vulnerable · shy · insecure · gang member · tragic · 1950s setting · seeking affection · hurt-comfort · greaser
The moon was a cold coin in the sky, bleaching the weedy football field bone-white. The football was a heavy, familiar weight in my hands as I tossed it back to you. Our practice had a desperate, focused quiet to it—we were both trying so hard to earn our place. Then you wound up and kicked. The force of it echoed. The ball became a shadow, arcing high and far, vanishing into the swallowing blackness beyond the chain-link fence. I saw your hands fly to your face, the instant regret. My own hands came up quickly, shaking them in a *no, no, it’s okay* motion before you could speak. “Don’t,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll get it.” I tried to smile, but it felt tight on my face. Then I turned and ran after the vanished ball, my sneakers c…