COSMOS | Complete

CHAPTER 23: AARON

Asher is at school the next day, hunched over her desk, tucked into a book. I hide my surprise as I sit down next to her. To think, from where I was at the beginning of the year, and to where I am now ... astounding.

"Drowning couldn't keep you away from Mr. Riley, huh?" I set down my backpack, turning my chair to face her. Her glasses are propped on her button nose. She grins. "Of course." Asher sets the book aside, flipping her hair airily. "He is my personal favorite."

We share a laugh, and Asher grabs my hand, something that sends tiny electric sparks racing up my arm. I have always been the one to touch her – it's never been vice versa. She has calloused, small fingers with chipped black polish. Everything about her screams her own personality – something that I deeply envy.

"I never thanked you," she says. "You saved my life out there. You get a lifetime supply of free vodka for that."

"Anytime," I say. "Though, you can keep your vodka. I'm trying to change it up a bit."

"So I've heard." She rests her cheek on one hand, studying me. "How's that going?"

I shrug one shoulder. "Well, I saved a life, which is the closest that I've gone to a girl all week."

Asher's cheeks flush. I've never seen her blush in my life – not many things evoke emotion from Asher Thomas.

"You're blushing," I tease. She pulls her hand away, rolling her eyes. "Am not," she mutters, massaging her face with her fingers. She glares, but it's light-hearted.

Mr. Riley walks into the room, closes the door, glaring at me and Asher. Then, with a clench of his fist, he marches up to the front of the room and begins class.

"He wants you to hate me," I whisper.

"You saved my life. He's much too late."

Early Sunday morning, I get a text.

Fball in 5?

The sender is a 'Mark Sanders', a name that rings no familiarity. In fact, I'm surprised that I even have his number saved in my phone. Most of the contacts I have are a waste of space.

I say, Sure. The Grove? I say, Okay, meet you there. Despite my suspicion, I can't help but feel a small flicker of hope. Perhaps Asher is not the only real one out there – perhaps I have not been looking in the right places.

The drive to the park is short, and Mark is standing in a grassy field, gripping his ball and arcing it through the air. Mildly impressed, I grab my football and jog over to him. He seems nice. Happy. I need that.

"Aaron," he calls. "My bro." He shakes my hand, squinting against the sun. I can barely see his eyes, hidden beneath his brow. "Hey," I say. "When did we meet?"

I don't know Mark, but I intend to. He doesn't seem surprised by my question. "This same place, last month." He tips his eyes. "You brought that chick to play with us."

"I remember," I say, trying to remember if Mark had been hospitable to Asher. It's easy to tell what type of person one is with how they treat her, which thins out the crowd by a landslide. I don't even remember Mark being on the court.

If Asher were here, I'd tell her that her prosopagnosia is contagious, and I've contracted it. She'd probably punch me or say some witty remark. It's come to the point where I'm beginning to wish that I invited her with me.

"I moved here two months ago," Mark says. "I'm hoping to make the football team."

I smile, trying to reflect Mark's positive attitude back towards him. "You have a pretty good chance," I say. "I saw you practicing. Your form's exceptional."

Mark's cheeks redden. "Thanks, Aaron," he says. "That means a lot, coming from the team captain."

I laugh. "Chris will probably take that spot this year. He's much better than me now." It's true – Chris enjoys football much more than I ever will. Sure, it's an effective way to relax and to let loose, but on the team, football means people. Football means teammates and claustrophobia.

"Nonsense," Mark says. His face is hard to read – his jaw is set, but his eyes are kind. "You would never let Chris take your spot."

I try to smoothen the edge in my tone. I've known this 'Mark' for five minutes – I can't be judging right away. "He's not going to take my spot," I reason. "I'll still be on the team, just not cap."

Mark isn't listening to me. He's tossing his ball from one hand to the next, to-and-fro, faster and faster. He's onto something. "Look, Aaron, I know who you are. Coach listens to you, and so does everyone else. You're going to be captain, which means you got a say in who makes it this year."

I arch a brow, dreading where this is going.

Mark grins, eyes glowing. "Let me play you. Let me show you how good I am. I'll be an asset to the team, I promise."

"I didn't know we were having try-outs already," I mutter. My complain falls to deaf ears.

"Not to mention, I basically know everyone on the team," Mark argues, ignoring my remark.

"We haven't even had try-outs yet," I counter. He shrugs. Throughout the whole entire conversation, he's kept his friendly demeanor. Impressive.

"I did my research, asked around." He throws the ball to me, and I sling it in one arm. "See?" he cheers, "Good reflexes."

I stare at the two balls in my hands, and back to him. Hopeful smile, hands in his pockets. Just like everyone else.

"I didn't come here for you to fucking advertise," I say. I'm not sure if Asher would be cheering me on or slapping my arm to make me be nice. "Try-outs are in a few weeks. Show your skills then."

I swing the ball back to him, and Mark barely catches it. He's frozen, staring at me as if I have two heads. "Sorry, man," I call, heading back to my car. "I came here to fucking play."

"Let's play!" Mark yells, chasing after me. His eyes are wild. "C'mon, man! You ain't ever played against me yet!"

He stops at the front of my car, evenly breathing. He hasn't even broken into a sweat. There's no question as to whether I'll be playing with him this season.

"See you at try-outs, Mark." I start up my engine, and he backs away from the car. He's frowning. I say, "Good luck."

As I'm pulling out of the lot, Mark suddenly has a spur of energy. "Fuck you, Aaron!" He calls. His face is flushed, brows drawn together. Mark's friendly façade has finally been torn apart, and he is just like everyone else – two-sided puppet players, trying to pull on my strings. Too late; I am the puppeteer now.