Roger was not in the best of moods that following week. He tried to put on a happy face for me, but at lunch, in Spanish (we were in the same class because he was repeating it, having failed it miserably the first time around), and after school, his eyes were distant, his mouth slack, and his movements slow and lethargic. I could tell things were not well at home. His parents had confiscated his car for a few months, so every afternoon his father picked him up (his mother, a nurse, worked in the daytime). He dreaded having to face his father. I could tell: his face went absolutely gray when he saw the car curl around the side of the building, and he�d become very quiet and subdued.

I didn�t like it either, for it meant I had to take the bus to school or have one of my parents drive me. I�d never been good at difficult things like catching buses on time, but when my parents drove me, it meant lots of probing questions and uncomfortable conversations. The worst came from my father, who for the past few weeks seemed determined to strike up a man-to-man bond with me over the subject of females. Apparently, I�d come of age, so now he shared all his jokes and musings on womankind with me. Sometimes he�d just roll his eyes and murmur, �Women� when Mum did something he didn�t understand, and he�d glance at me like we had some inside joke. He even talked to me about sex, that good old Birds-and-the-Bees talk, only somewhat more in depth than the one he�d given me when I was 13. That was uncomfortable, to say the least. I would squirm nervously, trying to agree as much as possible and change the subject. And not just because, you know, it was my dad; I simply had no interest in naked women.

He would talk about all this, and ask me about my girlfriend�oh, you dumped her? Oh, how come? Anyone else in mind? Good-looking, smart, athletic guy like you, you must have throngs of girls after you!�and I would look at my hands and feel absolutely sick to my stomach.

I could just see his face when or if I finally told him that, no, I�m not who you think I am, I�m no man, I�m just a faggot. Sorry.

Oh, hell, that would not be fun.

Maybe I�d just never tell him.

Maybe I�d take Roger and we�d run off to Canada and I�d send my parents cards every Christmas with regards from my wife and children, and they�d never be any the wiser.

I liked that plan.

But whatever. I had no intention of �coming out� of my closet any time soon (Closet�God, that�s weird. Who decided that gay people hide in closets?) That was my dark secret to nurse and let fester inside of me, but not to be shared with a single living soul. Inside myself I combated it�every single day of my life�but to everyone else I lied and put on fake smiles and said what they wanted to hear. Even to Roger, sometimes, although I tried not to. (My Roger didn�t deserve to be lied to.)

It never went away; it was there first thing every morning when I awoke, and at the last bit of consciousness at the end of the day. It wasn�t going to fix itself, and it wasn�t going to leave. So naturally, instead of doing anything about it, I crept around it on tiptoes, letting it eat away at my innards and poisoning any self-love I had. The only opiate I had for it was Roger�s presence, because I loved him so completely and purely that it made me wonder how anything about it could be wrong.

On rare occasions, I managed to enjoy it. If you have to be a gay freak, there are worse things than being a gay athlete. Locker rooms, I mean.

Yeah, I was a loser. I�d resigned myself to that, at least.

While every other melodrama played itself out in my life, every up and down and moan and groan of my existence, there was soccer. Roger and I played every fall, spring, and summer, and we kept in shape for it during winter by running indoor track. We were jocks, the two of us, and soccer was a known part of our lives� landscape.

November came, and with it our final soccer game. The season had been dragged out unusually late due to hideous weather that caused our games to be postponed several times. The recent weather seemed to complement Roger and my moods. The dark gray clouds and miserable, weeping rain were one and the same with the morose movements and gloomy muttering of the two of us. Roger wore his doom and gloom openly, and even though I didn�t feel much better, it was my duty to cheer him up. I�d convinced myself long ago that no one cared if I was upset and while nothing good could come of me moping and ruining someone else�s day, it did help the world to be cheerful for my friends. So I smiled and greeted Roger happily every day, and when he asked how I was, I always said I was fine, no problems. He was never really in the mood to listen to me anyway. He, however, always had a lot on his mind, a lot he wanted to talk about. I�d inquire to his well-being, and I would peruse for details so that he�d feel free to rant.

