Page 10 of Save the Game
“Right,” I agree, because he’s not wrong. When I did fall asleep last night, I was plagued with ambiguous nightmares of impenetrable dark and the inability to move. I woke up this morning strung out and feeling that I would have been better off just staying awake. “I’ll go to bed early.”
I cringe as I say it, because it’s likely a lie. I haven’t gone to sleep before the early hours of the morning in months. Coach doesn’t catch the untruth, but nods and reaches a hand out to rest on my shoulder. I hold myself still and don’t pull away, even though I want to. I’ve become one of those people who can’t tell the difference between a friendly touch and an attack; I’m so disgusted with myself, I can hardly stand it.
“Have a good evening,” Coach says, squeezing gently and letting me go. I return the goodbye and watch as he walks off across campus. He’s moving carefully, head down as though he’s watching where he puts his feet.
It’s not until he’s a blurry figure in the distance that I realize I’ve been standing here watching him like some sort of creep. Shaking myself out of the stupor, I head toward the parking lot. I’ve got a shit ton of homework to get through and then I’m going to go to bed early, nightmares be damned.
3
Luke
I’m at work, manning the front so Wendy and Reggie can take their “break”. It’s only midnight and I have a bad feeling that I’ve seen the last of the night’s customers—nothing to do but stand here and scroll Instagram. I click on the profile of a guy I’m supposed to meet up with this weekend at a party. He goes to a local college and seems cool enough. Not a lot going on upstairs, judging by our message chain, but I don’t suppose we’ll be doing much talking if we do meet up.
On a whim, I close out of his profile and type Max Kuemper in the search bar. Lots of hits but none are who I’m searching for. I try a few other social media sites and get the same result. So, no online presence for Maxy—odd, in someone our age. I pull up our text message thread to ask him about it just as the bell chimes on the front door. Dropping my phone into my apron pocket, I push myself to standing and smile.
“Hello, you. Please tell me you’re real and not a fragment of my imagination,” I say to Max, who approaches the counter, but stops well back from it.
“I’m not sure I can adequately prove that, one way or the other. I feel like you’ve probably got a pretty impressive imagination.”
“True,” I laugh. “Your booth is open. I’ll bring you some coffee.”
“Oh,” he cups a hand over the back of his neck and looks surprised, as though it’s impressive that I remembered the single item he ordered last night. “Okay, sure. Thank you.”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I prepare a fresh pot of coffee. He looks exhausted—dark rings under his eyes and a slump to his shoulders that wasn’t there yesterday. He’s swimming in another massive shirt, at least two sizes too big. Something about the whole look makes me want to give him a hug.
“There you go, nice and fresh, and fully decaffeinated.” I put a mug down in front of him along with a glass of water. “Anything to eat? Breakfast? Pie, again? Reggie can make anything.”
“Uhm, yeah, I should probably eat,” he says wearily. “Maybe just some eggs.”
“Bacon? Toast? You a sausage guy?” I waggle my eyebrows at him and he cracks a smile. “How do you want your eggs?”
“Surprise me,” he replies, shrugging.
“You got it, handsome.” I wink at him and he scoffs, shaking his head. My best friend, Margot, tells me I’m an “incessant flirt”, which is apparently a bad thing. I would challenge anybody to have a conversation with Max Kuemper and not flirt; the man is a fucking babe.
I push back into the kitchen, scratching down an order for Max. Ripping it off, I wave it in front of Reggie’s face until he snatches it away in annoyance. He slams his cards down on the kitchen worktop, dramatically.
“You’re the reason I will never have kids,” he says, pointing a finger at me. Out of his line of sight, Wendy is peeking at his hand, splayed out on the table.
“Really? The only reason?” I give a pointed look at the grease stains on his shirt and then dodge as he tries to cuff me on the side of the head. “Hey now, don’t make me go to HR.”
“I’m HR,” Wendy rasps, “and I’m okay with all forms of corporal punishment.”
Hopping up onto one of the counters, I watch Reggie fire up the grill. From my vantage point here, I can peek over the top of the swinging doors and see the top of Max’s copper head. His hair looks different today—maybe he got a haircut.
“Hey, can you throw some on there for me, too?” I ask, stomach growling at the smell of cooking bacon.
“Sure, kiddo,” he says easily, as though he didn’t just try to whack me.
Lifting myself up so I can see Max better, I watch him for a few moments. He’s got his book out again, one hand holding it flat against the table and the other propping his head up. Even his body language looks tired. I wonder why the fuck he’s here instead of at home in bed. Reggie plates our food, sliding them over to me and holding up a hand before I can open my mouth to ask.
“Yes, you can take a break.”
“Thanks, Reg.” Pushing out into the dining area, I tuck two sets of silverware under my arm and whistle my way over to Max. He hears me coming and looks up, eyebrows raised as he looks at the food. I set the bigger plate down in front of him.
“Voila!”
“Uhm,” he says, looking down at the full breakfast, “this is way too much food.”