+ LOVING ELIJAH MCCAY +
VOL. 1: CHAPTER THREE

Everything ached. My legs, especially. Rick groaned aloud beside me, his head being hidden in his hands, as he complained about every little drill that Coach Witherspoon had had us running. In this obnoxious summer heat. But me, I was too tired to even respond.

Coach watched silently, only shouting brand new drills every other seconds, after who'd finally finish the previous drills. I turned to Rick, face beat red as I licked at my dry bottom lip. "This is absolute torture—I can't believe we've been running drills for the last two hours."

Rick agreed, his blonde strands of hair falling into his eyes, as he answered, "I know, and just wait until Eli gets here—I know you remember just how much he hated us while we were freshman. But I swear to God, if that guy even looks at me the wrong way, this year. I'll kick his ass." Rick spat.

I wished I could agree. But I knew—if Elijah even looked at me at all, I'd probably kneel before him willingly. I never was strong, whenever it came to him even acknowledging my existence—even if it was him making a snarky remark my way.

"Why do you think he's even coming here at all? He goes to Michigan State, right? There's no way the guy would just leave right before his junior year started, right? I mean, is it even allowed? Did his parents allow it—"

"Gage!" Rick interrupted me, loudly, my cheeks reddening once I noticed just how curious I had publicly gotten. And just Rick saying my full name, had me coiling. "Would you stop worrying so much? I'm sure he had no idea that you had a thing for him. You guys only spoke once, okay? You're good."

     Once tryouts are over, I try to go by Rick's advice, and forget about Elijah McCay, who I'd most-likely be seeing in under twenty-four hours. I shower in the boys locker room, Rick's already dressed figure blocking me from the rest of the team, him already knowing just how uncomfortable I felt undressing in front of others.

     Well, other than him, considering—he was Alaric Kensington, and also, my very best friend.

     We were the very last ones to leave, me making my way toward Coach Witherspoon just one more time. "Hey, Coach, I was wondering if we could talk for a moment?"

     He dismissed one of my teammates, someone who I hadn't even bothered to try and recognized. "Of course, Gage. What's the matter?"

     I scratch at my wrist, where my gold bracelet, that consists of letters forming my name, sits silently. "Well, I, uh—I was just going to ask if you'd heard any rumors about Elijah McCay being your Jr. Coach, and if they were by any chance—true."

     Coach Witherspoon sighed, leaning back onto the brick wall that outlined our schools building, both arms coming to cross over his chest. "I knew people would find out sooner or later. And yes, they're true."

     Once more, I swallow my pride, most-likely reaching too far, but going for my goal, anyway. "But, sir, isn't he in school? College, I mean?"

     "Look, Gage," he sighed, once more, me realizing that what I've just asked is absolutely none of my business. "You're a real good player of mine, and I've known you since you were born, so I'm naturally immune to your curiosity. But Elijah has been going through a lot for sometime now, and he's helping me as a way to escape his troubles, and replacing them with baseball—something he loves.

     "So I need you to promise me one thing," he raised a firm eyebrow. "That you will not bring his personal life up, here on the field?"

     Immediately, I nod, cheeks reddening at how I've just embarrassed myself in front of someone who seems like they've seen this interaction from a mile away. "Yes, yes, sir—of course."

     With that, I jog over toward Rick's truck, where he seems to be waiting patiently for me. When I slide into the passenger seat, Rick notices my apparent embarrassment, and sends a sorrowful look. "How does a burger sound?"

     After Rick and I's dinner at the local diner, he drops me off back at my place, where my mother is waiting patiently on the sofa for me. Both of her long, tanned legs are crossed, as she removes her glasses from the bridge of her nose, her book lowering onto her lap.

     I take the seat beside her, my head instantly leaning over to lie on her lap, where her book still subsides. Her hands find my hair, her wedding ring occasionally getting caught in my dark ringlets.

     "Long day?" She asks, just as Toro, our family German Shepherd makes his way toward me, instantly trying to greet me with his tongue. As I massage his ears, my father walks down the stairs, his hair damp indicating that he's just gotten out of the shower.

     "You have no idea," my words are murmured, just as my father narrows his eyebrows down at me.

     "This about a boy?" I can't help but roll my eyes at my father's question. He seems to think that whenever I'm in some sort of mood, it's automatically about some boy that I've become fond of.

My mother sucks at her teeth, me leaning up to sit up, as Toro jerks into her lap. "No, Yusuf, this is not about a boy. Gage has just had a bad day," she looks over at me, "do you want to talk about it?"

