"Tell him that I love him."
M I L E S
"Yes, Maddie, a championship game," I said, rifling through my drawers to find my Beavers jersey.
She leaned against my doorframe with a bowl of yogurt in her hands. From the mirror, I could see her reflection. A look of puzzlement.
"I thought you hated Liam," she said before taking a spoonful of yogurt in her mouth. "He gave you multiple bruises—."
I stopped my rummaging and looked at her through the mirror. "I never said we were best friends, I said that if he's inviting me to a Minor league game, I'm going to go. Maddie, this is serious. It's game 7."
My sister gave me a long look, but smiled softly. "It's nice to hear you talk about baseball again."
"It's not a big deal," I modified, putting my jersey on over a black long sleeve.
She now sat on my bed, watching as I adjusted my clothing. "Miles, this isn't some lame excuse to go gamble, is it? You can be honest with me."
I paused my action in the mirror, and turned to her slowly. "You think I would use Liam Coleman as an excuse to gamble?"
She shrugged. "It just seems so sudden, that's all. Mom will want to know."
I sat beside her on my mattress and began lacing up my shoes. "If you must know, I still gamble a little. Just to make sure we have some spare cash. I don't think that'll ever stop. I don't need to make up excuses to do what I've always done, and certainly not to mom."
Maddie stirred her yogurt, thoughtfully. "You're right, little brother. I just want you to be okay."
I shrugged off her concern, no matter how sincere it was. I felt irritated at her suddenly.
"I'm okay," I assured her, tucking my wallet into my back pocket. "Tell mom I'll be home late."
"Of course," Maddie said, standing up. "Call me if you need anything."
Due to my mother's newfound guilt, she gifted me a brand new phone. She looked much too eager to give it to me, I couldn't deny her. Now, it was tucked away in my pocket.
I casted a glare towards her.
"What?," she gawked. "I'm not allowed to be worried?"
"I'm not a little boy, I can take care of myself," I stated.
Maddie rolled her eyes, but put both her hands on my cheeks. "Fine, I'll stop smothering you. Go have fun, enjoy the night."
Some of my irritation eased as I pried her hands from my face. "I plan to."
•••••••••••••••••••
L I A M
The dark-haired boy looked at the parking lot in awe, eyes twinkling with excitement. I thought he might burst into tears. As I stationed my car in a parking spot, I noticed that he still appeared to be dazed. The sun was starting to weaken, the reds of the sky were now dimming, making way for the dark.
"It's the parking lot," I said, holding in laughter. "We're not actually inside yet."
"I'm aware, Coleman," he said, surveying the array of parked vehicles. "I just still can't seem to believe you."
Miles then turned to me, contemplating. "Liam, shouldn't we be scared? After what happened with the car—."
"If we're going to be at this game together, I don't want to hear about Carl. Is that something you can comply with?," I asked, desperately trying to get rid of his fear, although I would never outright admit it.
Those dark eyes were now flecked with compromise. "Okay," he said, quietly.
"Great," I confirmed, turning off the engine. "Let's go, before things get crazy outside."
•••••••••••••••••
Once our tickets were scanned, Miles gasped as we came across a large Christmas tree, wrapped in red and gold ribbon. Beside the tree was a booth where fans sat with paintbrushes, stickers, and scissors. They appeared to be creating art.
Miles abruptly reeled on me, eyes bright. "Christmas ornament making, at a championship game."
"Yes, Miles, those people are making Christmas ornaments," I retorted, admiring his expression of wonder.
"Can we, possibly, make Christmas ornaments, too?," he suggested, deliberately creeping around the subject, knowing my distaste for art.
I pursed my lips and examined his pleading expression. Eyes big and smile tentative.
"I hate you," I said, itching to take hold of his hand. "Because you make it very hard to say no to you."
I could've sworn that I saw a hint of pink brush his cheeks, but he smiled devilishly. "Does that mean yes?"
I begrudgingly nodded, which prompted Miles to eagerly grab my hand and lead me to the booth, nearly jumping for joy. I refrained from jolting at the contact. His hand was glacial, like the coldest winter night.
"Hi!," the woman at the booth chirped. "Are we making ornaments today, or letters to Santa?"
"Whatever the prince wants," I responded, nudging Miles, who's hand I still held.
Miles casted me a look of irritation, but smiled at the woman. "This prince wants to make ornaments."
The woman's eyes flickered between the two of us, perhaps trying to find a label. Noticing this, Miles tried to move away from the grasp that my hand now held his in. But I squeezed harder.
Don't you dare, I told him with one look.
