The scent of fresh cut grass lingered in the air. Shawn tried to concentrate on nothing but the turf under his feet, the players surrounding him, and the ball sitting on the center line. The spectators didn't exist. There were no bleachers, no cars passing on the street parallel to the fields, and no children playing on the park nearby. He couldn't hear the screeches of joy, the blaring of horns, or the muted cheers. All of his energy, his mind, his strength, centered on the activity contained within the white lines surrounding him.
Ten players wore the same colors he did, two at his sides and eight behind him. All with the same goals in mind.
Defend.
Block.
Score.
Eleven others stood opposite him, facing off inside the same four chalked barriers. One of them glared at Shawn, a blossoming purple bruise staining his jaw. A small grin tugged at the corner of Shawn's mouth, a sting radiating from the small cut in his lower lip. He ran his tongue over the broken flesh briefly, almost as if he could still taste the blood, the victory he had over the douche across from him.
"Hell, Mendes," Zayn said. "What crawled up Carter's ass?" He gestured across the field to a glaring Vance.
Shawn grinned larger. "My foot. Or more specifically, my fist to his assbag face."
"You clocked Vance? Why?"
Shawn turned toward Zayn, exposing his full face to him and pointing to his lip. "He hit me first."
"What did you do to him?"
Shawn scowled. "I didn't do anything. I caught him cornering Camila against the shed behind the bleachers."
"What?" Zayn's eyes widened.
"Damn doucheclown," Shawn muttered, "had her trapped between him and the wall. He's lucky I didn't do worse than that."
"Was he—" Zayn glared across the field and lowered his voice, turning toward Shawn. "Was he the one who ..."
Shawn looked at Zayn. "You know about that?"
"I was best friends with her brother, of course I know. Carlos just never told me who." He studied Shawn curiously. "How do you know?"
"She told me."
"She talks to you about stuff like that?"
A whistle blew and the ref stepped out into the field, relieving Shawn of having to answer Zayn. He took his position behind the ball, hunched over and ready to play, one hand lying loosely against his back and the other hanging limp at his side. Zayn stood several feet away, his toe on the line waiting for Shawn's pass. In that moment, Shawn let his mind clear of everything once more, though he held onto the anger coursing through his veins. He'd found many times before he played better when pissed. And that day, his fury took on a whole new meaning. He wanted to bury Vance, throw him to the ground and rub his face into the dirt. He wanted to make sure he never had the opportunity or ability to hurt Camila ever again. But that would have to wait for another time, right now was the time to kick his ass on the field.
The ref stood in front of Shawn, his hand in the air and head turned toward the opposite team's goal keeper.
"Keeper! Ready?"
The dark haired boy raised his hand and nodded.
The ref turned toward Shawn, his gaze going over Shawn's head to their own team's keeper.
"Keeper! Ready?"
Shawn didn't turn to see the reaction, but knew he'd said okay when the ref blew the game starting whistle. It rang shrill and clear through the air, the sound jump starting a flurry of activity. Zayn took a few steps forward as Shawn nudged the ball in his direction and crossed the center line himself after it left his foot. The opposing team closed in on them, trying their hardest to take possession of the ball. Zayn ran several paces ahead, dribbling the ball closely to his feet. Shawn squeezed through their first line of attack and lifted his head to Zayn, signaling he was ready. The ball rolled across the field, stopping directly in the curve of his foot as if it had somehow been magnetically drawn there.
With a quick glance up to assess his surroundings, Shawn shot ahead, the ball staying securely between his feet, inching forward as he ran. Two defenders rushed in on him, one trying unsuccessfully to swipe the ball from his possession while the other leaned into his body, taking care not to shove with his shoulder and earn a penalty. Another player veered in from the side, blocking Shawn's movement forward. In his periphery, Shawn spotted his left forward trailing slightly behind him. With a slight lift of his foot, he stopped the ball and rolled it backward, hitting his target perfectly.
His teammate took the ball and snaked up the sideline as far as he could before being cornered by several of the opposing team's members. Shawn broke free of his defenders, taking care to stay onside, and raised his hand indicating a pass. The left forward shoved through the crowd enough to get the ball out. Shawn caught it easily and darted forward, a clear shot on the goal.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins as his target came nearer. He heard the defenders behind him, their feet pounding on the ground trying to catch up, but he had the advantage and he knew it. With another burst of energy, he gained even more distance on them and then it was just him and the keeper. The face-off seemed to go in slow motion, taking minutes instead of only a few short seconds. The keeper squatted slightly, his muscles tensed and ready to move in any direction, ready to sacrifice his body if need be. He held his gloved hands up, fingers spread in front of him.
