“Harry, pass it! Please!” A boy from the street yelled, his voice raspy with urgency. I watched as Harry, all elbows and knees, struggled to control the ball, his legs wobbling beneath him.
If I could just show him…
The other boys, all muscle and swagger, shouldered him aside with rough laughter. It happened every day. They’d start a game of football, and Harry would be shoved to the sidelines. I’d started watching out of boredom, but the longer I watched, the more I found myself remembering what it felt like to be that age, to feel that desperate need to belong.
They’re fifteen, I’m only ten years older.
My heart always went out to Harry. Not just because he was…well, handsome.
He was different. He always wore his hair pulled back tight, and he worked harder than anyone else, pushing himself until he was sweating and panting, just to keep pace with the others. And I admired the sheer force of his will.
He always carried that blue towel with him.
When the game died down, and the others drifted away, Harry would sit on the curb, head in his hands. I wanted to go ask him if he was alright, but I knew they’d think I was a creep for watching them all this time.
“I just want to make the team!” Harry shouted at the boy beside him.
“Then get a personal coach. They don’t want to teach you.”
“Who would coach me?”
“Ask Coach at school tomorrow. He’ll set you up with someone.”
Instantly, I was on my feet, rushing towards the door. I had to tell him I could. I froze, hand on the knob, heart hammering. What would I say? That I’d been watching him, that I’d overheard?
I threw open the door, and both their eyes turned to me. I couldn’t look away from Harry’s. His green eyes were captivating, and they made me forget everything—literally. I couldn’t form a word. So I pretended to check the mail.
“Hey, you play football?” The friend asked, addressing me.
“Used to be a star player. Why?” I pretended ignorance, afraid to turn from my mail.
“My friend Harry here—"
“Don’t embarrass me—”
“He needs help. He sucks. Charity case?”
“Sure!” I said, too eagerly. “Tomorrow morning, meet me here.”
Harry stood, finally meeting my height. He smelled of cheap cologne and sweat—a scent that worked on him. “See you then.”
I nodded and walked back into the house, a smirk tugging at my lips. I couldn’t tell if I was excited to play football again, or to coach Harry. Maybe both.
---
I was jolted awake by a knock on the door. I’d fallen asleep on the couch, TV still flickering, last night’s dinner half-finished on the table. I groaned and stood up, ignoring the familiar ache that greeted me every morning.
Who’s here?
I threw on yesterday’s shirt and decided pants weren’t necessary. I opened the door.
“Is this a bad time?” Harry asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. I took a moment to take him in—blue shorts, a white tee shirt, a bag slung over his shoulder. I glanced down at my own stained shirt.
“Nah, come in. I just have to change real quick. Then we’ll start.”
Harry shyly entered the house and settled onto the couch. Once he was situated, I bolted upstairs to grab clothes and cologne.
7:48 AM.
I hadn’t woken up this early since I left retail. I used to wake up around nine, work until seven. But this was worth it.
Harry was in the same spot when I came back downstairs, legs awkwardly crossed.
His legs are so delicious…
I shook the thought from my head and motioned him towards the back door.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Louis. Let’s go out back.”
I led the way, past the neglected goals and the lonely football in the yard.
“Go kick it around. I want to see what I’m working with.”
Harry placed his bag down and jogged towards the ball, tapping it around his feet, kicking it into the goal a couple of times.
“Alright, kid, here’s the problem. You’re too soft.” I kicked the ball into the goal with a burst of force.
“Maybe you’re too rough.” His voice was laced with attitude and embarrassment.
“I can be soft too.”
Harry’s cheeks flushed pink as I retrieved the ball. I had a lot of work to do.