It would seem odd if Miles suddenly freaked out and released my hand. Let the woman think whatever she'd like.
"So, are you going to get us some ornaments? Or are we to wait all night?," I probed, growing exasperated at the woman's explicit staring.
"Yes, of course," the woman said, finally coming to her senses. "Right this way, boys."
That's more like it.
Once we were situated at our table, Miles quickly started on his ornament. I couldn't bring myself to pick up the paint brush in front of me, though.
While dipping his paintbrush into red paint, Miles said, "Not everything has to be perfect, Liam. It's okay if it turns out like crap."
I shrugged, relaxing in my chair. "I won't waste my time trying to find out. I think I'd rather watch you make yours."
"You're no fun," he said, fixing his attention on his ornament.
I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the table. "I'm loads of fun," I rivaled.
Miles rose a brow, then pushed the paintbrush closer to me. "Prove it. Make a better ornament than me."
"Is this a challenge?," I mused.
"Now it is," Miles confirmed, with a smirk of his own. "And I'm winning so far."
I chuckled darkly. "Game on, prince."
••••••••••••••••••
M I L E S
For someone who despised the concept of art, he was sure good at it. We now held our ornaments in hand as we headed towards the stairs. Mine was red with tiny white snowflakes while Liam's was green with tiny gold stars. I wondered if he'd hang it on his tree at home, or he'd simply throw it out the first chance he got.
"I definitely won this challenge, don't you think?," he asked, leading us down some steps. I could hear the screams of the fans in the stadium, meaning we were close to our seats.
"I thought we had suite seats," I said, barely realizing we were going down instead of up. "Suite seats are always on top."
Liam flashed me a grin, "You're right, however, we don't have suite seats. We're V.I.P today."
I refrained from holding onto the railing, but with the wave of nausea that came over me, I tried very hard not to fall over. "What?," I whispered.
His brows knitted together, concerned, then said, "If you don't want to sit there, we can—."
"You're not serious," I said, dead silent.
He rose his right brow slightly, "Yes, prince, I am."
Prince.
He wore a thin, reflective gold chain. Accompanied with his necklace were his two gold rings he wore on either hand. Black jeans and a black Beavers jersey. Hair golden and thick. He was every bit the shiny baseball captain that used to ridicule and terrorize me. Yet, when he talked, I wanted to fall at his feet. Oblige with whatever he said, no matter how wrong.
I was afraid,
because if he asked me to commit the most deadliest of sins right now, I'd do it without the slightest bit of hesitation.
I gulped, "Liam, why?"
V. I. P? Near the dug-out. It—
He took a treacherous step toward me, still on the stairs. My stomach summersaulted when he whispered in my ear, "Is this your way of expressing gratitude? Because I don't like it."
We held each other's stares, his held hunt, while I'm sure mine looked awe-struck. "I-you-how did you—."
"Hmm?," he hummed, a winning smirk on his lips. "I wasn't aware you had a stutter."
I fought hard to remain grounded, to remember that this boy was Liam Coleman, who liked to dabble in fire once in awhile.
"Liam?," I said, keeping the desperation out of my voice.
"Anything," he responded, flickering his attention to my mouth briefly.
"If we miss the first half of this game, I'll cut out your tongue," I said, nudging him along.
He seemed to roll his eyes, knowing play-time was over. Nonetheless, he nodded in agreement. This time, before I could object, he grabbed my hand securely and led me the rest of the way.
Before we entered the stands, he looked down at our hands, and said, close to my ear, "I don't want you getting lost."
••••••••••••••••••••
L I A M
Sheer happiness was on his face, especially as he peered over the barrier where we sat and watched as the Beavers prepared in the dug-out. He turned to me with a beaming smile when he spotted his favorite player, Swanson. His cheeks and nose were pink from the chilly air, but Miles Medley looked like the happiest boy alive. I wished I could've taken his face in my hands and kissed him senseless.
But I wasn't sure he'd appreciate that. We were only beginning to—
To what?
Become closer. An outright action like that would jeopardize the rope we were treading on, no matter how much of an urge I had towards him, to hear the wonderful pleas for more he once offered me.
The view for Miles was grand, and priceless, but mine was irresistible and so magnificently perfect.
•••••••••••••••••••
M I L E S
The Mavericks were down by three points. Liam's grin as he watched the game was merciless. When we were younger, I remembered when he used to scream at the television whenever the Beavers scored a run. One time he celebrated so hard that he broke the glass table in his living room. Mrs. Coleman was furious.
He didn't do that now. He was restrained, maybe it came with age, but there was no denying his grin. I could see the adoration of the game in his eyes, still. It reminded me of better times.