Shawn lifted his right foot just enough to fake the keeper out, watching him stretch to his left, and swung out with his left, sinking the ball in the top right pocket of the net. The keeper sprawled across the opposite side of the goal and banged his fist on the ground. Shawn turned, meeting Zayn's whoop with a smirk. Zayn wacked him on the back in a congratulatory smack and they both jogged back to center field.
From behind, he heard Vance's voice shouting at their team's keeper. "He's a lefty, you moron! How many times have we gone over this?"
Shawn snickered and took his position around the center circle.
Again, the ref blew his whistle, the opposing team now in possession of the ball. The center forward nudged the ball back to Vance who passed it off to the left forward. Just as he started toward the center line, Zayn snuck up on him and slide tackled it out of his grasp. Shawn collected the rogue ball and kicked it back to their right midfielder. Once he was stopped up, he passed it back to the center defender who kicked it up into the air and over the heads of most of the players.
One of Birmingham High's players headed the ball right in Shawn's direction. He caught it with his chest and let it roll down his body until it hit the ground at his feet. Immediately he had two players on him, pressing into his sides and swiping at his feet. He tried to move forward but one of the players reached out and twisted a hand in his jersey, tugging and causing Shawn to stumble back. Glancing back toward the ref, he expected the whistle to sound for holding, but the ref stared back, a blank expression on his face.
Zayn jogged toward Shawn, the two of them watching as the ball passed between the opposing team's players on the other end of the field. Birmingham High's defenders worked hard to keep the ball out of shooting range.
"What the hell was that?" Sebastian asked. "I don't think I've seen such an obvious holding penalty."
Shawn shrugged. "Hell if I know."
The ball sailed back through the air, dropping several feet from where Shawn and Zayn waited. Zayn got to it first, driving it up the sideline. Shawn ran parallel to him up the center, keeping himself open for a pass. When two defenders cornered Zayn, he pushed the ball between their legs right to Shawn. Just as the ball touched his foot, Shawn felt a hard hit right to his side. His breath whooshed out as he flew into the air, landing with a smack on the ground. Pain radiated up his side and his lungs burned as he tried to catch his breath. The shrill sound of a whistle blew somewhere in the vicinity, but the only thing Shawn was aware of was the splitting pain in his ribs. He struggled to breathe as he brought his hand up to his side.
A shadow passed over him and when he looked up, he was met with Vance's smug face.
"Not so tough now, are you?" A crooked sneer spread over his lips.
Disapproving boos and groans emanated from the crowd. Shawn heard Michael's irate voice somewhere near the sideline. He turned his head in their direction and saw Clarissa, Lauren, and Camila all on their feet, eyes wide, staring down at him. Camila's eyes met his, her hand held over her mouth. He closed his briefly and let his head fall back to the soft grass below, trying his hardest to regulate his breathing. The sharp pain in his side started to recede, but it still hurt to draw in a breath.
"Dude, you all right?" He heard Zayn's voice hovering above him.
Opening his eyes, Shawn squinted against the sun's glare and nodded. "Just give me a sec." He drew in a deep breath, wincing internally at the ache it caused, but figured he was ready to go. "Okay, I'm good."
Zayn reached down and Shawn grabbed his outstretched hand, allowing him to pull him from his place on the ground. The boos and groans gave way to cheers as he stood to his feet, drawing in another breath. Players all around him rose from their knees and slowly made their way back to their previous positions.
"Mendes!" Coach called from the sideline. Shawn glanced in his direction. "All right, kid?"
Shawn nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. His side still throbbed but was bearable. Nothing he hadn't handled before and certainly not the worst injury he'd ever sustained. The ref came up and asked again if he was okay to continue. When Shawn answered in the affirmative, the ref signaled with his hand to resume play.
Since the penalty happened inside the goal box, Shawn was awarded a penalty kick—just him and the keeper. An easy shot, head on. He stood behind the ball, lined up his shot, and kicked out. The ball sailed through the air and the keeper lunged for it but it managed to sneak right through his fingers, sinking perfectly in the corner pocket.
Shawn turned and started back to the center line. Vance caught his eye and glared. Shawn smirked back. "How'd you like that, asshat?"
___________________________________________________
Camila stood partially under the bleachers near the exit to the locker rooms, waiting to see Shawn when he came out. In as many games as she'd been to for Carlos, she'd never seen one so rough and violent. It seemed the entire team had been out to get Shawn. They crowded around him, throwing elbows and shoving him, not even seeming to care when they earned a penalty. Two players were given yellow cards, and a third a red one.
