Sixth Year (Snowbaz)

19. Football and Wet Pavement

I get distracted. Baz darts past me dribbling the ball in a fashion far more graceful than my own. He kicks the football in an elegant swing of his long legs and it lands perfectly in the corner of the goal.

"You're going to have to come at me harder than that if you don't want to warm the bench in Castlerock." Baz sneers.

"Castlerock?" What is he on about? "Is that a city from Game of Thrones or something?"

"Merlin Snow," Baz sighs, retrieving the ball from the goal. I think its made of fishing net. "You would think after you made such a fuss about making the team you would actually look at the draw. Castlerock is in Northern Ireland. It's 20 miles from Binevenagh Mage's College, Northern Ireland's school for Mages. We travel there for our game against them."

"But they always came to Watford."

"You can blame your precious Mage for the unfortunate field trip. He had the bright idea that going over there would show a greater sense of comradery."

"Don't I need a passport to go to Northern Ireland. I don't have a passport!"

Baz puts his face in his hands in sheer frustration.

"No you halfwit, you don't need a passport to get into Ireland. Calm down and come at me harder this time. You'll freeze at Castlerock on the bench."

I nod, despite Baz being an up himself twat. What sick part of my subconscious would want to be romantically involved with someone who puts me down all the time. I'm not quite sure he knows what it means to be friends with someone. You don't see me calling him a halfwit. Probably because he's top of our class, but that's besides the point. I can't tease him about his appearance because he looks like a bloody runway model or some mysterious dark prince. Calling him mean just makes me sound like a child (11 year old me to be exact). And I should probably stop teasing him for being a vampire, Penny says it's speciest.

Baz takes the ball back a hundred feet or so and begins to dribble in. I'm stuck to him like glue. I catch a fumble in his footwork and pry the ball from his yellow-shoed feet. He's right on my tail, coming at me side on to move the ball back towards the goal. I go to dribble the other way but Baz's foot catches in between my shin and I lose my balance.

My back hits the grass with a thump and I let out a loud groan, which is returned by Baz, who's landed directly on top of me.

"Shit Snow, you didn't have to come at me that hard," Baz says propping himself up, his hands at either side of my head, his legs between my own.

I shove an accusatory finger in his chest. "You're just uncoordinated."

"That's rubbish Snow and you know it. I'm as graceful as a ballerina out there."

I let out an ugly snort. We still haven't gotten off the ground. Baz's headband fell off in the fall. His hair hangs loosely over his face. When he laughs it sways in curtains of soft darkness. He slicks it back over his head. I can see his eyes more clearly now. They're just like they were in my dream. Dark grey. The colour of wet pavement. I study them. I wonder how many times in these six years I have avoided looking in his eyes just for the sake of proving a point. Whether I was angry, jealous or even just acting out of habit. What a waste of time. After this last school term I came to the conclusion that Baz is no where near as bad I had made him out to be. He isn't a monster or some masochistic anarchist. He's just a good-looking and accomplished 16 year old boy with a superiority complex. He's a wall builder. But you can't build walls with pavement.

There's a thoughtful look on Baz's face. His thick dark eyebrows are knitted slightly in thought. I wonder what he's thinking? Maybe, what fucking idiot doesn't know you don't need a passport to get into Northern Ireland? His cement eyes flicker slowly across my face, as if he's putting together pieces of a scattered puzzle. Then, resolution appearing on his face, he moves a hand from beside my head and touches my hair.

"Why do you cut them off? The curls?"

"What?"

"Why do you-"

"BASILTON!"

The moment is interrupted. Baz's little sister, Mordelia, stands in the garden, arms across over her chest.

"Basilton, Mummy wants you to come in for lunch."

Baz looks over to his little sister calmly.

"Okay Mord. Tell Mother we'll be right there."

He pries himself from above me slowly and collects the fallen headband . He looks despondent. The careful concentration in his eyebrows looks turned immediately to worry.

"C'mon, Snow. Surely you're hungry."

It doesn't come out as a joke this time.