My hands were frozen, it seemed, because I couldn't move them. I inwardly cursed myself for not thinking to bring a jacket. Stupid. In the seventh inning, I couldn't handle the harshness of the cold much longer, so I tugged at Liam's sleeve.
He tore his gaze from the game and focused it on me. His smile faltered when he saw my expression. His ocean eyes examined my form as he said, "What's wrong, Medley?"
"I'm going to get something warm to drink," I voiced, shivering in my seat. "I'll be back."
Liam was already out of his seat as he said, "I'll go with you."
"Who'll look after our seats?," I asked, suddenly growing possessive of my spot near the dug-out.
Liam scoffed, "Easy fix," before going up to a security guard and handing her a fifty dollar bill. There was no need to explain further.
I gave him an incredulous look. "You could of just asked her politely," I advised, as we maneuvered up the steps to the snack bar. "I'm sure she wouldn't have objected."
"I'm not sure what world you live in, prince, but money talks much louder than words," Liam said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"I'm not naive," I protested.
Liam looked at me with amusement, like he was holding in laughter. "I never said such a thing."
"You implied it," I shot back, oddly wishing he'd take hold of my hand again, to be warm.
"Fair," he said, but seemed to have something plaguing his mind. I didn't push, because whatever it was, I knew it wasn't positive. I wasn't sure how much pessimism I could take.
As we waited in the gigantic line of the snack bar, I shivered, and Liam moved closer to me, almost as if to offer me—
He took my hand again, this time, interlocking our fingers.
"Jesus," he swore, looking at my hand with malice. "Your hands are always ice. Do you have a disease I'm not aware of?"
My hand felt as if it was de-thawing in his, it was like burrowing beneath a set of toasty blankets after skating on ice all day.
"I don't have a disease," I confirmed. "I just happen to be cold blooded."
"Ah," he said, smirking. "That explains the permanent moodiness."
"Shut up, Coleman. At least I can count," I shot back.
Liam laughed, and I found myself grinning. "You think you're funny," he accused, tightening his grip on my hand.
"I'm hilarious," I stated. "You laughed, didn't you?."
"At least I don't have girl hands," he mused, holding up our conjoined hands.
I scoffed. I did not have girl hands.
"Well, Coleman, you seem to like my girl hands," I stated. "Because you're incapable of letting go."
His eyes flared with blue fire, but he made no move to let go of my hand. "Well played, partner in crime. Well played."
I had to turn my face to hide a wave of heat that suddenly swarmed my cheeks. Yuck.
Liam cleared his throat, and when I looked up at him, his perfectly sculpted face seemed worried. "Answer me honestly, or I'll kick your ass," he warned.
I scrunched my brows. "Of course."
"Is your mom actually better, or was that a lie?," he asked, his face now held no humor. This version of Liam frightened me slightly.
With the mention of my mother, I felt weight crash into my chest again. She was better, certainly, but I'd been avoiding her presence. I wasn't sure I was ready to believe her fully, because in a moment of weakness, she could abandon her only children again. Leave them for dead.
"I was telling you the truth," I admitted, more quietly than before. "But, like I told you, I'm not ready to...embrace her yet."
He rubbed the outside of my hand with his thumb, which I realized with terror, was a gesture of comfort. Liam Coleman, unyielding, cunning, and explicit, was comforting me. He didn't even look like he did it intentionally, because all he did was stare intently at my face.
"She hurt me," I expressed. "More than me, she hurt Maddie."
"You're right, Miles," he said, voice hard. "I'm—."
I could feel the threat of my tears as his voice held such sincerity, so I abruptly shortened his speech. "Can we talk about this some other time? Please?," I asked, softly. "Not here."
He seemed to understand, so he nodded, when I knew he wanted to say so much more.
•••••••••••••••••••••••
Instead of Liam's hand, I know held a steaming cup of hot chocolate in both hands. I sipped it gingerly as I waited for Liam to come back from the restroom. I watched as the Christmas tree near the snack bar was danced around by children, and posed in front of by eager couples. As I watched them, I tried to remember my life before I got shoved back into Liam Coleman, but I realized that he gave me, Miles Medley, new meaning.
I could feel us changing, together. It partly terrified me, but it created such a buzz in my body that I let it play out, even if I knew this whole thing might end in disaster.
"Excuse me?," a shy voice said somewhere below me, startling me out of my thoughts.
I looked down to meet a child who looked around the age of seven. She was missing one of her front teeth, but her hair was beautifully twisted into two space buns, each with a ribbon. What appeared odd was the letter she was holding in her hand. It was a square blue envelope.