Shawn, however, seemed to handle it all better than she would have. He managed to avoid most injury by simply swerving out of the way at the right moment. But that first hit, the one to his ribs, Camila knew hurt him. Throughout the rest of the game, he'd protected that side and made sure no one hit it again. She watched as he struggled for breath and winced on the sideline, yet, when out on the field, unless one were watching super close—as she was—he hid his pain very well. No one would be the wiser. But she knew better.
Finally, the locker room door opened and Shawn and Zayn exited, talking and laughing about something. The sight of Shawn laughing with anyone besides her seemed so strange—especially when that someone was Zayn. Shawn hadn't seemed too thrilled with the idea of Zayn, but maybe that was just because he seemed to have a thing for Camila. Whatever the case, she was glad they seemed on more friendly terms now.
She stepped out from under the bleachers, catching Shawn's eye. He gave her a slight grin and said something to Zayn before turning toward her. Zayn's gaze followed Shawn for a moment, a confused glint in his stare.
Shawn stood before her a few seconds later. He glanced around quickly before leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek. Crossing his arms in front of him, he leaned his shoulder against one of the bleacher posts. "So?"
Camila raised a brow. "So what?"
"What'd you think of the game?"
"It was—" Camila hesitated. Even though it was probably one of the best games she'd ever seen, she didn't like how rough the other players had been on Shawn, "really rough."
Shawn glanced down and chuckled. "Yeah, well, I pissed off Vance and he enlisted the help of his teammates in settling the score." He shrugged. "Nothing I haven't seen before."
Camila took a step forward and slowly brought her hand up to rest on his forearm. "Are you all right?"
He furrowed his brow and looked down at her like she'd just asked the most ridiculous question he'd ever heard. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
She narrowed her eyes and stepped forward again, running her hand across his arm and down his side. He winced involuntarily as her fingers skimmed the area where he'd been hit. "Liar."
He pushed her hand away and rolled his eyes. "I told you it's no big deal. It happens."
"No big deal? I saw you struggling for breath and wincing on the sideline. Why didn't you have the coach look at it? It could be bad."
He shook his head and looked away.
"Let me see," she said.
He glanced back at her, his brows raised. "What?"
"Let me see," she repeated.
"I told you, I'm fine. Just—stop worrying, okay?"
"Shawn—"
"Camila."
She rolled her eyes. "Would you quit being an ass and let me see? You could have cracked a rib or something."
"What? Are you a doctor now?"
"Shawn, please."
He let out a slow breath and met her eyes. Something flashed through his, and unless she was mistaken, it looked a whole lot like fear. "Fine." He dropped his bag to the ground behind him, gripped the front of his jersey with one hand, holding it down to cover his stomach, and lifted the side a few inches with the other.
Camila gasped as the fabric rose, revealing an angry purple bruise forming over his lower ribs. "Shawn ..." She reached forward to touch him and he tugged the shirt down, jerking away from her outstretched fingers.
"It looks worse than it is. Trust me. This is nothing."
Camila sighed and closed her eyes, leaning into him, her forehead against his chest. His hands came up and rested against her back. "You're such an ass," she said.
"I know," he said softly, gripping her cheeks and tilting her face up to his. And in the shadow of the bleachers, away from the prying eyes of everyone else, he kissed her, his lips moving gently against hers.
For just that moment, Camila was able to push aside her worry that he was hurt, the fact that they could be caught at any moment, and the ever growing curiosity over why he wouldn't let her touch him. Why he wouldn't let anyone touch him. These were things she wanted to know, needed to know. How could she help him if he wouldn't open up to her at all? Had she not earned his trust enough yet?
Shawn broke away first, though not moving from her. "I need to get back. The next game starts in a half hour."
She nodded against his forehead, enjoying the feel of his hands on her face. "Take care of that side, okay?"
He leaned forward and grinned against her lips. "Yes, Mom."
"I really think we should change your name to ass instead of Shawn. Ass just fits you better."
"God, you're starting to sound like Lauren more and more every day. It's really starting to freak me out kissing someone that sounds like my sister."
Camila reached up and pulled his face hard against hers, kissing him and then shoving it away. "Go play and work out all this asshatyness you've got stored up. It's starting to grate on my nerves."
"You know you love it," he said, his breath flowing over her face, causing her to shudder. He smiled. "Later, Pippi."
