“Actually, the origins of no harm no foul are rooted in basketball.” There’s nothing Faith hates more than being corrected, and as expected, this sees her clomping down the stairs.
“Oh, if that’s the case, should I expect a seven-foot-three point specialist to join us tomorrow?” She’s beside me now, a distinct air of judgement in her tone.
“Look. The kid has?—”
“Kid? What is he, three years younger than you?”
Using my long limbs to my advantage, I hold out my arm, palm facing out in the universal ‘talk to the hand’. “Thekid, has just come out as gay, and a dork to his team mates, his family is facing some significant money troubles, and between hockey, school and Green Line, he’s working his ass off twenty-four-seven, all while neck deep in an identity crisis. I thought a break from allthatwas required for his …. what did you call it? Well-being?” As expected, Faith fires back in an instant and makes it about her.
“Why have I, the Bears consulting psychologist, not been made aware of any of this?”
“I can’t be certain, but you can, you can come across as a little … unapproachable at times.” Rearing back, a gasp of horror is released before she wills herself back to her usual steely expression. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You show a flash of humanity, of Faith, and then bam, gone. Back to Dr. Plum.” There’s no retort this time. Just my sister who seems ten years younger than she did seconds ago.
“I think we’re both guilty of that, James. One could say it’s hereditary.”
“One could. But one could also want that to be different.” With pushing off the mattress, I sit up and tap the space next to me. Inspecting my bedding, Faith screws up her nose before hesitantly perching herself beside me. It looks like she’s sitting on barbed wire, but I decide not to point that out. “Remember what you said to me before the car wash, ‘You need to be part of the team. You can’t lock yourself up in the basement forever.’Well, I figured you were right. I never used to be like this. When I was a kid, all I wanted was to have friends and be part of the team. To be accepted. When I quit playing, I gave up that part of me too. It was easier to think I was above it all, but my neck is sore from looking down on everyone. I’m tired of shallow connections that peter out because I won’t give anything back. I want more.”
After an uncomfortable silence, Faith nudges me with her elbow. “I must say, looking down our noses at people has been one of the common binds between us. Don’t lose it entirely. Also, I’ve seen the way you look at Cory. You want friendship, but you wanthim, too.”
I wrap my arm around Faith’s shoulder and pull her closer. “Totally irrelevant. We do like each other, a lot. But we know where things stand. It’s friendship. That’s all.”
“If you say so.”
We share as affectionate a hug as both of us will allow, Faith’s stammered breaths indicating she’s more emotional than she’s willing to let on. She’s done this a few times lately. Been on the verge of tears before stubbornly clawing her way out of it. Like me, she’s hardly had time to process Dad’s death.
“Are you okay, Sweetheart?” I ask, pressing a kiss to the top of her head like Dad used to.
“Of course I am. Just tired is all.” With one last snuggle, she peels herself from me and marches back to the stairs. “You sure you’re going to be alright with Dyl and dinner?”
“Thank you for the cynicism, but yes. Me and my friend will be fine.”
Now at the top of the staircase, she ducks again so I can see her face. “Great.” She smirks. “Dyl’s in the lounge watching telly so I’m going to start grading now. Make sure you and yourfriendkeep it down.” Strewn haphazardly across the floor, Dylan, Cleo and I are mid-Jenga when the doorbell rings. The ding sees Cleo hiss as though possessed, and zip to the safety atop his scratching post. Happily humming, Dylan’s up before I am, his huge feet knocking the tower he’s been focused on for the last thirty minutes. Technically that means I won, and because I’m pathetic, the small victory brings with it an irrepressible smile. One that has nothing at all to do with who’s waiting on the other side of the door.
I hear Cory’s voice before I see him, my heart reacting before my brain does, swelling when his perfectly excited, yet gentle, tone hits. “Dylan, my man.”
Faith has taken Dylan to the last two sessions at Green Line and it seems I’ve missed a lot more than skating. When I make it to the door, the duo are mid side to side-up high-down low-hi five-handshake. Bespectacled Cory in all his glory, is running his hand through his windswept hair, and Dylan is bouncing on his toes, with a smile as big as I’ve seen since we lost Dad. My chest squeezes again.
Before I can invite our gray sweats and Bears hoodie wearing guest in, Dyl tightens his grip on the hand he hadn’t released and pulls his apparent bestie inside. “Maria will be gutted,” I mumble, trying not to sound as giddy as I feel while Cory is pulled down to our puzzle setup on the floor.
“Wait. Maria? From the skate program?” he asks, looking up at me through his lashes in a most un-friend like manner.
“The very one. If you ask her, not only are they best friends, but she’s the love of his life. He may be too busy to pay her the appropriate attention while skating, but they see each other twice most days. Kisses a plenty, hand holding, the works.” Using my socked foot, I tap their still joined fingers. “She’s quite possessive. Wouldn’t like this at all.”
“Dylan, you dog.” Cory holds out his free hand for the obligatory hockey celly fist bump. Not once in all my time spent with Dylan have I seen him do this. A high five, sure. The odd hand shake that always has him giggling. But the bump. Nope.
While I’m freaking out over that, Cory’s begun chirping my brother, boasting over his Jenga skills and rubbishing Dylan’s. It’s a remarkably normal thing for a hockey player to do. I’ve not met one what wasn’t an overly competitive fucker and Cory is not different. What is different is Cory teasing Dylan. There are very few people who converse with him like aregulartwenty something. Yes, he may like what many consider childish things, and not be able to verbalize his needs and desires, but he is still a grown man.
And my brother.
Despite my best efforts to ward them off, heavy tears roll down my cheeks. “Shit,” I mutter, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Guess we better get started on dinner.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Cory says around the tongue that’s poking from the side of his mouth, “No need to cook. Ma refused to let me come empty handed, and didn’t want you to get food poisoning, so she made a huge pot of mac and cheese. I put it down by the door when Dyl accosted me—ahh, fuck it.” Thefuck itis directed at the pile or wooden bricks crashing to the ground. Dylan wins again.
“You’ll have to lift your trash talk if you’re going to beat him.” Hiding my embarrassing face, I scurry to the door, bend and retrieve the gigantic Tupperware bowl covered in tin foil.
“Mom couldn’t find the top,” Cory says as I lift the makeshift lid and take a sniff.
“Smells good.”
