Winter Ball (12 page)

“So you had someone too,” Skip said, feeling good about that. “Good.”

Richie was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching Skip’s in the darkness. “Yeah, that’s great that we had someone when we were kids, Christopher, but I don’t think either one of us had somebody to tell us what to do about this—what we’re doing right here.”

“Lying in the dark telling secrets?” Skip asked, trailing his fingertips over Richie’s cheek.

Richie grabbed his hand. “Having sex because we can’t stand not to touch,” he said, voice raw, and Skip pulled their hands to his mouth, where he placed a chaste kiss on the end of Richie’s fingertips.

“I think we’re falling in—”

Richie pressed his fingers against Skip’s lips. “Don’t,” he ordered hoarsely. “You say it and it’ll have a name. I’m not ready for it to have a name yet, Skip. I’ve got to tell my father a name, and I’m not ready for that.”

Skip swallowed, that lump in his throat that had formed when he’d talked about his mom growing tighter. His eyes burned, and he made to roll away. Richie stilled him with a warm hand on his bicep. Skip turned to him and searched his face, wondering if his own eyes were as bright in the dark as Richie’s.

“Here,” Richie whispered, tilting his head. “In my ear. No one can hear it but me.”

Skip had never said these words to a girl. He’d never lain awake at night with a girl in his bed, talking about his awful childhood or the best parts that had sat like diamonds in mud, bright and shiny, to pull him through.

But the hollow of Richie’s ear was a secret cave, and the words came so easy in the absolute shelter of the unlit night.

“I’m falling in love with you, Richie,” he whispered, steeling himself for not hearing the words back.

“Me too, Skip,” Richie said, his lips brushing Skip’s ear. “I promise not to tell.”

“Me too.”

They lay there for a long time before they fell asleep, looking at each other’s faces in the shadows, breathing in the silence, listening to the rain fall.

THEY STAYED
inside the next day, hung out, watched television, and made slow, sweet love—Skip could call it that in his head, because he’d said the words. Maybe it was the slowness, because of Richie’s head, or maybe it was the melancholy of the rain, but somehow every touch became magnified, a mix of pleasure and pain.

They still laughed and still cracked jokes, but early,
early
Monday morning, right before they left for Skip to drop Richie off, Richie slid in front of the door really quick and blocked it.

He stood there, looking up at Skipper, bandage and nose brace still on and the black bruises underneath his eyes still swollen.

His full mouth—split lip and all—was curved faintly up, though, and his bright eyes were unusually sober. “You gotta kiss me now,” he said. “Make it your best one, because it’s gotta last until Friday since we don’t kiss on Thursdays, okay?”

Skip nodded and refrained from whining about how they’d started out by kissing on Thursday. They’d been lucky—so lucky—not to get caught. For a moment a frisson of fear passed through him as he wondered what would happen to soccer—not just winter ball but his entire team of people that he’d forged through six years of just not giving up—if someone saw him and Richie kissing.

I’d give them up for Richie
, he thought.
But if I lose him, they’re all I’ve got.

Just that suddenly, he realized what a precarious place they were in.

But Richie was still gazing up at him like he could make this kiss—this one kiss at the end of a weekend of playing like they were a family—last.
Skipper
could do that. He was the one with the magic, apparently, because he could make the next five days not ache without kisses.

He tried.

He cupped Richie’s neck gently and tilted his jaw up with firm thumbs, and then tasted. Richie’d eaten the same breakfast he had, so toast and eggs went away. That left Richie with the faint antiseptic of the bandages in his smell, but he was still warm and vibrant, tangy, alive. Skip tasted it slow and deep, just like fucking this weekend, but softer. He wasn’t trying to hit any spots, there was no fantastic come in the center of the goal box, there was just Richie and the animal noises he was making and the way his fingers scrabbled on Skip’s shoulders like he was clinging for dear life.

With a cry, Richie broke it off, his eyes wide and shocked and running over.

“That was a horrible thing to do to me,” he said, voice broken. “Kissing me like that. How am I going to live without that for another day? Or two? Much less five. Dammit, Skipper, you’re gonna fucking break me.” He turned and grabbed his duffel bag and dashed out into the rain.