He seemed to feel better after getting things off his chest, and that made me feel better. Seeing him unhappy dragged at my heart, like my major arteries had been wrapped tight with twine that pulled every time his mouth curved downwards.

We both threw ourselves into soccer, working ourselves so hard that at the end of practice we went home and instantly collapsed, bleeding and bruised and too exhausted to brood. In the past few weeks, we�d smoked every opponent we�d come up against, maintaining our undefeated record all season, and we�d made it to the state championship.

It was a huge deal for our school, as we�d never made it this far before, and the rest of our sports teams sucked. The school had a rally for the Varsity team and everything. (And I managed to run into a goalpost, being the loser that I am, but that�s beside the point at the moment.) Roger took it in stride, but being me, of course, I fretted my little head off, convinced that I was going to ruin the game for the entire team. I repeated this concern as a mantra all week until Roger finally whapped me upside the head and told me, �You�re the best one on the team, numbskull. And the sky ain�t falling, so calm down.� But with all my neurosis about soccer and Roger and my life running through my head like a merry-go-round full of screeching fowl, it�s amazing I never succumbed to rocking in a corner and chanting about the duckies in my brain.

When the game-day finally came, I was, of course, as jittery as a shaken ant farm. I remember standing out by the car on that misty, nippy morning in my uniform, wailing to my father that we were going to be late (even though we definitely weren�t.) My red and black socks were tight on my thick leg muscles, and I was shivering in my athletic shorts and short-sleeved red jersey as I juggled a soccer ball and water bottle.

�Dad, come on!� I cried, and Dad finally emerged from the house and slammed the door behind him, a vein throbbing in his temple.

�How long until you get your license?� he snapped, and we both got in.

The whole way there I whinged, bemoaning the challenge we were facing. I�m so nervous! I lamented; this team is so hard! And my ankle! How can I play like this? My ankle�s still so sore from practice on Friday, ow, ow, ow!

I should have realized how much I was grating on Dad�s nerves; after all, it was evident enough from the crease in his forehead and the twitching muscle in his cheek. And I didn�t blame him, for nerves made me whine and lament enough to put Harry to shame.

We finally arrived at the field, a foreign, muddy plain of sorry-looking grass. There seemed to be so many people here already, and the bleachers�for there were actual metal bleachers on the far side of the field�wriggled with spectators rustling about excitedly.

�Dad, I can�t do this!� I wailed.

Dad let out a growl and barked, �For God�s sake, Arik, stop acting like such a FAGGOT and just go play!�

�I could have sworn he�d slapped me across the face. I gaped, and then, feeling my nose and eyes burn, leapt from the car and ran off so he couldn�t see me. I ran to the edge of the woods, hands over my eyes as I paced and bit my lip until it bled.

How could he say that?! How could he call me that?!

Jesus Christ, if only he knew.

I slammed the ball at the ground, angry with him and myself and the entire world. After a moment of deep breathing and lip-mutilation, I calmed down and went to find Roger, kicking the ball resentfully in front of me and refusing to look at my father as he crossed the field to the bleachers.

I found Roger among our teammates as they warmed up for the game, but it was clear he was in no mood to cheer me up. Arms tensed, he was pacing heatedly in tight ovals, his cleats tearing up the grass on the sidelines as he stomped back and forth. His teeth were clenched under a tight line of a mouth, and his thick brows were low over narrowed eyes.

�Hey, man, what�s up?� I inquired.

Roger let out a snarl, like an explosion bursting from his mouth. �He�s supposed to be here!�

�Who is?�

�My dad! My mom can�t make it until later, so my dad promised he�d come to watch the game. He promised he�d be here, but he�s not!�

�It�s early yet�the game�s not starting for another half hour,� I said, trying to comfort him.

�No!� Roger disagreed. �He said he�d be here by now! He said!�

He clenched the back of his head, biting his lip. �I�m gonna call him,� he decided, and ducked down to his gym bag to pull out his cell phone. Once he�d found it, he walked a ways away from the rest of the team for privacy.

I followed, but stood by mutely and watched as he dialed and tapped his foot, waiting for his father to pick up.

