Was this guy crazy? He actually thought I was going to face all those guys again after what happened? “I’m not on the team anymore,” I stated as if it was the most obvious thing.
“We need you.” He leaned back on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. “You could use some time in the cages, but with a little work, you might turn out to be a decent player. I’ve seen your swing, Caulfield.”
I frowned. “Yeah. And you think I swing like a girl.”
“You’re not the only one who should be apologizing.” His eyes flickered with discomfort. Apologizing was clearly an effort for him. “I’m … sorry I threw the mitt at your head.”
I found myself staring at the floor suddenly. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I didn’t even recognize this version of Stefan.
“And said things like … you swing like a girl,” he went on. “And that you’re the reason we lost. It isn’t true, anyway. And I’m sorry I tackled you.”
I pressed my lips together tightly and felt my face going red again, except it was a completely different kind of embarrassment I then felt. I was never on the receiving end of such a thorough, detailed apology.
“Alright,” I finally mumbled uncomfortably. “Can I go now?”
“Are you still on the team?”
I lifted my eyes from the floor to meet his again, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
He hopped off the bed, then lightly trod across the room. He was suddenly in front of me. Very in front of me. “Yeah.” His voice was low and serious. “So? Are you?”
I swallowed. My back was pressed against the wall. “I … I can’t face the others again. I—”
“If any of them say anything about you, I’ll throw a mitt at their heads,” he stated boldly, his chest puffing up.
And for once, I was thankful for his cockiness. For once, his boastfulness felt less like a weapon and more like a shield. With just those words alone, he won me over.
“Alright.” I nodded once, surrendering. “Yes. I’m still on.”
“Good.” He grabbed my shoulder and gave me a strong, quick, approving shake before letting go. “Then we’re good, Ryan. And your apology’s accepted.”
Ryan. He used my first name. “Thanks, S-Stefan.”
“Steff-in,” he corrected me. “Not Stiff-on.”
“Steff-in,” I echoed, my pronunciation of his name corrected. We only ever seemed to throw last names at each other, the coach included. I had never properly heard his name before. “Thank you, S-Stefan.”
He picked up his controller again and hopped back onto his bed. “Now what’re you leaving in a hurry for?” he asked, his words sounding almost annoyed. “You ever played this game?”
“No,” I answered automatically. “I … I don’t have an Xbox.”
“Come here. It’s easy.”
The next moment, I was sitting on his bed. Stefan Baker’s bed. And he showed me how to throw grenades. And properly aim a rocket launcher. And reload my napalm.
For an hour at least—who knew what our parents were doing?—we played Xbox. I wasn’t the scrawny kid on the baseball team. He wasn’t the conceited little dick with the upturned nose. We were just two awkward boys brought together by a catcher’s mitt—and something else.
“I don’t care, by the way,” he said suddenly.
“About what?”
“If you are one.”
“One what?”
Then a battle exploded into action on the TV, and the pair of us were drawn to the game, all thoughts of our conversation lost to the music of war. Soon, Stefan was cheering when my grenade exploded a mob of enemies, and I shouted victoriously when he fired the winning shot. We were teammates again.
We were bros.
And I knew, from that day on, that Stefan Baker was going to be the boy who would ruin me.
01
RYAN
The dream of being a school counselor is that you feel, with every precious, spirited young teen who passes through your door, you get a chance to save the world.
Then reality sets in: “Suck my dick.”
I lean over the desk and lift an eyebrow. “Frederick. You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I thought I could say whatever I want here. That this is a safe place. Didn’t you say that? Or are you a liar like everyone else?”
He’s got a lip on him, this one. “I’m here for you. No one else.”
“Yeah, for me and five hundred other numbers at this school,” he grumbles, shaking his buzzed head. Just like the last two times he’s been sent to my office for his behavior, I turn a deaf ear to his language. Through all the punk attitude, there’s a brilliant and creative mind that used to be at the top of all his classes.
And besides, he’s not wrong. The counselor-to-student ratio is a shocking four hundred and sixty-three to one. Let that sink in.
“I’m not here to discipline you,” I remind him, “or make you do parabolas or run laps. I’m your friend, Frederick.”