Chapter Four

Ethan

ETHAN GRINNED AT his phone screen. It was a nice gesture, the game ticket, and he did get that Justin felt terrible for him. Just like everyone else on campus, but Justin hadn't asked for the gory details. He hadn't dwelled on it or allowed Ethan to either. Hell, he practically refused to look at him. That was a different response, and Ethan took it for what it was. Shawn, who did act like everyone else on campus, had suggested it, and Justin agreed. So…Ethan guessed he was going to a football game tomorrow.

No big deal.

Just like any typical college student whose lifeblood was football.

"What do you think I should wear to a football game?" Ethan asked his mom on the phone as he stared into his closet.

"Oh my God, hang on, and let me get your dad. Are you seriously going to a football game?"

"Yeah, a player in my study group gave me a ticket." Ethan pulled out a university hoodie and a clean pair of jeans.

"Hey, son, Mom says you needed some football advice?" His dad sounded amused.

"No, just what to wear…" Ethan sighed reluctantly. "But what to expect?"

"A big crowd. It will be insanely loud. Are you good with that?" His father's concern was unmistakable.

"Yeah, crowds are better for me."

"Dress warm, cover your head, gloves, too, and you should be good. Grab some hot cocoa from the concession, and you'll be just fine. Their team's done pretty well so far this season. Who is the player?"

"Justin Halstead. I don't know what he does on the team."

His father jokingly repeated, "‘ What he does .' Oh, Ethan, what position he plays, and he's a tight end." His father sighed. "A football game, after all this time."

"Yeah, I love how Mom passed the phone to you. Did she throw it?"

"Nearly. You can leave or find security if you feel…"

"I'm good, Dad. I promise. I have a knit cap, hoodie, and winter jacket. There will be a lot of people there. The traffic near the stadium is always bad on game days, so I know it's a big crowd."

There was a long pause, and Ethan waited.

"Study group," his father said, letting the words linger. But Ethan hadn't missed the suspicion in his tone. And the attention to detail, typical of his father.

"Yeah, he left his phone in the library. I found it and returned it to him, and then to thank me, he got me a ticket. He's a lit major, but he's also in my science class. We had freshman composition together last year. I know who he is."

"All right, sorry."

"No, it's fine; I appreciate it. Maybe if I'd paid more attention to your advice…"

"Don't," his father stopped him. "Don't do that."

"Yeah, I know."

"You still want to stay?"

"Yes, things are getting better. And hey, I think I made a friend—well, maybe. I'm not sure yet. He's not like those I've had or been making…" Ethan trailed off, unsure how to describe Justin's reaction or attitude about him compared to everyone else.

"Hang on," his dad said, and Ethan could hear his old-school, fat-finger, keyboard-clacking sounds in the background and his mother asking who that was .

Ethan cringed at the curiosity in her tone. His dad put the phone on speaker and then relayed what Ethan had said. Ethan shook his head as his father read off Justin Halstead's football stats. When your dad was a high school football coach, this was what happened, and Ethan silently waited, understanding little of it.

"He's looking pretty good this year, hmm, last year too," his dad said, sounding more excited.

"Cute too," his mom said through the speaker, and Ethan groaned.

"Really?" Ethan and his dad said it simultaneously, and they all laughed.

"I think you're good. This kid's probably already got scouts looking at him, so no doubt, he's keeping out of trouble. No red flags on my end," his dad confirmed.

"So, not a psycho killer?" Ethan only half joked.

"I think you're okay. Dress warm; he'll be the one blocking, catching the football, and running it in to score." There was a pause. "Yeah, forget what I just said; just look for number fourteen," his dad corrected and then laughed, loud and long.

It was something none of them had genuinely done in quite a while, and Ethan nodded, surprisingly pleased over this call. This was good. And he was talking football with his dad. Ethan asked a few more questions just for the sake of making his father believe he was actually interested in his beloved sport.

"So, he'll be the one scoring the points," Ethan said. "Oh, or getting tackled."

"Most likely." His dad's tone was still upbeat. "I'm telling you, he's got promising numbers for next year's draft."

"Okay, Dad, that's all the football I can take," Ethan said with a teasing groan.

"Charge your phone, text me, and check in regularly if you can," his dad said—back to the role of the cautious father of a traumatized son.