Camila watched his back as he walked away, her legs weak and the taste of him lingering on her lips. She wondered if and when this reaction to him would ever stop. In some ways, it annoyed her and made her incredibly frustrated. The way he could manipulate everything she felt seemed so unfair. But in other ways, she hoped it would never cease and that she could always feel this way. The pounding heart, shallow breaths, and weak knees were a small price to pay to have Shawn Mendes look at her the way he did. To touch her, hold her, kiss her. Yes, a very small price indeed.
_______________________________________________________________
By the time the storm clouds rolled overhead, Shawn had already played three games. Everything in him ached, his side, his legs, his chest. Everything. Thankfully, the last game was called due to the approaching storm.
Shawn leaned his head back against the stiff bus seat and stared out the window, focusing on the headlights of the passing cars as they blurred by. Thunder ripped through the sky as fat drops started to fall, splattering against the window and spreading out in all directions. He watched as it moved across, the wind working to rip it away from the glass but only managing to smoosh it flatter. Lightning flickered against the black sky, bringing into focus the dark trees lining the highway.
He closed his eyes and tried to forget how storms made him feel. To push aside the images the boom of thunder and the patter of rain caused to flash through his mind. The feel of large hands wrapping around his arms and pulling him back, the fear crowding his chest as his pleas were ignored, the white sheet dropping over dark hair laced with red, the click of metal snapping into place. The pictures flashed through his memory over and over, becoming clearer and clearer as the thunder rolled. Voices shouted, screams echoed, his own wails louder than anything else around him. He wanted to get to that sheet, to raise it up and peer underneath. To prove to everyone that what they said wasn't true. To make those men in blue let his father go. To make them believe it hadn't happened the way they thought. But no one listened to a five-year-old child, especially not the large woman holding him back, trying to take him away.
"Mendes," a voice called in the distance. "Shawn, we're back."
Slowly, Shawn opened his eyes and peered around. Zayn stood in the aisle of the nearly empty bus. Shawn frowned and looked out the rain soaked window, recognizing the school parking lot and seeing his car in the distance.
"I don't know how you managed to fall asleep. It was louder than hell on here tonight."
Shawn stood, his stiff muscles protesting the movement. "I don't know how either." He grabbed his bag and followed Zayn off the bus into the rain.
Having given his cover-up to Camila, he had no hood to pull over his head, and the rain fell down, soaking through his clothing and dripping from his hair. He waved a quick goodbye to his lingering teammates and rushed to his car, fumbling with his keys in the wetness before jamming the correct one into the lock. He wrenched the door open, threw his bag in the back, and slid into the seat.
He drove carefully through the streets, the rain coming down so hard he could barely see out the windshield. Finally, he pulled into his driveway and sprinted into the dark house. His family and Camila had left after the second game due to the late hour and the fact that they were all hungry and tired. Camila told him she was staying the night with Lauren. The idea of her sleeping just across the hall made him smile.
He opened the door and entered quietly, not a sound other than the downpour outside and the distant cracks of thunder met his ears. Taking off his wet cleats, he started up the stairs, making it to his room in record time. He dropped his bag next to the small desk and proceeded to strip himself of his wet clothes. A hamper sat next to his closet door and he threw the clothes into it, reminding himself to take it downstairs first thing so they didn't mold.
Slipping on a pair of black pajama pants and a fitted white tank top, he finally turned to his bed, spying the large manila envelope sitting on the end. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, knowing exactly what awaited him inside. Taking a few slow steps forward, he crossed his room and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. He swiped his fingers over the envelope, held his breath, and picked it up, ripping open the end and pulling out the smaller one inside.
Stamped on the outside he read the words he knew would be there:
Toronto County State Penitentiary. Pushing out a slow breath, he tore open the envelope and pulled the letter out. His eyes scanned over the words, nearly the same ones that had graced the last three letters he'd received.
Shawn,
I understand your reasons and respect your right not to answer my letters or accept my plea for you to visit. I can also understand why you wouldn't want to see me. But there are some things I need to tell you, things you need to know about that night, about me and your mother, and about you. These are things you should have been told long ago, but not things I feel comfortable divulging in a letter. You should hear them from me. I think—no, I know these things will help you to see why I did what I did. Maybe you won't agree, and it's all right if you don't, but I ask that you please reconsider seeing me.
I know I have no rights to you. I know your life has not been what it should have been and I fully recognize my fault in that. I'm not asking you to forgive me because I know I don't deserve it, but maybe if you come hear what I have to say, maybe someday you'll at least understand.
