Page 34 of Ominous: Part 1
The other coach is doing something similar on the opposite end of the square mat, but he isn’t silent like Trafalgar’s.
“Let’sdo something,Erling!” His face is pink and he’s probably a decade older than Eli’s coach.
Despite my determination to appear unaffected by anything that happened in this enormous, gleaming gymnasium, I’m leaned over my knees, black, chunky boots tapping up and down on the dark blue bleacher seat below me, thankfully empty. My arms are crossed, my eyes locked in on Eli’s triceps, and I imagine I might look like I have a stomachache, because that’s exactly what so many parents scattered beside and behind me appear to have. Some of them weren’t content to stay up on the bleachers near me though, with the A/C fanning over the back of my neck, rattling the soft, loose fabric of my sheer shirt.
Those parents are dotted around the gleaming, tan floors of the gym, on every square inch not covered by thick black mats with white circles. Eli’s dad may not have come, but it hasn’t stopped his teammates’ parents from cheering him on, calling out his name specifically, every so often for reasons sometimes obvious to me and sometimes not.
This is his second match.
His first ended quickly, in the first period with a takedown that led to a pin, Eli draped over the guy’s upper body like he was using him as a pillow. It was fast, and almost lazy.
Now, though, the ref brings his fists together, knuckles bumping, saying “stalling.” It seems to be a warning, because they break apart, the red headed guy shaking his head as they do, adjusting the strap of his red singlet. Sweat gleams along his ropey muscles, and I watch Eli’s chest heave, but he’s smiling, which seems a little out of place. Then again… it’s Eli. He enjoys a challenge, I think.
I don’t move from my crouched over position, rocking back and forth, and when they come together again, the ref circling them, a whistle in his mouth like he’s on guard to correct them once more for doing nothing, I almost leap to my feet in outrage.
The guy gets Eli on his back in seconds. A sweep of his feet, hugging him close as he causes him to fall.
I think it’s over.
The ref is on his hands and knees, making a sweeping motion with one hand, like he’s counting something, and Eli’s coach narrows his eyes, but while the other guy’s coach is screaming, Trafalgar’s says nothing. It seems like it’s coming to an end, and I feel a sense of dread in my chest. Like it isn’tfair.Like I want to drag the guy off of Eli.
As if he needs saving.
But regardless, saving or not, the match has to be over, and I exhale, sitting up straighter, dropping my feet to the shiny center of the bleachers, unwilling to watch Eli lose as I turn my head to the buzzard. Second period, forty-five seconds left.
Six minutes total. Three two-minute periods.Eli told me as much when we walked into the gym together. He shoved a bundle of dollar bills in my hand before he disappeared into the locker rooms, and at first, I was offended, until he laughed and told me it was for snacks, from the vending machine. Organic animal crackers and sparkling water, I think of getting something after this. Or maybe now, while Eli loses.
But I hear someone yelling.
Multiple people. I think it must mean the match has officially been called, but as I drag my gaze to Eli, I see his hips lifted into the air, the inside of his elbow around the back of his opponent’s head, his other arm beneath his stomach. Eli throws his arms up, tossing the guy off and twisting his body, knee crashing down to the mat as his upper body comes over his opponent’s, gaining the dominant position.
His coach still says nothing, but nowhe’ssmiling.
The referee sweeps his hand two times, in slow motion, then he blows the whistle, and it’s done.Eli won.
After they’re on their feet, when the ref holds up Eli’s hand by his wrist, his eyes find mine, his cheeks pink. He lifts a brow, as if to say,did you really think I was going to lose?
* * *
“What do you think?”He pulls back from the water fountain, releasing it, then swiping at his bottom lip with the back of his hand. His singlet is pulled off of both shoulders, his heaving chest exposed, sweat lining every inch of defined muscle.
My phone slips from the side pouch of my bag, hanging off of one arm, and before I can tell him what I think about watching him wrestle, in this musky back hallway, he bends down to retrieve my phone after it clatters on the tile floor.
The words I try to form die in my mouth.
The tight spandex of his black singlet falls lower as he grabs my phone. In the moment before he straightens, I see it completely.
A fresh bruise, still red with edges of darkening purple. The size of a large apple. His skin is tan with an olive complexion, but the red of the bruise is so stark, it wouldn’t matter his skin tone. There’s no mistaking it.
And what I just saw on the mat… even when his opponent took him down, there was no fist to his chest. Just his body over Eli’s. It wouldn’t form a bruise. And before that, the earlier match, Eli had the upper hand from start to finish.
He offers me the phone as he stands to his full height, looking down on me.
I try to wipe the shock off of my face, but I must do a poor job of it because I know he sees something in my expression. His brows pull together, phone still offered in my direction, but it’s not the focal point.
I close my mouth and try to ignore the feelings flooding through me. Curiosity, concern,anger.
Who touched him like that?
