the opposite side of the pitch. My eyes scoured the group for Caleb. He wasn't among them; which I should have clocked the second we'd arrived. My eyes had a way of drawing to him whenever he appeared in my peripheral, however unintentional. I did see Aidan, stalking the length of the pitch like a predator. He had his phone in one hand and kept kicking his heels into the grass, churning it into muddy pulp. The look on his face made me nervous. Aaron and I were across the field to him, but he was the kind of pissed off you could feel radiating for miles.
"Do they have a chant?" I muttered. Aaron snorted into his coffee.
"Just yell a bunch. They don't hear anything over the roar of testosterone," he advised me. "Some of the mums shout 'Kill 'em, Truman'. That's always wild."
I took the thermos from his hands and took a sip. It tasted like a cardiac arrest. "What are we doing here?"
"Don't ask me. This was your idea," he grumbled, burrowing into his jacket. "It's going to rain."
The clouds weren't exactly pearly white. But Max flicked the ball into his hands and waved to us before jogging the field to gather with his teammates, and his face was so unbelievably delighted that my irritation melted away.
Aaron and I shifted over as a cotton-haired woman with a toddler took over the right side of our bench. The coffee provided precious heat, and Aaron and I grappled for it as the Truman Monarchs jogged the length of the pitch, cheeks pink from the cold and legs exposed. Aaron leaned over his legs as Roman Senior's goalie started doing lunges against the goals.
My eyes trained on a familiar figure, trudging across the field from the carpark. Caleb was alone, with his hands in his pockets and his bag over his shoulder. I immediately felt like an unwelcomed invader and ducked my head. Not enough that I couldn't watch him reach Aidan, head hung, bare legs dark and sculpted underneath his gym shorts.
I realised I had also begun to lean forward, to a noticeable degree, when Aaron jabbed me in the side. "You're drooling into my triple-shot."
I flustered, shoving his thermos back against his stomach. "Sorry. Spaced out there for a second."
"Sure," he smirked. Aaron Sanchez did not smirk on the regular. "Who caught your eye?"
I glowered at him, before I formulated an appropriate punishment for his nosiness. "I never realised how good Max looked in those tiny shorts."
Aaron made a gagging noise loud enough to startle the soccer mum we were sharing the bench with.
I glanced back to Caleb, just in time to see Aidan punch his shoulder. He wasn't yelling, but he was visibly fuming, talking with aggressive hand gestures and a stance that screamed cower at my feet. Caleb was not cowering, but he also wasn't making any attempt to defend himself. He just stared blankly ahead, with a face darker than the rainclouds gathering above.
Aidan punched his arm again, jostling him hard enough to send him staggering. I clenched my fingers into the metal of the bench, waiting with bated breath for matters to escalate; but before Caleb could retaliate, Mr. Troutman screamed for both of them across the field. With a glare I could feel from the other side of the field, Caleb passed Aidan in a wide arch and jogged to the huddle. After spitting into the grass, Aidan followed hot on his heels.
After a decent fifteen minutes of mind-numbing drills, which might have been more enjoyable if Caleb had been participating rather than being loudly reamed by Mr. Troutman for his lateness and lack of enthusiasm, a whistle sounded and both teams gathered in the centre. Aidan and a brunette half his size stepped forward, shaking hands stiffly. The referee flipped a coin, and based on Aidan's overly aggressive response, the Monarchs had not won the toss.
The mum beside us started clapping standing up and cheering – the rest of the bodies scattered around the boundary followed, hooting and hollering in a way that wasn't that different to the club atmosphere; if anything, it was a little muted in comparison. Aaron didn't join in, and my polite clapping got lost in the noise.
Max, who I was consciously trying to watch because it was so easy for my eyes to zone in on Caleb, did a few jumps in his place on the outer semi-circle, arms swinging easily.
Caleb rubbed his arms and shifted on his feet, standing in the firing line of Roman Senior's captain and the ball. For all I'd heard (but seldom seen) of his prowess on the field, he looked quite nervous. There was a tense moment of silence, as the crowds calmed, and the two teams prepared themselves
The whistle sounded, and Caleb's eyes snapped open, right as the brunette kicked off, sending the ball diagonally backward to one of his teammates. The heavens opened up as the chaos erupted on the field.
