Stefan shook his head. “They’re gonna be sorry,” he muttered.
“Please don’t do anything,” I begged.
But there was no stopping Stefan when the red filled his eyes. He gave me one quick, cocky smirk, slapped the bat against my chest, then took off after the kids, who quickly tried to bike away. No one was a match for Stefan and his lightning legs. He caught up with them halfway down the street, yanked them off their bikes, then tore into them with fists and feet. I stood in that field and watched, slack-jawed, the bat hugged to my chest like a blankie.
“RYAN.”
I flinch, yanked from the memory at once and returned to the noisy bar. I peer over my shoulder to find Dana staring at me with her eyebrows lifted. I’m standing by our table, the recent action at the bar apparently having drawn me to my feet.
“You alright?” she asks, wide-eyed.
“I …” I glance back at the door where the hot guy was thrown out.
The hot guy. My childhood friend. Stefan Baker.
I haven’t seen him in almost eight years. Why is he here? Is he visiting family? What’s he doing in town? Our ten year high school reunion isn’t for another few years, so that can’t be the reason. Did he quit whatever team he was signed to? Did the contract end?
It depresses me instantly that I don’t immediately know the answers to any of those questions. I don’t know the answers because Stefan and I aren’t friends anymore.
Dana is at my side. “Ryan. What’s with you? Did you know that guy or something?”
Her voice startles me. Again. Ryan, you’re too jumpy. I turn to her. “What? H-Him?” I point halfheartedly toward the door.
Dana glances toward the bar, then back at me. “Do you … need to go check on him or something? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I did. I saw the ghost of my childhood. I saw the ghost of every crushing emotion I felt my whole teenhood—all those emotions that were tethered to one specific individual: Stefan Baker. He was my crush, my best friend, my everything.
“He looked pretty battered,” I admit.
Dana bites her lip, then takes a rueful glance at the food on the table. “Well, I guess we can cut this short if you need to go and check—”
“I’ll pay the bill,” I blurt. “It’s on me. I’ll … I’ll be right back.”
She says something else, but I’m already cutting through the crowd of men and women who’ve gathered excitedly around the hairy giant. He’s bleeding from his bulbous nose and glaring at everyone who looks his way.
My heart is racing right now. I wonder if maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. Maybe it wasn’t even him. You just want it to be your Stefan so badly. That’s totally a possibility, right?
I push out of the door and spill into the parking lot. No one’s there. I look left, look right, then squint into the semidarkness. Every direction I look is met with silent vehicles, streetlamps, and buzzing bugs at the lights.
He’s gone. Just admit it, Ryan. You fucked up when you guys parted ways. You fucked everything up, and you’ll never get your friend back. Stop hallucinating him everywhere you go.
Then I hear a cough.
It’s his cough. I know it as intimately as his voice, his grunts when he swings a bat, and his chuckles of derisive laughter.
I follow the sound along the side of the building, desperate to hear it again. For some reason, I’m too afraid to call out his name. Maybe—even after hearing the unmistakably Stefan-like cough—I still harbor doubts that I could be totally hearing things. I want it to be him so badly, and I also want it not to be. What would I say to him if I saw him again? I’m not ready for this moment, no matter how many times I’ve caught myself dreaming of it.
The next time I hear the cough, it’s more of a wheeze, and I hear it just around the corner of the building. I see his foot poking out from around the wall. He’s on the ground.
I stop just before turning the corner to steel myself. Am I really ready to see him again?
Yes. No. Yes. No.
Fuck it.
With my pulse in my ears, I finally—and very slowly—round the corner. I barely take a step before realizing he’s right there, seated on the ground and propped up against the brick of the building. It’s dark back here by the dumpster, but the buzzing light from a sconce next to the back door gives his face a pale coloring that highlights just one cheek. The other is darkened by blood and shadow.
I can hardly recognize him. He’s buffed up a lot since the last time I saw him in the flesh. He fills out his shirt so much, the sleeves are busting and the fabric has to pull tightly across his pecs. But his face … his face is just as I remember it.