I can tell she feels a bit uncomfortable diving into emotional depth with me, considering it's something we've never done before. And I'm sure we aren't about to start now. I grasp onto her hand, and she returns the squeeze, "No, mother, I'm fine. But thank you."

My mother smiles back, as my father makes a stride toward me, his hand reaching out for mine, and pulling me onto my feet. "It's late, and you've got school again tomorrow. So, go upstairs and get some rest."

When my father speaks this, I know not to argue, only leaning over to place a kiss at my mother's forehead, then Toro's, then also placing one at my father's. "Night, Abba."

Truly, I had never acknowledged my actions until now. I had been raised to greet, and say goodbye to relatives with a kiss at the forehead or cheek. But I knew if any of my American friends, other than Rick, were to find out, they'd think I was a freak.

My walk up the staircase is slow, as I take in the photographs placed neatly on the wall just two feet away from the banister. There's one with me, my mother, and my father, taken right after my first birthday.

Then, there's another with my grandfather, my grandmother, my parents, and I all laughing loudly at my Bar Mitzvah, right after I'd just danced hand-in-hand with my mother.

The last one of me, is just me, and me alone. I'm sitting cautiously on a stool, my lips curls into a short curt smile, as my curls fall into my eyes. I look happy, genuinely happy. And seeing these photos makes me even more grateful for the family I've been given, and the love they've shared.

Even if they don't say it too often.

I make sure to lock my bedroom door behind me, knowing that my mother has a tendency to barge in right whenever I'm getting dressed. Her defending herself with the infamous, "it's nothing I haven't seen before."

Next thing I know, I'm in sweats and a t-shirt that's far too big on me, it most-likely being my father's.

It's ten-forty-five, when I realize that I'm immensely craving a bag of chips, and a soda. But I know that if I go downstairs and ask my father for the keys to his SUV, he'll either shout at me, or shout at me.

Making my way over to my bedroom window, I push it open, and step one leg at a time onto my houses slanted roof. Almost slipping, I successfully make my way down the ladder that I've placed there for times like this.

Once I land onto the grass of our front lawn, I round over to the side of our home, and pull out my bright red bicycle that I haven't ridden since my twelfth birthday party. Much to my father's dismay and refusal to buy me a car.

The ride over to the local candy store is short, considering I've got the shortcuts cross streets imprinted into my mind. Whenever talking to Rick about this, he doesn't hesitate to call me fat, or some other word that has nothing to do with my appearance, but everything to do with appetite.

I park my bicycle when reaching the candy store, not bothering to lock it up, considering I forgot it and nothing bad ever happens near where I live—or rather, where I come from.

The store is quiet, it's owner greeting me, and suspiciously asking me what a young-boy like myself is doing out all alone so late. I respond with a quiet, "nothing much, just a little hungry."

The bell at the front door of the candy store chimes, just as it did when I entered. I don't bother checking to see if it's anyone I know, considering the fact that I'm in pajamas, and haven't brushed my curls since this morning.

As I'm finishing up, I look up from the aisles or different flavored potato chips, and my heart drops when I see a familiar face. A face that now looks both older and matured.

Elijah doesn't seem to notice me, yet, his eyes focused and internally sorting through every snack placed on every shelf. I want to duck, and hide. Although, with my height, I know he'll probably notice me sooner or later.

Although, I'd rather it be later rather than sooner.

     I try and forget he's here, by burying my face in the shelves and trying to occupy myself by reading the labels on every bag of marshmallows that peg my interest.

     But as I'm backing up toward the cash register, my back hits someone else's and I pray beneath my breath that it isn't the one person that outright expect it to be. But of course, right after I turn around, I'm met face-to-chest with Elijah McCay.

     He seems not to care so much that we've just ran into each other, and narrows his eyes at me as though he's trying to figure out where he knows me from.

     "I-I'm so, so sorry. I didn't see you, and I'm tired—"

     "It's whatever, you're cool." When I finally stop my rambling, I take a few seconds to stare. Giving myself these few seconds is most-likely the weirdest thing I've ever, ever done.

     I debate apologizing once more, when his eyebrows narrow, again. "You look extremely familiar," he says, taking a short step toward me, his fingers tightening around the neck of a bottle of alcohol. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

     Yes, I want to say, I was a freshman, when you were a senior. I'm pretty sure I was madly in love with you, but you didn't even know who I was. So, yeah, that's where you know me from.

     "Uh, no, I'm sorry. You don't know me from anywhere." With that, my cheeks are so flushed and red that I drop everything I've gone for, completely forgetting about any of my cravings.

     Only God knew how I would react while seeing him again, tomorrow.