"Crap," Aaron grumbled and pulled his hood over his head. Dashes of rains freckled the cotton, but I couldn't find myself caring as the ball traced the length of the pitch, battering against the bare legs of both teams. Soccer spikes blended up the earth, quickly turning the grassy field into mud. Hairstyles slowly flattened against foreheads, and neon orange uniforms turned brown and damp, slowly making it harder to distinguish our team from the beige-clad Roman Senior.
I didn't ever lose sight of Caleb, however. The rain plastered his raven hair against his face, running down his skin in a way that sent my mind spinning back to our run-in in the shower rooms. Conscious of Aaron beside me, I forced myself to watch the ball, despite the instinct to ogle Caleb like a puppy through a sliding door.
Max got the ball for all of three seconds, and I threw myself into cheering for him despite my initial instinct to sit quietly. Aaron joined me after a few seconds of doubt. He was right about it mostly being lost in the white noise from all angles of the pitch, but I did notice Caleb's head jerking up from where he was leaned over near the opposition's goals. Our eyes met for a split second, and I watched his body stiffen.
My eyelashes were heavy with fat raindrops. I probably looked like a drowned rat again, but I gave him a slight smile before forcing my attention back to Max, who was getting slide tackled into the mud. Aaron hissed through his teeth.
The same thing happened to Aidan, seconds later, sending him toppling backward and landing heavily on his side. Caleb used the collar of his shirt to wipe off his face. I began wondering why I'd ever been averse to soccer. Soccer was amazing.
At least it was for the first twenty minutes until I realised that no one was getting any goals and the entire game from a spectator's perspective wasn't all that interesting, watching the ball trade teams continuously for no apparent reason. I knew my adrenaline rushes were 100% equated to Caleb being present, not at all excitement riled by the game.
Aaron had it worse, leaning on his fist as his eyes lazily tracked the field. Max was apparently being denied the ball, as Aidan kept sliding into his openings and steal his opportunities to show off. But the stupid smile never left his face, and I doubted he cared much while he was on the field.
Besides, Georgianna McCaffrey was on the bench across the field from us, staring at him dreamily like Juliet on the balcony, gazing up at the moon. Max played for the girls and the exercise, and there was no denying he was getting both.
Caleb got a lot of attention too, as often as he got the ball. Apparently, whatever argument had conspired between Aidan and he didn't affect their cooperation on the field, because McCaffrey never failed to pass to him, and Caleb generally got it a fair distance down the pitch whenever it was at his feet. He moved quickly despite the rain dragging down his jersey, weaving through Roman Senior's opposition before inevitably coming to a roadblock. He was clearly the most technically competent on the field – I thought, completely unbiased – but he wasn't playing a one-man game. It was a shame too; the one time he didn't pass off to someone else, he made it to the white box and made an attempt at a goal. It ricocheted off the post, and Mr. Troutman shouted something about opening his damn eyes, as Caleb wiped hair off his forehead and jogged back to the centre.
Mr. Troutman stalked the perimeters of the pitch, hollering at his team whenever it seemed like their energy was slipping. He passed us not once, but five times in his rounds, circling the entire field at least that many times with his face growing redder with every minute the clock ticked closer to half time. I got to witness another collision between members of the opposing teams, resulting in matching blood noses running down their jerseys, before the referee blew half time and both filthy, sopping wet teams split to opposite sides of the field.
But that point, Aaron and I were thoroughly soaked, and it only hit me how cold it was when my heart rate went down. I pulled my soaked jacket over my goose-pimpled arms, grimacing as the wet cotton stuck to my skin.
"Is it always this exciting?" I asked, trying desperately to access my sarcasm chambers.
"Well, usually they'd be losing by now," Aaron told me, pulling out his phone. "I saw Kaiden Eaton break his leg during the first game of the season. They called an ambulance."
"Jesus," I grimaced. "I thought soccer was a gentleman's sport."
"You're thinking of cricket," Aaron informed me. "But Max played cricket in middle school and he got more concussions in one summer than he has in five years of soccer."
"Yeah, because he's been on the bench for four of them," I dug my phone out of my pocket and checked my messages. I was missing five from earlier in the day, from Lauren.
Is Caleb with you??
He snuck out.
Answer???