~Dad
Shawn squeezed the letter in his fist and leaned his forehead against it. The letters had started coming more frequently, the tone more desperate. What was it his father could possibly want to tell him after twelve years, and why hadn't he tried to contact him earlier? Never before had he received any sort of correspondence from Manuel Mendes. Not a single letter or birthday card. Nothing. But now, in the span of a couple of months, he'd received four letters. All asking the same thing.
He didn't know how he felt about his father's request. Did he want to see him? Did he want to hear him out, hear his explanation about why he did what he did? Was there any justification? Shawn didn't know. He couldn't imagine any, but he had only been a child. Barely school age. Even though the images were burned into his memory, no matter how hard he tried to expunge them, he really had no idea what happened that night. He only had pictures, fragments of a whole. No one explained anything to him. No one even talked to him. All they did was drag him away, crying and screaming, into the cold, wet night. The swirling red and blue lights distorting his vision as the car pulled away.
He remembered how it felt to lie in that sterile bed wanting his mother, wanting his father, wanting—someone. But no one came, no one wanted him, no one cared about the little boy left all alone.
His phone vibrated against the wood of the nightstand, bringing Shawn out of his memories. Picking it up, Shawn managed to smile at a text from Camila.
You're home? ~C.
Yep, I'm home. ~S.
Are you okay? ~C.
Shawn chuckled and shook his head. She was always so concerned. It was kind of endearing.
I'm fine. You? ~S.
Yes, but . . . ~C.
He furrowed his brows at her incomplete message.
But what? ~S.
Shawn waited a few minutes for her to respond, growing restless wondering what was wrong. Finally, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it quickly.
I don't like storms. ~C.
He closed his eyes and touched his phone to his forehead before responding.
Me neither. ~S.
Can I . . . come to you? ~C.
Shawn smiled.
Yes. ~S.
Okay. ~C.
Shawn leaned over and flicked on his bedside lamp then heaved himself off the bed, throwing the letter from his father on the nightstand and made his way to the door, turning off the overhead light in the process. He pulled it open before she even had a chance to knock. She stood on the other side, her hand poised in the air and her tired, red-rimmed eyes wide. A soft yellow camisole clung to her top and a pair of matching boy shorts hung on her hips.
He reached out and took her hand, pulling her into the room and closing the door behind her. Guiding her to him, he wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head just under his chin. "You've been crying."
She let out a slow shuttering breath. "Sometimes storms make it come back. That night."
Shawn closed his eyes and brushed his lips against her head. "I know."
"All the time I try to forget, and sometimes it works. But other times ... it's like it was just yesterday." She sighed, her body sagging limply against him. "I'm so tired, Shawn."
He kissed the top of her head, withdrew his arms from around her, and grabbed her hand. "Come on." Shuffling her forward, he led her to his bed and gestured for her to lie down. She did, but didn't let go of his hand and pulled him down with her.
As he settled himself next to her, he reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging them both into darkness. Only the intermittent flashes of lightning brought any light to the room.
Shawn rolled over onto his side and Camila did the same, tucking herself into him, her face buried in his chest and her hands tucked up to her chin. He slid one arm under her head, pulling her flush against him, and draped the other over her side. Camila sighed, her breath cascading over the bare portion of the top of his chest. Her hand came up and glided along his side, resting carefully over his bruise.
"How are you really?" she asked, the heat from her touch seeping through his shirt and soothing his sore ribs.
He let out a breath. "Sore."
She chuckled and nodded her head. "I bet."
Moving her hand away from his side, she trailed it up and over his shoulder, following the length of his arm and tugging on it slightly. He drew it back and she took his hand, interlacing her fingers with his and brushing her lips over his knuckles. With a sigh, she said, "Shawn?"
"Hmm?"
"Why don't you like storms?"
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the images starting again, turning relentlessly over and over in his mind.
"You don't have to tell me," she said, defeat sounding in her voice.
He hated making her feel this way. More than anything he wanted to tell her, to let her in and see him, all of him. But he was afraid, afraid that if he opened it up again he'd never get it closed. That it would spill out like a flood, devouring everything he'd so carefully crafted his life to be. Everything would fall prey to its blackness and nothing would survive. Least of all him. But there she lay, at his side, holding his hand and kissing his knuckles. Asking him to give her something, anything to help her understand. To let her be there for him. And damn it, he wanted her there. He wanted her to have him. The good, the bad, the wicked.
With a deep breath, he spoke. "I don't dislike storms. I just don't like what they make me think of."
"Oh," she said quietly. "And ... what's that?"
He lowered his face to her hair, breathing in her scent to give himself the strength to speak. "The night my entire world changed. When my old life ended and this one began."