I got in line while Chip made a beeline for the Good Table: a polished mahogany dining room table butted up against one wall, with a bench on one side and mismatched chairs with red cushions on the other. Chip grabbed one cushioned seat and set his bag in the other to save it for me.
I ordered a cup of Ali Shan (an excellent Chinese oolong) for me and a Mocha for Chip, and grabbed a couple of napkins to wipe down the Good Table before we got to work.
“What’ve you got?” Chip asked as I pulled out my tablet.
“Algebra II.”
“Algebra II was the worst.”
“Still is.”
Chip nodded and sipped his Mocha. He pulled out his own tablet, popped in his earbuds, and got to work.
* * *
Here’s the thing: I’m still not entirely sure how I ended up doing homework with Cyprian Cusumano at Mindspace several days a week. In fact, I’m not entirely sure how we ended up friends.
Growing up, Chip had teased me almost as much as Trent did. And then somehow, after I got back from Iran, things changed. Chip started being nice to me. He said hi in the halls, and we hung out at practice, and we biked home together—Chip’s house was in the same direction as mine—and talked about soccer or homework or whatever.
One day after practice, when we both had American Lit essays to work on, Chip asked if I wanted to work on them together, and I had suggested Mindspace, and somehow, a tradition was born.
I kind of liked hanging out and doing homework with Chip.
I don’t know why, but I did.
That’s normal.
Right?
* * *
Chip and I got back to the locker room at six o’clock.
My stomach felt like it had a small neutron star in it.
He squeezed my shoulder. “You okay?”
I nodded and rubbed my hand against the back of my head.
I still wasn’t used to the bristly feeling back there. It felt good.
Relaxing, even.
“You look kind of green.”
“Just nerves, I guess.”
Chip grinned at me. “You’ll do great.”
“Thanks.”
I got changed into my kit—crimson and black for our home games—and sat on the bench to lace up my cleats.
Next to me, Gabe peeled off his sweater. I kept my eyes on my cleats, because Gabe was pretty good-looking, his stomach flat and brown with a little bit of hair right above his waistline, and it was kind of distracting.
Besides, I was dating Landon. So it was wrong to look at another guy. Wasn’t it?
“Is your boy coming to the game?”
My cheeks heated. “Landon? No, he’s got band rehearsal. Mom and Dad are, though. And my sister.”
“Older or younger?”
“Younger. She’s nine.”
“Cool.” Gabe sat next to me to pull his own cleats on. I stood up and stretched, then turned away for a second to make sure I was arranged okay in my compression shorts.
Chafing was no joke.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
HOT BEVERAGE POD EXTRACTION DEVICE
My old gym teacher, Coach Fortes, was the one who convinced me to try out for the soccer team, but over the summer his wife had gotten a job in Eastern Washington, so he followed her there.
Coach Bentley had been hired to replace him (and to teach History and Citizenship). She was a Black woman with warm, dark skin, a shaved head, and the kind of face that could go from glowing praise to nuclear rage in less than a second, especially if she thought you weren’t giving a hundred percent out on the field.
At her last school she led her teams to multiple Oregon State Championships, and now she was determined to make Chapel Hill High School Soccer a name to be feared. She had the determination of a Klingon warrior and the analytical prowess of a Vulcan scholar.
As I warmed up, kicking a ball back and forth with Chip, she kept shouting at us.
“Faster feet! Faster feet!”
I nodded and sped up our drill.
I was pretty sure I liked Coach Bentley.
Really.
But she could be a little intense too.
Across the field, the team from Crestwood High School, Chapel Hill’s district rival, warmed up in their white away kits trimmed with green and yellow.
I never really got the rivalry thing, which I suspected was because of our schools’ football teams, but their mascot was the Spartan, so I was genetically predisposed to dislike them.
Persians (even Fractional ones) and Spartans (even fake ones) are natural enemies. Whole epics have been written about it. Some racist movies too.
Coach Bentley blew her whistle. “All right, Chargers, circle up!”