�Yeah, Dad?� he said when his father finally picked up. �Yeah, where the hell are you?� He stuck his finger in his ear, his forehead furrowed as he listened. �When will you be here?! �What?! What do you mean?! Dad, you said you�d be here! �No, I don�t care! I don�t care! Dad, please!�

I chewed my knuckle, for it was obvious that this conversation was not going well. Roger paused and listened for a few minutes, shaking his head slowly, looking more and more distressed every second. When he spoke again his voice was tight: �Dad, if you�re still mad at me, why don�t you just freaking tell me?! What more do you want from me?! I wanted you to be here! You promised you�d be here! Dad�s, it�s the championship! You said you�d be here for me!�

I could nearly hear Mr. O�Donnell�s shouts now, a mumble of unhappy noise emanating from the phone. Roger�s face was screwed into a hideous scowl, but there were tears in his eyes. �I don�t CARE what came up! I don�t freaking care! You promised, Dad, you promised! Goddammit, why don�t you care about me?!�

Roger was attracting attention now, for his voice had steadily risen since the start of the conversation, but he was oblivious to the world. Uncomfortable for him, I maneuvered to the side to shield his face from nosy onlookers.

�Yeah, Dad, yeah, I�m sure you want to be here!� he cried, his voice nasty with sarcasm. �Sure, sure, you feel just awful about it, don�t you?! But you�re not fucking here, are you?! I hate you! All you ever do is fucking lie to me! If you fucking hate me that much why do you bother keeping me around?!�

Mr. O�Donnell was yelling at the top of his lungs on the other side, but Roger was shaking his head violently, tears flying from his eyes. �I don�t care!� he was yelling. �I don�t care!� And then Mr. O�Donnell said something and Roger lost it completely. He snatched the phone from his ear and held it to his mouth, and he screamed, �FUCK YOU!�

He smashed the phone against the ground and dashed off away from everyone. He ran to the woods and leaned against a tree, one hand over his face, the other pounding the tree in a fist. I didn�t follow him, but watched from where I stood, my heart breaking for him, for he was bawling his eyes out. He cried easily anyway, but whenever his father was involved, he wailed inconsolably.

Coach Peters called us into a huddle, and I yelled the message to Roger. He wiped his eyes roughly and jogged back to us. His eyes were red and glassy, but he grinned to the team as he came over, trying in vain to hide it.

Coach Peters gave a stirring speech, telling us we were good, we had spirit and drive, we could beat these guys, rah rah team! and all that. All the guys were psyched up for it, whooping and clapping and pounding each other on the back. Roger grinned but didn�t join in the hooting, and his smile was painfully fake.

We all put our hands in the center of the huddle and yelled our cheer, waving our hands up and down in unison and then breaking off with loud whoops to take our positions on the field as Coach yelled them out. I was put in center-forward, Roger in right-forward (somewhere along the line, Roger and I had changed positions. He said it was because I was better than him, but I refused to believe such blasphemy.)

�Roger, what�s up?� I murmured to him as we took our places.

�My dad can�t make it,� he answered simply, refusing to let himself get emotional again. �He said something came up at work, so he was running late, and now he�s in traffic and can�t possibly get here in time. Screw him, he could get here if he really wanted to�if he really cared.�

I patted his shoulder sympathetically.

Pete, the reoccurring bane of my life still, sneered as he jogged out to left-midfield. �Family problems?� he cackled nastily to Roger.

�Go to hell,� Roger retorted, glaring heatedly, and hissing through his nostrils like a dragon. Pete tossed his head and continued on his way. I asked God to kill him.

The other team assembled opposite us, looking menacing and massive in black and white uniforms. The referee, the typical yellow-and-black clad middle-aged Hispanic guy, strode out to into the field. We broke from our positions and lined up abreast, joined by the Coach and the boys on the sideline. Our names and numbers were called off, we were inspected for legal cleats, no jewelry, etc., and the ref checked our identification cards. When he finished with us he moved on to the other team, and we drifted back to our positions.

When the ref finished with the other team, their team captain strolled out to meet Roger at the center of the field. They shook hands, introduced themselves, and flipped a coin to determine which side of the field they�d take for the first half�the same routine as every game. We won the toss, and thus retained the same side we�d started with.