"I will—love you guys," Ethan said, and they repeated it and ended the call.

It had been a good conversation, and Ethan plugged his phone in and got dressed. Gone were the days of blowing off his parents' advice. No , he listened now, after last year.

*

ETHAN WAS AN idiot. Of all the places he'd never been and never imagined himself ever being, but there he sat, his torn single ticket stub still in his hand.

Thanks to one Justin Fucking Halstead.

Ethan slipped the stub into his wallet, shoved a bag under his seat, and leaned back in the slightly comfortable stadium seat. He looked behind him and up, noticing the seats above weren't like his. He'd missed the game opening as the girl behind the window had taken forever explaining about picking up his ticket there each time unless he wanted to use the app. He'd argued he only had one ticket, and she politely informed him he had the seat for the rest of the season at a player's request. Then, she handed him a bag full of team swag.

"Season ticket holder perk," she said, then told him to enjoy the game, ending his argument.

That had been unexpected.

Ethan had finally found his seat, suspiciously close to the field. He sidestepped, interrupting nachos, avoiding knees, purses, and cups of beer with several apologies on the way to the only empty seat left in the row. Ethan took in the insanity around him—the painted faces and bodies, the bleeding school pride dripping in red and black—utter chaos and complete fandemonium.

Ethan pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the madness and the field, and sent them to his dad with a message confirming he hadn't chickened out and had a decent seat. He didn't mention he apparently had season tickets. He wasn't sure what to think about that . And it had to be a mistake. Ethan sent another message to his parents to reassure them.

Ethan: I am good, promise.

He scanned the players wearing white jerseys with red numbers, tight black pants, and cleats. All of them were so huge. Ethan searched the row of numbers across the players' backs for a one and a four. Then, with no luck, he turned to the field.

And there he was.

Pushing an opponent away and breaking free from the hold, Justin ran down the field.

Whoa, he's fast.

The ball sailed through the air, and Ethan leaned forward and held his breath as Justin caught it mid-run and made a few more strides. Ethan cringed as a beastly player from the other team slammed Justin to the ground. He watched in an almost horrified fascination as Justin's teammate extended a hand and pulled him up, and Justin tossed the ball to the ref like it was nothing.

And they all lined up to do it again.

"Brutal," Ethan exclaimed, and the guy next to him, who looked like someone's father, chuckled.

But Ethan, surprising himself, sat there on the semi-hard-ass seat, completely sucked in by the intrigue of this dangerous game, awestruck by Justin's ability to take hit after hit and just keep going. He'd scored a touchdown before the half, and Ethan had found himself standing and screaming with the madness along with everyone else, consumed by the fandom.

You do have a good seat , his dad messaged back, And they are winning . His dad was likely watching the game or at least listening to it.

Ethan glanced down at the cameras on the field. Watching then .

Ethan: I didn't realize how good he is.

Dad: There will be parties after the game.

Ethan: I think we both know that's not something I'm doing.

Dad: Good, enjoy the game. I'd like to take this opportunity to say I told you so. That one day, you might love football.

Ethan: But I do love hockey.

Dad: Hockey.

Ethan smiled at his father's attempt at using unhappy emojis and put his phone away for the second half. His dad had been trying for years to get Ethan into football, but Ethan had never had an interest—until now.

Justin scored another touchdown in the second half, and there were two more by other teammates, so they won the game by a significant lead at the end. At one point during the second half, Ethan noticed Justin on the sideline. After talking to his coach, he'd turned and looked up into the stands. Ethan glanced around, wondering which of the people were Justin's parents.

After the game, Ethan boarded the student fan bus provided by the school, then walked back to his dorm, sticking to the well-lit paths and noting the new emergency phone stands with blue lights shining brightly above them. Those had been added after… everything . Security guards and cameras were everywhere now, more so than the few there'd been before.

But even those had been enough to keep Ethan from having to testify. He'd been allowed to give a deposition. The security camera footage and testimony of the custodian who had found him had been the saving grace of Ethan never having to go into that courtroom. His parents, on the other hand, had attended court each day, wanting justice for their son.