You are a terrible pretend boyfriend.
And three minutes after the barrage of the first four;
Nvm he texted us.
I quickly sent her a response, angling the phone away from Aaron.
sorry, i was at a soccer match.
caleb is here.
i'm not here with caleb tho, i'm with aaron.
"Caleb Proust is looking especially brooding today," Aaron commented, drawing my attention back to him.
"Caleb?" I had to work to keep my voice even. "I hadn't noticed."
Aaron's smile was slight, but all-knowing. "Mmm-hmm."
Lauren's reply gave me a safe place to direct my blush.
Thanks for clarifying.
I dropped my phone into my lap, rubbing my neck distractedly. "So how are your scholarship applications going?"
"I've heard they love a sob story," Aaron shrugged after a telling pause. "So I put it all in there; legal orphan, gay, immigrant mother. They write themselves. How you decided on uni?"
I gave a perfunctory shrug. The idea of being trapped in an educational institute, one I had to pay for, for another three years, was not my idea for my future. But Aaron had first-generation university aspirations, and it felt weird to confess to him I was planning on heading into the world straight out of school; Reece had pushed for it, despite his general disinterest in my life, and my mother had talked about it like a sure thing. University was expected.
Aaron would ask what my plan was, I would tell him I was planning on working, and he would laugh because as far as he knew I'd never worked a day in my life.
The rain had subsided somewhat, persistent but not quite as drenching. Max, ever the opportunist, was standing on the sidelines with his hand on Georgianna McCaffrey's waist, talking to her through a sly smile.
My eyes caught on a familiar dark-haired flock walking the sidelines, dressed for the weather in long jackets and armed with umbrellas. Jake Proust led the pack with his own sports bag and neon socks, closely followed by his parents and Lauren walked with Seth, a thick braid thrown over her shoulder and a brown winter coat hanging at her knees. Mrs. Proust searched the field, and when she spotted Caleb, she immediately went to approach him. Caleb's father grabbed her wrist and pulled her gently back, whispering urgently in her ear.
Lauren spotted me through the drizzle and gave me a timid wave.
"It's your tutor," Aaron commented, returning her wave halfway enthusiastically. "And her entire family. They're late."
I considered telling Aaron the truth, but it was just too weird. It was not a conversation I wanted to open up while I was soaking wet and freezing cold. "I think her brother has a game after this. Juniors play second."
"They don't usually miss Caleb's either," Aaron mused. I watched them settle on a bench across from us, beagles roped in at their feet. Caleb had obviously spotted them at the same time I had and was working a lot harder to avoid their gaze, jogging on the spot with his head down.
The whistle sounded in my peripheral hearing. I immediately perked up as the teams spread across the field, setting up to begin.
The second half was a little more riveting than the first, for the simple reason that Max seemed to have elevated Aidan's wrath from exclusion to direct attack after spending the break cuddled up to his sister. There wasn't much he could do with Mr. Troutman screaming at them to come together but I witness a few shoves and harsh words passing between them which the referee seemed happy to ignore. After a poorly disguised stumble turned into an elbow in Max's gut, Aaron's twin went into the mud on his hands and knees. I jumped out of my seat on instinct, but the assault went unnoticed considering the ball was on the other end of the pitch.
Quietly fuming, I caught his attention and made a face. He gave me a weak thumbs-up in return. Max was a trooper. My attention was quickly drawn back to Caleb, who was jogging on the spot to keep warm.
"Can I sit?"
I glanced up from my laser focus on Caleb's thighs to Lauren, who was standing above me with her hands in her pockets. The contrast of the sights made me jolt in my seat.
She smiled apologetically. "Sorry, my mum just suggested I come and sit with you... hey Aaron."
Aaron was already shuffling aside to make room for her. "Hey. Prime viewing from this position."
"Thanks," she dropped down between us, leaving a good thirty centimetres between the start of my leg and hers. "It's like crazy town over there. Mum keeps muttering in Greek. Caleb wasn't allowed to play this week, but he snaked the keys from Mum's room and... well, in short, he's super dead after this."
I frowned. "Grounding extends to soccer?"
"Grounding in the Proust household means household arrest save school, and taking the bins to the curb," Lauren informed me. "But Aidan was on the phone with him all morning, so I guess he talked him into it. Mum yells loud, but that prick yells louder."