Skipper barely managed to keep Hazel from escaping before he followed, but he was so wrecked he forgot his jacket and his lunch. The drive to Rancho was one long, miserable, cold and wet trip, timed by the thump of the wiper blades and harshened by Richie’s recriminating silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said after they’d gone over Highway 50. “I… I wanted to give you a kiss to last.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Richie said, his voice still thick. “I… I should have known… you can’t make kisses last, not like that. Maybe if you were going off to war or something and I knew I
had
to be without you. But you’re just down the fucking road, and I’m trying to remember why it makes any sense.”

Skipper had to be the one who said it. “You were right, you know. I’m the one who doesn’t have any family but the team. You’re the one with family.
And
you’ve got the team to lose. You’ve got to….”

“What?” Richie asked, sounding bitter. “What is it I’ve got to do?”

Now Skipper felt near tears too. “Nothing, Richie. Just… you know. See me when you can.”

They were driving out near Grant Line now, and Richie’s hand on his knee surprised him.

“I’ll do that,” he said throatily.

Skip risked a glance at Richie’s face. In a shift of mood like mercury, he’d suddenly brightened.

“What are you thinking?” Skip asked, peering ahead for the pick-n-pull.

“I’m thinking that I’ve got someone who wants to see me this weekend. I’m not gonna fuck it up by being a big old emo bitch.”

Skip smiled a little. “Just because we’re gay doesn’t mean you’re bitchy,” he said, and Richie’s gasp hit him like a slap.

“What?” he asked, but it was time to turn and he couldn’t look at Richie because he was too busy watching for that stupid fucking car that didn’t turn on its lights in the rain.

And there, the car had passed and he could gun it onto the big mudslide that the junkyard had become. Skip hoped people had fun rooting through the dead cars in the rain, because he couldn’t think of anything he’d less like to do, unless it was root through them when it was 120 in the shade.

Skip was halfway up the track before he risked a look at Richie again. Richie was staring straight ahead, mouth slightly parted, face pale against his spectacular hair.

“What—Richie, are you okay? You’re not going to throw up, are you?”

Richie shook himself and then looked at Skipper with a sort of green smile. Skip had to pull his attention back to the road, which was more slippery than the eel wire above them, and when he finally pulled to a stop at the five-car parking lot, he looked at Richie again.

“Richie, do I need to take you to the doctor? Should I tell your dad you’re gonna hurl? What in the—”

Richie stopped him with a surprise kiss—hurried, and very mindful that they could get caught, but definitely a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Skip turned his head, stunned, and Richie thrust his tongue in once and tasted, and then withdrew, running a thumb over Skip’s lips before reaching behind them to the backseat for his duffel.

“Uh….”

Richie gave a slightly more natural smile. “You’re right, Skip. We’re gay. We said queer before, and I don’t know why saying gay is different, but it is to me. Nobody put
that
name on it before. See you Thursday.”

With that he was gone, trotting across the parking lot to the offices, which he opened with a key. Skip waited until he turned and waved at the doorway and then disappeared before heading out.

On his way, about halfway through the blue-green corridor of plastic and eel wire, he moved to the side and let a tow truck by, Richie’s dad at the helm. It was then that he realized the big chance Richie had taken with that kiss and all, and he felt slightly better as he got back to Grant Line and drove away.

They were gay. That had a name—and Skip didn’t know why, but if the word
gay
made it clearer to Richie, it made it clearer to Skip. Sometimes it was like hearing a person’s first name as opposed to his last name or his nickname. Scoggins was the guy Skip screamed at on the soccer field—but
Richie
was the guy who came apart in Skip’s arms. A kid named Christopher was a dime a dozen—but a kid named
Skip
, that kid could do something, right? So maybe to Richie,
queer
meant one thing and
gay
meant another; Skip didn’t care. If it helped make Richie okay inside, Skip would take any name Richie needed to hear.

Anyway, it wasn’t so bad having a name—you could deal with shit when you had a name. They could look up “gay” on the Internet and see what positions they could try (although Skip was pretty sure they’d figure most of those out on their own) or they could read books about people coming out and see what that was like.