The players were arranged on all sides of me like pieces on a chessboard, each one of them tense as martial artists ready to spar. Across the centerline from me, the other team�s forwards plotted hastily in a brief huddle. I watched their body language, trying to figure out in what direction they�d send the kick that started the game. The forwards were a tall black boy in center and two lean Hispanic guys on right and left. This was a city-team, whereas we were rural country bumpkins, and they looked mean.

As I�d expected, as soon as the ref blew his whistle, the center passed the ball to his left. The left forward caught the ball in his foot, but before he had a chance to see what color the ball was, Roger was on top of him, and the ball was in his possession. He soared around the forward, snapped the ball to me, and I took off like a rocket, zigzagging, faking out the defenders as they dove on me, and always staying one step ahead of them�I shot the ball back to Pete (during the game, there was no animosity�we just played)�he evaded a defender and passed to Hyram, our left forward, who passed to me�and I scored easily into the left corner of the net.

Thus the game began.

The bleachers erupted in wild whoops and thumping applause at our early goal, and our team hooted and slapped each other on the back. I refused to get cocky, however�from the death glares emanating from every face of our opponents, I could tell they would not go down without a fight.

But my blood was pumping now�this is what I lived for�and as the teams rearranged for a second kick-off, I narrowed my eyes at the dark center forward, thinking, Bring it on, pal.

Our early goal was quickly shown to be a lucky break. The other team was awake now, and for the next quarter, the ball was in our end of the field. McKellen, on center defense, and Palo, in goal, were ferocious today, though, and nothing got past their sticky feet and fingers and Palo�s flying dives at the ball.

Pete managed to steal the ball from the opposing forwards and slipped it to Roger. Roger shot off down the field as if he had the winged feet of Hermes, completely blowing by the defenders. It was a perfect breakaway�completely between Roger and the goalie, and I�d never met a goalie yet who could catch Roger�s shots.

�But this one did. The ball came off his foot awkwardly, and the goalie scooped it up effortlessly and dropkicked it back out to center field. Roger was livid, cursing darkly. But he simply wasn�t concentrating! His father, or the lack thereof, was obviously seriously bothering him, but if we were going to win this, he needed to put some heart into it.

Soon enough we had possession of the ball again�Hyram kicked the ball high, and I smashed the ball into the net with my forehead. The bleachers exploded, yelling my name. My father was standing up and hollering�and my mother and Harry, who had just arrived, going crazy with him. My heart lightened�okay, so he didn�t hate me anymore! Good to know!

The rest of the game was one exhilarating, exhausting m�l�e. Back and forth!�up, down, across!�smash, bang!�dirt and grass and blood and sweat! Never once did I stop for a breath�most of the other players were subbed at some point, but I couldn�t be spared. I was fine, though, and my hysterical nervousness had been in vain; I was on fire today.

Both teams were aggressive and determined, and tense bodies collided left and right. At the end of the first half, the opposing center forward slammed so hard into me that I was thrown backwards and rolled off the field and into the sidelines. But my vision had gone red, and I�d leapt to my feet and dashed back onto the field before I realized that the ref had blown the whistle for a penalty. Worried parents crooned from the bleachers, and my team laughed as I nonchalantly wiped blood off my cheek, not even realizing it was there. Pain, what pain? This is soccer. This is the one time I make use of raging adrenaline, and I am fearless. Only when piloting does any other experience come anywhere near to this pure confidence and aggression. This was me in a completely different state of mind, a completely different being, than I ever was in the real world.

Before halftime, several players on each team had already gone down with injuries. Each time, the ref would blow his whistle and the entire field would fall to their knees while the injured party was inspected. One of the Dombrowski twins gave the Hispanic right forward a bloody nose, and the forward let loose a string of dark curses in Spanish that made the ref cringe, and he rebuked him.