"Yes, hi," I answered, smiling.
"Are you Miles Medley?," she asked sweetly.
I set my hot chocolate on the floor, because I was afraid I would drop it all over her. Alarms rang in my head, urging me to find Liam and sprint to the car. How did she know my name?
"No," I informed her. "I think you're mistaken, little one."
Her little face scrunched up in confusion. "You look like him," she said, before extending the envelope to me. With shaky hands, I took it. "Carl says Merry Christmas."
••••••••••••••••••••••••
L I A M
My best friend looked like he had seen a ghost. A very terrifying one. A little girl had scurried away after handing him an envelope, which seemed out of place at a baseball game.
When I lifted his chin up to meet my gaze, he looked ill. His expression resembled muted horror, I wanted to kiss it away.
"Talk to me," I urged quietly. "Unfortunately, I can't read minds."
Miles shook his head and looked around us. Jubilant teenagers, hovering mothers, excited fathers, and excessive carbs.
"We need to leave, Liam," he said, voice wobbling. "Now."
"Not until you tell me why," I responded, growing a fierce inkling that Carl might have had a hand in his sudden disturbance.
His expression mirrored the one he wore in the cellar that night we were taken, when Carl's biggest man wailed mercilessly on me. Fear and desperation.
Miles took my hand and whispered, "I think we're being watched. A little girl claimed to recognize me—."
The pleading in his eyes was enough for me to grant his wish, because it was the only thing left to do. Flee, then regroup.
"Car, now," I interrupted softly. "Don't look around too much, keep your eyes on me."
Miles gulped, but tightened his grip on my hand as we began to walk past the ruckus of the snack bar.
The Beavers must have scored a massive home-run, because the stadium went up in a sudden roar. Miles flinched at the noise, and, whether he meant to or not, retreated closer to me. He now stuck to me like glue, which I realized, with uneasiness, that I wouldn't have wanted to have it any other way.
Once we reached the parking lot, I instructed, "Put your hood up."
He obeyed, and I did the same.
The tremor in his hand was so violent, that I had to cast a look his way, to examine him properly. His face was pale, aside from the faint pink that seemed to always fleck his nose and cheeks when he was cold.
"Stay with me, prince," I encouraged. "We're almost there."
He shot me a glare at the word prince, but kept his mouth shut.
When we reached my car, he immediately sprang out of my grip, eagerly opening the passengers door. Once I turned on the engine, I looked in every mirror to possibly spot anything out of the ordinary. Drunk fools, smokers, and smitten teenagers. No sign of Carl.
I looked over to Miles, and he appeared to still be quivering. I turned on the heater, and drove off, not saying a word to the boy beside me. I was afraid that all my anger at Carl would unleash if—
"We should go to the police. This has gotten way too out of hand. We can't just—," Miles began softly.
"No," I said simply, focused on getting us as far from the stadium as possible.
"What's the worst that could happen?," Miles asked, turning in his seat with a desperate gleam in his eyes.
I chuckled darkly as I pressed the gas a little more forcefully than I should've. "You truly are naive, aren't you, Medley? Let me tell you what would happen. If we go to the police, they're going to want names, which we can give them. All it's going to do is deliver Carl our exact location, shine an enormous spotlight on us. Not to mention that Carl has extensions with the police. They'd be inclined to help him, the person who pays them extra, not two teenagers with pleading faces. We'll handle this on our own."
I knew what to do. Who to seek. I would just need time.
Miles, clearly defeated, whispered a submissive, "Okay," as he wrapped his arms around himself and turned towards the window, back turned to me.
It shattered my soul into pieces, the sound of his fear. All of it because of Carl, that son of a bitch.
All his theatrics didn't seem rational. Were they to intimidate us? To assert dominance? To remind us that we were just disposable teenagers? His initial reasons for taking us were irrational—money was replaceable. When I thought about it further, I realized it was because we were two boys that he thought would make a perfect show of mockery.
To establish a continuity of power, people needed to fear something in their leader. Think twice about committing acts of disobedience. Carl must've thought that Miles and I were easy targets. Kill us and he'd look ruthless, capable of running a gang.
Now that Miles and I roamed free, it made Carl an incompetent leader. In order to restore his respect, his gang's obedience, he needed us dead.
He had no clue that I would no longer let anyone touch Miles Medley. That boy was mine. No one had the right to hurt him for sport, especially not Carl Jeralti.
There was one thing that I knew for certain; Carl Jeralti had to die, or Miles would be driven mad.