They could watch movies or television and follow politics—although watching a movie about being gay did not really appeal to Skip, and neither did following politics. But it was a thing they could
do
if they needed to see how the rest of the world handled being what they
were
.

At any rate, they were not just “Skip and Richie versus the entire straight world,” they were “Skip and Richie, gay guys who might or might not have an entire community they could join.”

He wondered somewhat mournfully if there was a gay rec soccer league they could join if his guys decided they weren’t progressive enough to deal with “Skip and Richie, gay guys who thought they already had a community and were now somewhat adrift.”

The entire exchange left him fretful and out of sorts, though. He’d forgotten his jacket and his lunch, which meant he had to run through the rain from his car to the building, and then again at lunch to the healthy sandwich place. He went with Carpenter during lunch, and Carpenter was willing to lend him his umbrella, but Skip declined because Carpenter hadn’t even brought a hat. By the time they got back, Skipper was shaking a little and sneezing a lot and still staring at his phone during every break he got.

“Tesko Tech,” he said for the umpteenth time, as his head grew bigger and more swollen and the world around him turned into an icebox. “This is Skipper Keith, how can I help you?”

“Oh Schipperke!” said that now familiar voice. “You’re not sounding good, young man. What are you even doing at work?”

“I’ll pick up some cold meds on my way home,” Skip defended, but he knew what it sounded like was “Ob by bay hobe.” Oh hells. This was gonna be a doozy. “Can I help you?”
Cab I helb boo?
Oh Jesus, with any luck, Skipper’s cold would make this guy think twice about hitting on him, right?

“You can let me bring you some hot tea and chicken soup,” Mr. Flirtation said, sounding serious. “You don’t sound good at all! Seriously—you guys are downstairs in the west wing of the building, right? Let me have someone run that to you. Please tell me you’ve got somebody to take care of you when you get home.”

Skipper groaned and rested his aching head in his arms. “Who
abbre
boo?” he asked, completely unable to think of what he was supposed to be saying. “Whe abre boo so nife too bee?”

“Why am I so nice to you?” the caller laughed. “Because you’ve got a friendly voice, Skip. And because you actually talked me through my problem even after I hit on you shamelessly. You’re a really good sport, by the way. Now seriously, give my secretary ten minutes, she’ll be down with some Theraflu Daytime. But
please
tell me your girlfriend is going to be home to hold your hand, because you’re the first friend I’ve made here at Tesko, and I’m sort of hoping you’re taken care of.”

Oh, that was sweet. Wasn’t that sweet? Skip should text Richie and tell him that his horrible flirty gay-porn-watching ass-groper was really a sweetheart who just liked to tease.

“By boyfwend cabn’t comb till Fwiday,” he said mournfully. “Bub ith nife ob boo too athk.”

“Aw, Schipperke,” his caller said gently, “that sucks. I hope the Theraflu works. Make sure you take tomorrow off, okay? As bad as you sound, you’re going to need to rest.”

“Thabk boo,” Skip said, not wanting to raise his head off his desk. “Thabs nithe. Hab a nithe bay!”

He hung up and groaned, and his phone beeped at the same time he looked up and saw Carpenter standing over his desk with a company sweatshirt, Skip’s size.

“Hey,” he said weakly. “Ith tha’ for be?”

“Yeah,” Carpenter said, looking unusually sober. “Here, Skip—let’s get it on. You look like death. You should have made Richie wait while you put on a jacket.”

Skip blinked and tried to remember what they’d told Carpenter about Richie coming over to his house. He couldn’t focus that far.

“Ricthie wad pithed,” he said, and then he looked at the phone.

Sorry I was a bitch this morning.

Skip smiled and some of his misery fell away.

“Bud not abymore,” he said, huddling into the new sweatshirt.

Not a bitch
, he texted.
Still love you.

Me too.

He stroked the phone for a moment, smiling and losing track of what Carpenter was doing until he heard a cleared throat. At that moment, a very efficient-looking woman in her fifties strode up on no-nonsense pumps.

“Mr. Keith?” she asked, her crisp voice tempered with kindness.

“Yeb?”

She smiled a little, and for a moment her lean face with the tastefully bleached hair wavered and she was his mother, older than her years and blurring like a watercolor in the dimness of her bedroom.