Roger was insane. He wore a fiery scowl the entire game, regardless of which team was scoring and which end of the bleachers was cheering�and he looked at the bleachers often, and his scowl would darken. Then he�d speed off and deliberately smash into some other player to steal the ball from him. He was needlessly violent�one defender refused to give up the ball, and Roger kicked him so viciously in the shins that the defender collapsed with a yelp. Another time he deliberately elbowed a midfielder in the chest, and he got a whistle blown at him. Again the whistle was blown on him, when a defender had a near breakaway into our end of the field, Roger rammed into him as if he�d forgotten he was playing soccer, not football, and both players tumbled to the dirt. The ref bitched him out for that, and Coach sidelined Roger until halftime. I was stunned�I�d never seen him like this!

He�d completely lost it. Far from weeping piteously, he paced the sidelines angrily, kicking his gym bag and slamming the sack of soccer balls into the ground until Coach grabbed him by the arms and holler-throttled some sense into him. Trying to watch the game and the drama at the same time, I saw Roger pull away from Coach out of the corner of my eye, and for a split second I thought he meant to hit him, but instead he collapsed to the ground and crossed his arms over his chest, staring venomously at the game.

Jesus Christ, I thought uneasily, get a grip, chico!

At halftime, I confronted him, exclaiming, �God, Roger, you�re gonna kill someone out there!�

He pretended not to hear my remark and replied, �You�re playing great today. Keep it up, we need you to win this.�

�I�d appreciate it if you�d help instead of just trying to smash a few ribcages,� I retorted, taking a slug from my water bottle.

�Yeah, I�m shit today,� he admitted with a grunt. He stood up, surveying the bleachers. �My mom is supposed to be here. She couldn�t make it until the second half, but she said she�d come! Fuck, where is everyone?! Is this some freaking conspiracy against me?!�

�Try not to think about it,� I replied, more callous than I wanted to be, but the boy needed to get a grip.

�Hello! This is the biggest game of my life, and no one in my family freaking cares! I mean, I�m pissed that my dad bailed, but I thought at least my own mother would show up! I feel like I could friggin� kill something right now!�

�For God�s sake, calm down! We can�t afford to have you taken out of the game just because you�re mad! Get a hold of yourself�your mom WILL be here!� I snapped.

He glared down at me, breathing heavily through his nose, but held his tongue.

In a moment Coach called us all back into a huddle for another pep talk. He gave us a few pointers for the second half and congratulated me on the three goals I�d scored so far. The whole team whooped and patted me on the back when he said this, and I felt my face go red and stretch into a grin. Even Roger smiled.

We did our cheer and raced out to regain our positions on the field, only now we took the opposite side (oy, does this ever disorient me!) Roger was back on the field, though now on probation, as I�d heard the coach tell him before sending him back to left forward.

The rest of the game was much like the first, only now we were more exhausted, and more determined than ever. The action was rapid-fire�the ball was here! there! No, it had rebounded back! Blood and sweat flew off our bustling bodies in tiny projectile droplets, and every player on the field was gasping, raw-throated, for breath. My lungs were in flames, and as I gulped air faster and faster, I repeatedly had to spit lest I choke on my own saliva. Roger scored�the black forward scored�Pete scored�one of the Hispanic forwards scored�this was undeniably a game dominated by offense. McKellen and the Dombrowski boys were working their cleats off to keep ahead of the other team�s forwards, and only due to their unshakable strength did we manage to keep the score locked in a tie�5-5.

I was so tired and breathless my vision was starting to blur. Roger took note, and the instant the whistle was blown for a penalty shot, he shoved me to the sideline and had Coach take me out. Roger moved into center forward, Pete filled in for right forward, and I collapsed on the sidelines.

As soon as I was able to sit up and guzzle some water, I wanted back in the action. I jumped up and down obnoxiously, shrieking for my teammates to �BOOT IT!� �Yeah! Nice pass!� or �Shoot, SHOOT!�

Coach let me back in towards the end of the second half. We were still tied up, but I was determined to change that. I danced impatiently on the centerline, just out of reach of the dreaded �Off-sides� rule, cheering McKellen and the other defenders and mids on as they tried desperately to wrestle the ball from the other team. Roger got possession of the ball�that fickle little thing!�and took it up field. He passed it to me, and I made a shot on goal, but it was doomed before it left my foot: a defender rushed me as I went to kick, and I fell forwards, smashing face-first into the ground, our ankles entwined, and the goalie let the ball roll into his gloves.

