Page 35 of Hits Different

Back in my room, I strip down to my boxers, ready for bed. I’m about to close my blinds when I spot a figure outside, illuminated by one of the security lights.

Brandon’s name flashes up on my phone.

“Dyer was watchingSee You At The Altar”, he says before I can speak. “It’s one of my mom’s films. Truly, it’s the worst thing she’s ever done. He said it didn’t have a happy ending because she doesn’t get the guy, and ends up dancing with her best friend instead”.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, as he continues. “I always thought there was something pretty cool about going through life with your best friend. Even”, His voice is unrecognisable, “If you can’t have him the way you want to”.

I know what he’s getting at, and he knows that I know too. Everything I want to say in return feels inadequate, so I settle for, “You’re not wrong”.

“Can we note for the record that I just expressed some very non-Artful Dodger like behaviour?”

“Duly noted. Since you’re on a roll, can I ask you a question?” His silhouette is so perfectly framed in shadow that I can see him nod. “Back at the Rosebud. Why’d you make out with that girl?”

There’s a silence so long that I wonder if he’s hung up, and then suddenly, into the darkness he replies softly. “Because I wanted you to see”.

“You knew I was there?”

I can just about see him nod. “Did it bother you?”

“It did”, I say, surprising myself. “I don’t know why”.

The pause hangs comfortably between us. Finally, I wave.

“Goodnight, Dodger”.

“Goodnight, Rocky”.

I watch as he turns and strolls back towards his cabin. A warm feeling flutters in my stomach. I’ve got my boy back. At least for now, and because of it, my world feels a little more brighter.

That’s why I lied when I told him I didn’t remember what happened that night on the beach. What he said to me.

Or what I said back.

Chapter 14

Flickers

Brandon

Go to Summit,they said.

It’s the best training facility in the country, they said.

It’ll be a chance to reconnect with your best friend, they said. Okay, maybe I said that one.

To begin with, it felt easy. It’s not that hard to fit in, if you make it an art form. Take an interest in everyone. Let people blame you for your parent’s policies or performances. Don’t complain. Don’t explain. The same game I’ve been running since I was a kid.

But every day this week, I’ve been up at 5am. Cardio. Rest. Weights. Rest. Stretches. So many stretches. Ball control. Ball precision. Stretches. Drills. Then another rest. It’s exhausting how many rest breaks there are.

Meanwhile, the rest of the team are flying around Europe. It still stings that I’m not there with them. That should be me with the giant oversized Toblerone sticking out of my backpack, damn it.

I know that resting sounds easy, but it’s not.

When I rest, I have time to think. I’ve spent years cultivating a careful armour. Don’t let people get too close. If nobody gets in, then nobody gets hurt. It’s been working just fine, but then, just like that, Di Rossi tells me he wants to really know me, and everything unravels.

At least I get a break when I’m training. He’s not my coach. That honour is shared between Gretchen and Ivor, both of whom enjoy inflicting punishment in only the way ex-military Swedish Olympians can. But still, Di Rossi’s around. Checking people in. Collecting stray balls. Doing tours.

Distracting the hell out of me with how good he looks.

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