Ethan swiped his ID card and went inside Lawson. The guard at the desk nodded, and he headed up the stairs to his room. He might not ever get over his avoidance of elevators, but Ethan forced himself not to keep thinking about any of it. He put away the swag, pinned the ticket stub to his corkboard, and sighed.

"Justin Halstead."

He stared at the memento for a moment and then sent a text to his parents, letting them know he was back in his room and home safe and sound.

Ethan changed and got ready for bed. It had been a good night, a real one , where he wasn't faking his smile, putting on a show, or forcing his laughter. It had been the first in a long time since he'd allowed himself to let his guard down. Ethan had just closed his eyes and rolled over when his phone went off. The newly designated sound of the home game touchdown crowd he'd recorded while at the game filled his quiet room. He'd assigned it to a specific contact in his phone.

A spark of hope ignited, and it was a devastating thing.

Devastating because while Ethan wasn't clueless, he was an overthinker. He'd seen something in the hard look Justin had given him. He thought about the assignment from their shared class last spring and possibly having a genuine friend who didn't come across as obsessed with another's trauma. One who wouldn't bring it up every five minutes or smile at him while their eyes spoke the truths of their pity. People meant well; they just didn't always realize how much they kept the trauma alive with those good intentions.

Then, there was the other issue. Ethan wondered what Justin's intentions truly were. He was straight, no doubt about it. Ethan had seen Justin Halstead with the same girl several times during the previous fall semester. He reached for his phone but didn't swipe the screen. Too many conflicting thoughts filtered through his mind. It wasn't that a straight guy couldn't be friends with him, but it wasn't really the norm. Girls, sure, they were like a flock.

Sighing, then rubbing at his eyes with the headache he was giving himself, Ethan swiped the screen.

Justin: I saw you there. What did you think?

Ethan bit his lip trying not to grin as he read the message a second time and then typed back.

Ethan: Just so you know, my dad is a high school football coach. He was pretty pumped and encouraged me to go. I think you have a new fan in him since that was the first football game of my life. It was good, congratulations, but how bad are you hurt?

Justin: Wait, holy shit, is your dad Coach John Andrews? That's your dad?

Ethan: That's him.

Justin: Damn, dude, he's a great HS coach. And you never played?

"‘Dude,'" Ethan said and rolled his eyes.

He guessed he was going there, into the land of despised dude-bro slang and diving headfirst into the pit of very bad, bad ideas. While Ethan knew he should end this conversation, probably stop this… whatever it was , he couldn't push the button and lay his phone down. His thumbs went to work, and he sat up a bit straighter in the bed.

Ethan: "Dude," have you seen me? I played hockey when I was a kid, but no football. Track and cross country, like my mom. I take after her. Let's just say she's the bean pole, and he's "the mountain."

Justin: The mountain is your dad. I can't believe it. He's a legend.

Ethan was about to respond and continue the conversation about his father and football history and why it had made him hate football as a child. Tell Justin all about his dad's constant traveling and, unfortunately, missing out on many milestones in Ethan's life. His dad loved him fiercely, and Ethan equally loved his father. He'd just grown up directing his anger at the sport that consumed the time he wanted with his hero. Before he could type in all of that, another message popped up.

Justin: What are you doing?

Ethan: Lying in bed and watching TV.

Ethan reached for his remote, flipped it on, and thumbed through the channels until he stopped on an old movie.

Justin: What are you watching?

Ethan: Half-ass watching Twister for the millionth time.

Justin: Dude, that's on repeat, or it's Shawshank.

Ethan: Right.

Justin: Do you game?

Ethan: Not really. Why?

Justin: I was going to see if you played online.

Ethan: I have the gear. I just never set it all up. You know why.

Ethan had to be sure to test the waters with that last comment, and he waited to see what Justin would say, to see if their convo took a turn in the typical direction.

Justin: No shit. What games do you have?

And Ethan sighed, sat all the way up, got up, and turned on his light. He opened the cabinet door beneath his television and pulled out the box of stuff his parents had bought him. His phone roared like the stadium, and he answered instantly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm dragging it all out to look and see. My parents got me all of this, and I've never opened any of it."

"Want some help setting it up? Then we can play."

"Sure, you aren't at a party?" Ethan asked.

"I don't party, but I do game," Justin said, and the phone clicked silent.