Circling up is this thing Coach Bentley has us do before practices and games. We convene behind our goal and stand in a circle, arms crossed, holding hands with the people on either side of us. And we each go around in a circle, saying something nice a teammate did for us.
Coach Bentley brought it with her from her old school. She said it’s to promote team unity and fight the cult of toxic masculinity in sports.
I ended up between Chip and Gabe, across from Coach Bentley, who went first: “When we started off this season, you didn’t know me and I didn’t know you. But you welcomed me, and now we’re about to win our first game. I’m proud of you all.”
We went clockwise from there: Guys described favors someone did, notes shared, advice on footwork, even being a wingman for getting a date.
When it got to Chip, he said, “Ricky loaned me his charger when my tablet was about to die. Thanks, Ricky.” Ricky, our left wingback, nodded from across the circle.
And then it was my turn.
“Today in Conditioning, this guy from the football team was being kind of rude to me.”
I couldn’t name Trent, because there was this rule for Circle: You couldn’t say anything bad about other people. At least not by name.
Even then, Coach Bentley opened her mouth like she was about to correct me, so I said, “But Gabe and Jaden had my back. And that was really cool. It meant a lot to me. So, thanks, guys.”
Next to me, Chip shifted back and forth on his feet, and his hand twitched in mine.
He had to know I was talking about Trent.
Right?
On my other side, Gabe bumped shoulders with me and then said, “Speaking of which, Darius stayed and helped me clean up my weights in Conditioning, even though he was running late. That was really cool of him. Thanks, man.”
I nodded and looked at my feet.
I wasn’t used to getting compliments from the guys at school.
My chest felt like a plasma reactor.
I wanted to cry—just a little bit—but managed not to. I didn’t want to have a stuffy nose for the start of the game.
When we finished, Coach Bentley counted to three, and we all shouted together.
“Go Chargers!”
* * *
We were ahead by one, thanks to some excellent goalkeeping by Christian and a sweet goal in the first half by Gabe, but by the last few minutes of the second half, the Crestwood Spartans were living up to their names by not giving up.
I played sweeper for our team—a position Coach Bentley said I was uniquely suited for, whatever that meant—and the Spartans had been hammering our defense, trying to get a goal in.
I was drenched in sweat. My black shorts were stained green, the result of a tricky (but successful) slide tackle against one of Crestwood’s forwards. Sohrab had taught it to me, back in Yazd.
A few minutes later, that same forward slipped around Jaden and faked out Chip, but it was like I got a sensor lock on him. When he dove to my left, to take a shot at our goal, I dove with him.
I got a kick to my shin, but my guard caught it, and I managed to send the ball offsides.
Still, I groaned. The guard caught the worst of it, but I was going to have a nice-sized bruise.
“Hey.” Chip jogged over to me. “You okay?”
I flopped over onto my back. “I think so.”
Chip offered me a hand up.
“You sure?”
I stepped back and forth a few times. The pain was starting to fade.
“I’m sure.”
Chip bumped my fist. “Nice save.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
We won the game, 1–0.
I had never seen Coach Bentley smile so much in all the months we’d been practicing.
After we shook hands with the Crestwood Spartans, I ran over to the stands where Mom and Dad were waiting for me, with Laleh in tow behind them.
Despite me being disgustingly sweaty, Mom pulled me into a hug, but she definitely didn’t kiss me.
Dad laughed, though, and planted a kiss right into my messy hair.
“Good game, son,” he said. “Green’s a good color on you.”
“Thanks.” I looked down at my grass-stained shorts and arms and then back up. “Maybe I have a future as an Orion slave dancer.”
“Might need to work on your dance moves a little.”
“Hey!”
“Really, Darius. You looked great out there. Like you were having fun.” He mussed my hair and rested his hand on my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”
I got that burning plasma reactor feeling in my chest again, but I managed to smile too.
“Thanks, Dad.” I knelt down so I was level with Laleh. “What did you think? How’d I do?”
“Good,” she said, but then she coughed into the crook of her elbow.
“She wouldn’t stay home,” Mom said. “But at least her fever broke.”