"Oh!" Aaron pointed, drawing our attention to the field. Max had the ball for all of five seconds, weaving around a Roman Senior defender before passing it off. I let out a single whoop of appreciation and Max gave us an excited salute.
Lauren clapped too, craning her neck. "He has terrible form. He's going to throw out his back, kicking like that."
Aaron snorted loudly. "I will pay money for you to say that to his face."
"You better believe I'll give him that advice for free," she muttered. Aaron snickered, turning his body towards her and engaging her fully in conversation. Lauren happily reciprocated, and I was pleased for the opportunity to watch Caleb play without feeling the need to glance back at the gameplay to throw Aaron off.
With ten minutes remaining, a good pass split through Roman Senior's defence and got to Caleb, without anyone to block him from the goal. I sat up quickly, and slapped Lauren's shoulder, drawing her attention to the field. My heart raced, as Caleb dribbled through the mud and cross the white line. He sized up the goalie for a half-second before his right foot met the synthetic leather of the ball with an audible thud. The goalie jumped to the left, knee skidding in the wet grass, and the ball hit the back of the net to his right.
Roman Senior's audience might have outnumbered Truman's, but the roar of celebration still made my ears ring. 70% of the excitement seemed to come from Mr. Troutman, who jumped for joy at the result. Caleb reacted mutely to the success, shaking the rain from his hair and accepting a barrage of fist bumps from his teammates.
I clapped politely, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself, but Lauren screamed right next to my ear, unabashedly loud. Caleb glanced in our direction and met my eye mid-clap. I didn't know whether his smile was attributed to the triumph of the goal or the fact that my hands missed each other the second our eyes met, and I slapped my palms on my upper arms to hide my mortification. Nevertheless, I sensed it was for me. Even from distant, I could see that hint of teeth flash, before he sealed his lips and returned his focus to the game.
I sensed Lauren's eyes on me and dragged my eyes into my lap.
It was all but over after that. The whistle ended the game before Aaron had returned, and the sky ironically closed only after the action on the pitch had ended. The Truman Monarchs gathered in the centre to embrace, shouting and pumping fists in the air as Roman Senior toed the grass and spat into it. Mr. Troutman appeared uncharacteristically giddy, jogging up and down and sidelines and punching the air like the manager of a multi-million-dollar team, not a coach of a high school division.
"Do we swarm the field now?" I asked. Lauren and Aaron rolled their eyes in dramatic unison.
Suddenly, the shouting took a turn from triumphant to confounded. I glanced up to see a familiar face stagger from the crowd of boys clad in neon orange, clutching his bloodied face. Max tumbled backward cradling his nose and mouth, landing and skidding on the grass in the foetal position.
Time froze for a second before adults descended onto the field. The clump was broken up, and answers were demanded, whistles blown, accusations thrown. A random father was attending to Max, a hand on his shoulder as he bled onto his jersey, teeth stained red.
The next second, Aaron was on his feet and running across the field to his brother. I joined him before I could lose my nerve, kneeling on Max's left side as he spluttered on blood, eyes unfocused.
"Jesus, what happened?" I demanded as Aaron supported the back of his brother's head. "Max, I think your nose is..."
I trailed off, following the trail of chaos back to its source. Aidan McCaffrey was looking usually smug, watching the chaos unfold around him. His forehead was stained with blood, enough to drip into his eyebrows.
"Fucker," Max finally managed, spitting a glob of red into the grass. "Headbutt me. Fucker..."
Anger bubbled away inside me, hot water in my veins. Aaron's jaw clenched, but he focused it on digging tissues out of his packet, holding them up for Max to stuff unceremoniously up his nose.
"Quiet, quiet!" the referee was yelling. "Who can explain to me what happened?"
The entire team went silent, infuriatingly enough. Their silence had worked in our favour once before, but no one was willing to speak up against Aidan. Max was catching his blood in a cupped hand, a clear demonstration of Aidan's wrath. The blood on Aidan's face didn't seem to occur to the adults as something to question either, making my fury flare.
"Are you kidding me?"