Ethan looked at his screen and saw Justin had, in fact, abruptly ended the call. Shit, he hadn't meant right now .

*

ETHAN ABANDONED THE game box and, in instant panic, ran to his dresser and pulled on a pair of sleep pants and a T-shirt, followed by a minor run-around freak-out session, a toothbrush in his mouth with one hand and cramming his dirty clothes into the hamper with the other. At the same time, he kicked at his shoes, hurling them haphazardly into the closet. Ethan heard a quiet knock.

What the fuck, did he run here?

Ethan visualized Justin as the athlete he was and hastily spit into the sink and rinsed. Unlocking his door and opening it, the coolness of the hallway hit the sheen of sweat he'd worked up in his holy shit, holy shit haste.

"I didn't think you meant right this minute," Ethan panted, glaring at Justin.

"You said game . Magic words, man, magic words." Justin grinned wide and slapped Ethan on the shoulder hard as he barreled into his suite.

Ethan umphed and closed the door. Jesus . He rubbed at his shoulder, still feeling the friendly and unfamiliar stinging greeting.

"Um…" Ethan held out his hands, indicating his living space. "This is it."

But Justin was already at the television, pointing down to a gift-wrapped box halfway dragged out of the cabinet and resting angled on the floor.

Ethan sat on the couch and stared at the box. He knew what was inside. The console, the games, and all the equipment, still wrapped in cheerful holiday paper. None of it had been taken out of the original boxes or packaging. It hadn't been a good Christmas, and his parents had bought gifts, all the things Ethan had asked for, before everything had happened.

Before.

Ethan swallowed hard and shook his head. Nope, not going there . He looked at the wall where his breathing exercise instructions were taped and followed them, trying desperately to bring himself down from the beginnings of a flashback.

"Hey," Justin whispered.

Ethan could see Justin turn to where Ethan's attention was deadlocked. His eyes ping-ponged back and forth between Ethan's counted exhales and the poster-sized instructions on the wall. Ethan couldn't speak as he worked through it. Such shit timing, but he never could plan for these things. He couldn't prepare for something as insignificant as Christmas wrapping paper and what it could do to him. These attacks just happened when they wanted to, almost always with the worst possible timing.

Justin frowned at the poster momentarily and then turned with almost a glare to Ethan. His eyes seemed to assess, and then he put his hand in front of Ethan's face and snapped his fingers harshly.

Ethan jerked, sucked in a breath that wasn't to a count, and widened his eyes.

"Nope, snap out of that shit," Justin said, and then he turned and ripped the Christmas paper off the box, brutally crushing it before hurling it away and out of Ethan's sight.

Ethan's eyes burned, but he could breathe in gasps, and he blinked at Justin, wanting to know what the hell he'd just done to make that happen.

"Come on; this is a two-man job," Justin said with authority, leaning over and dragging the box in front of the couch. "The faster we get this set up, the quicker I'm ending you. Unless we play two-player as a team. Then I won't kill you."

And Ethan calmed down as he watched Justin slice across the unbroken tape with a key from his keyring and flip open the flaps. Next, Ethan was clutching a factory-packaged bundle of chords and a controller that had been shoved into his hands. He sat dumbstruck, until Justin snapped those fingers again, jerking Ethan into action, yanking him away from Christmas paper images and back to the task at hand.

"And, yes, I am definitely studying here. Holy shit, this is the fucking Zen dorm," Justin announced as he continued to empty the big box. It was all spread out on the coffee table and between them on the couch. Justin leaned back for a moment as he seemed to assess it all, as if in all its glory, and then looked at Ethan and grinned.

"Dude."

"Dude," Ethan lamely repeated and mustered a little laugh. What the fuck was happening?

"We can play online with this one, those too," Justin said, assessing the games. "But I don't have that one. And you still need a few others. But this one—" He tapped the case. "This is where we'll start."

Justin took over once more, giving directions to Ethan that Ethan followed, strangely going along for this unexpected ride. Together, they set up everything and waited for a system update to finish loading. Justin flopped down on the couch next to him again and indicated the controller in Ethan's hands and the matching headset he now wore, as well as Justin.

"You'll need a player name, and then we'll create your character profile," Justin said.

"Ethan."