Everything was downhill from there. Try as we might, we could not score, and the ball buzzed dangerously around our goal. Palo and the defenders were near to collapse�they couldn�t take any more of this than we could. The center booted the ball, summoning energy from God only knows where�Palo dove fingers-first into the mud�the ball bounced off his fingertips�but went in.

A minute later, the ref blew the whistle, the game ended, and the other team and their fans erupted into hysterics.

Our team stopped dead on the field and simply melted into the grass, upset, but too tired to moan. As the other team grabbed each other and danced around with newfound energy, our team trudged disappointedly to the sidelines, where Coach was applauding anyway.

�It was a great game, boys, a great game! You were amazing!� he hooted. A few of the more optimistic boys agreed and cheered as Coach recapped the game, but everyone else sulked morosely and halfheartedly stumbled over when it came time to congratulate the other team for a game well played.

The first chance I got to talk to Roger, he immediately exclaimed, �She never came. Neither of my parents were here at all. But it doesn�t matter�I sucked anyway. Dammit, we should have won that.�

�Naw, that was a tough team. It was a good game, though. And don�t worry about it, Roger, everyone has down days.�

He looked like he wanted to cry, but didn�t. �Can I get a ride home from you, please?� he asked demurely. �Otherwise, I�d have to make Coach take me home, and he isn�t very happy with me right now.�

�No problem, man,� I said.

My family ran across the field to see me, cheering and applauding as if they hadn�t realized we�d lost. Mum and Harry hugged me tightly, and I picked Harry up and set him on my shoulders. They told me repeatedly how well I�d played and how exciting a game it was, and I grinned, spirits lifted. �And you were nervous!� Dad exclaimed, teasing me. He shook my hand, for he never hugged me anymore.

Roger stood by, shy and sullen, and my parents made sure to congratulate him as well so he didn�t feel left out.

�Do you know why my parents didn�t come?� he asked softly, and my parents, with sympathetic faces, said that they didn�t.

We drove home, my family in high spirits, and Roger leaning dejectedly against the window and not saying a word. When we got to his house, we congratulated him again, and he gave us a little smile, thanked us for the ride, and hopped out.

�That really is a shame that he had no one there for him,� my mother remarked as we drove off. �The poor boy, you could tell he was upset by how he played. I�ll call his mother when we get home to see if everything�s all right.�

�You�ll never guess who I was talking to, Arik,� my dad said, changing the subject. �A university scout! He was very interested in you.�

�Really?� I asked, eyes wide.

�Oh yeah! Arik, you�re the best one on the team. Scouts definitely notice you.� He swiveled in the driver�s seat to grin back at me. �Keep it up, Arik, and you may be able to get yourself a full sports scholarship, you know!�

I gawked, elated at the thought. Harry, not fully understanding but grasping the general idea, cheered excitedly.

We arrived home shortly, and I dragged myself upstairs to shower and change, my mind whirling. I hadn�t even wondered if scouts would be at the game�but of course they would be, this had been a huge game. And I�d played so well, too!

Poor Roger, though. I wondered if the scout had been able to see how good he really was, even though he�d had a disaster of a game. If anyone deserved a scholarship, it was him.

I took a long hot shower, replaying the events of the day in my mind and letting the pure water wash away sweat and dirt and defeat. I dried off and changed into some comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt, feeling relaxed and tired. Hungry and with some questions for my father, I descended the staircase, yawning.

I knew something was wrong before I entered the kitchen. A sudden wave of dread rolled through my body, almost alike to a wave of hunger or nausea, but one that set my pulse racing.

Then I heard sobbing in the kitchen.

I ran in�my mother and father were seated at the table, a dead cordless phone between them, and they were both crying�my father was crying!

�What�s wrong?!� I shrieked, heart racing.

My mother looked up at me, her eyes wide and wet with a mix of terror, sadness, and sympathy. She looked at my father, but he had his face in his hands. Tears on her cheeks, my mother stood up and slowly stepped towards me.

�There�s been an accident,� she whispered, taking hold of my hand gently. �Mr. O�Donnell�s been killed.�

Chapter Twenty-one...