It took every head whipping around in my direction for me to realise I'd spoken up. The attention alone was more than enough to make my face burn and my mouth go as dry as cotton on a good day, but my frustrations had melted away my filter along with my reservations about being outspoken. Unable to formulate a coherent sentence past my initial demand, I gestured pointedly at Aidan, directing all attention to his blood-smeared face.
Aidan's face came crashing down into a scowl. Voices were immediately raised again.
"An accident, right?" Mr. Troutman was prompting, while in the huddle descended into chaos. "McCaffrey, make your damn apologies and..."
"Not acceptable," the referee cut in. "Not acceptable behaviour..."
Max was still bleeding all over himself. Thankful, he didn't need to answer any of the hundreds of questions buzzing in the air; because the story was coming apart in front of us. Aidan had started to raise his voice, and not exactly to defend himself. I met Aaron's eye; his eyes were glazed over, shutting off the obvious upset and fury he was feeling. Max touched his nose tentatively and swore. His voice was slurred. "Fucker..."
"Come on, let's find a medkit," I suggested. Aaron nodded sharply, helping his brother to his feet and supporting him for the first few staggering steps. Before we could get far when a specific raised voice caught my attention.
"With respect, sir, he's been shoving Sanchez around all game and no one seemed to care about that."
I glanced over my shoulder, to see Caleb staring up at Mr. Troutman with an unflinching glare. Aidan was turning progressively redder, fists clenched by his sides as his number one defender spluttered and stammered. The referee beckoned Caleb forward, and he stepped into the limelight willingly, arms crossed defensively over his chest.
Mr. Troutman visibly deflated. "We can do this another time. Aidan, walk it off."
"He's on probation," Caleb cut in before Aidan was allowed to escape. "What's going to be done about that?"
"Fuck you," Aidan immediately spat, and was immediately reamed by the referee, who then turned back to Caleb.
"During the game, this wasn't accidental contact?"
Caleb didn't shy away; jaw set, eyes cold. "I'll account to it. The ball was nowhere near them. And just then, it was completely unprovoked."
"Would you testify that?" the referee continued, and glanced over to Max, who was hunched over my shoulder in a bloody mess. "You want to press charges, son?"
Max looked up weakly, caught Aidan's eye, and nodded firmly. Aidan's redness had enveloped his upper arms, and I began to worry he might burst.
A tenth-grade science lesson back to me in a rush, specifically the rules of thermodynamics. Namely, energy can be transferred and transformed, but it cannot be created or destroyed. The rage building up in Aidan needed to go somewhere. Potential energy turned to kinetic, as he lunged forward and punched Caleb across the face.
The hit cracked like lightning, and Caleb went down hard. My whole body went tense, rocketing me up onto my toes. Aidan tried to follow him to the ground but his until-then useless teammates were finally roused from their temporary paralysis and swarmed him. Aidan threw a couple of blind hits but with everyone finally rushing to contain him, he couldn't inflict much damage.
Caleb rolled onto his back, groaning ever so slightly. I clung to Max to keep myself from rushing forward automatically. I was certain Caleb would not appreciate it.
Aidan shoved the numerous restraining arms aside and storming off in the opposite direction. The referee began yelling him to come back, nowhere nearly as loudly as Mr. Troutman was yelling.
"Last straw, McCaffrey! Didn't I tell you what would happen? Didn't I warn you?"
Aidan didn't turn back. I saw a stout woman with a teal purse rush along the sidelines, presumably his mother, to catch up with him, and Georgianna following behind. She threw a desperate, forlorn glance over her shoulder towards Max, a la Juliet, before disappearing off the field with her family.
The crowd settled. My jaw was still hanging, and Caleb was still on the ground, blinking up at the sky as if he were seeing it for the first time. I might have remained there, suspended in time for hours, if I hadn't had my focus broken by a grunt to my right.
"You know me, I hate to be the centre of attention," Max muttered to me through gritted, crimson teeth. "But bleeding on the field is a health hazard, so can we... see to that?"
"Caleb?" I was relieved to hear Lauren come running, to drop beside her brother with white knuckles and pursed lips. She leaned over him and hollowed out her lungs to shout. "Mama! Papa!"
The call for the Proust family to come running was my perfect cue to start inching off the pitch with Max's arm linked around my neck. Turning my head, with difficulty, from the scene behind us, I threw my attentiveness into helping my friend.
I'd come to the game for Max, after all.