" No , you don't use your real name. You have to have a screen name. We're killing a few twelve-year-olds along the way. You don't want those little bastards to know your real name. They are vicious," Justin said seriously, then laughed. "We'll also play other teams, older players, players our age. But those kids …" Justin shook his head with a grim expression. "You'll see. They are the worst shit-talkers."

"What's yours?"

"Turfrunner14," Justin said and then grinned.

"Crosscountry309," Ethan said. The update had been completed, and he watched as Justin typed it in and set up Ethan's profile.

"Now, pick your character." Justin motioned to his controller.

"You go ahead since you know what you're doing. Do you want some water? Snacks?" Ethan asked as he got up.

"Yeah, but you'll regret this." Justin went to work, creating a ridiculous character for Ethan.

Ethan watched Justin and the screen as he gathered supplies, setting everything down on his coffee table. Justin took a water and glanced at him—for real this time—not with the frenzy of his entrance or the insanity they weren't acknowledging throughout the setup. Justin scanned Ethan's arms. Ethan wondered what Justin would think of the worst of the scars hidden beneath his shirt.

"Permanent?" Justin asked.

Ethan nodded. "But they're getting better; they're fading. I have these scar patches the doctor prescribes. They've helped."

"All right," Justin said, his attention back on the screen. "We'll start from the beginning so you can learn and catch up to where I am. Then, we can switch to online."

"And kill the evil gamer children?"

"Every last one."

And that was how he and Justin spent the next four hours, with Justin teaching him the game and Ethan dying so many times with Justin explaining where he went wrong. It was all so normal . Ethan's eyes stung, but he nodded as his fingers got accustomed to the fast buttons and what function each one did.

"So, these are pretty sweet," Justin said, tapping the side of the gaming headset.

"Yeah, you have those, too?"

"Different, but just as good. We should be able to play, no problem." Justin stood, stretched, and groaned.

"How are you even walking?"

"It only hurts when I move," Justin admitted.

"Want to stay over and keep playing?" Ethan motioned to the other bed in his large suite. "I have a spare. They did this room right before they put me in here. My parents have stayed here with me on their visits."

"Hell, yeah." Justin kicked off his shoes and sat back down, grimacing. "But now I'm fixing to kick your ass in this game. You have any Aleve?"

"No doubt. I've got Tylenol."

"That'll work."

It was all so strange, as he and Justin played and ate candy and shit they shouldn't. The snack basket his mom replenished each visit was now completely empty, his trashcan full. He yawned, and Justin contagious-yawned after him.

"All right," Justin agreed without it being said, saving their progress and shutting down the game. "Toothbrush?"

"Yeah, top drawer, but you won't like the color," Ethan said, testing.

"I don't care, as long as it gets the Sour Patch Kids taste out of my mouth." Justin headed into Ethan's bathroom.

Ethan flipped off the lights, turned on the lamp by the spare bed, and then the light by his. He went into the bathroom as Justin came out. The sparkly purple toothbrush now joined his in the cup, just thrown in there with Ethan's like it was nothing. No big deal .

He finished up and shut off the light. Justin was already in the other bed, his clothes folded on the desk chair and lamp light out. Ethan crawled into his own and turned off the light, smiling in the dark. It was strange to have a friend, someone to hang out with and who could crash over.

Ethan found himself wanting to thank Justin, but he rolled over, deciding to be cool and not make a big deal out of it, take a page out of Justin's book, it seemed. And with Justin breathing evenly, Ethan closed his eyes.

*

"WAKE UP, ETHAN , wake up," Justin said next to him. His hands were up like he was under arrest.

"What?" Ethan asked, confused.

"You were having a bad dream," Justin said, hands still up and unmoving.

"Why are you holding your hands up like that?" Ethan rubbed his eyes in the light.

"No threat. I am not a threat," Justin said, a little panicky. "I just thought…" He lowered his hands. "It was a bad dream, man."

Ethan nodded. "I'm good. Sorry I woke you up."

Justin shook his head. "No, it's fine; go back to sleep." He clicked off the light for a second time that night and headed back across the room.

"Sorry," Ethan said and pulled up the blankets he'd clearly kicked off as he fought his demons in the night. He could only imagine what Justin had heard.