Gentlemen Knight

The basketball team, dribbling their balls, up and down the court and the noise echoing off the ceiling and bleachers bites at my heels, urging me out. It's a good thing that I am. I have no reason to be here. I need to be somewhere else. 

  Reaching the metal heavy doors at the end of the gym, I head outside. I exit out and head to the soccer field. Late autumn, early winter air hushes down on me, moving some of my hair in my face. I use a hand to push it out of my face, and hold my notepad and pen in the one not used.

  The soccer fields ahead are occupied, and there’s the team doing the drills and their uniforms blurry as they move, stretching the yellow and red through the air.

  Approaching the field, I wonder if it'd be simply atrocious to say to the team captain that I'll write nicely about him and end the session quickly. Mom's cooking Shepard's pie tonight, and a portion of it has my name on it. Maybe in ketchup. 

  The warm steam rising off it and the crust of the potatoes breaking under my fork and teeth. The ground beef cooked warm and the peas bursting with hot sweet juice. Just the right tang of ketchup to make you smile warmly at the dinner table.

  Careful now, I think to myself as I put my sleeve of my coat to my mouth, almost drooling out, I need to stop thinking of dinner.

  The warm tantalizing images of a warm dinner at the table with the fam seems the best to think of in the winter afternoon, the sun dipping already behind part of the school building and the ripped cotton clouds grey and leaden. The opposite horizon painted dark as the clouds, though more solid. 

  But, I wouldn't want to have drool running out my mouth as I ask questions. I'd be a freak.

  The coach stands near the bleachers, his warm coat different from the lack of articles on the backs of the team. If I was on the team I'd grit my teeth at what I'd call injustice. What's with the coach cozy on the benches with the team all cold and toiling with the balls?

  It's not what I can wrap my head, or anything else of mine, around.

  "Um, sir?" I say to the coach, not knowing his name.

  "Hmm, yeah?" he replies, looking at me. I've not been noticed.

  "Uh, I'm here for an interview for the school newspaper with Ike," I say, holding up my notepad and pen and also mentioning the name of the soccer team captain.

  "Oh yeah, he mentioned something about that," says the coach.

  Putting two fingers in his mouth, he whistles loudly, ringing in my ears and getting the team's attention.

  "Drews, your reporter is here. Hop on over here so he can get back inside. The rest of you get back to your drills," he calls.

  Some of the teammates laugh and punch the arms of a specific teammate. Some look over at me curiously, and I stick a hand in my pocket and the other rubbing the pen and notebook together.

  Ike shrugs his team's jests off and jogs over. I take in his looks. Is his hair brown naturally? I honestly can't tell. He's tall, and the captain, so the birds flock on him like warm bread. His skin is tanned, though fading some bit in the winter, the color of a freshly fried donut.

  "Hey," says Ike to me.

  "Hi," I reply.

  "Go over there and finish up quick," says Coach to me and gesturing to the corner of the bleachers. 

  "Alright." I say.

  Ike says, "Yes, sir."

  Shuffling over, I pull the cap of my pen off, and try to use my fingers numb as they are.

  "So, I'll be quick, I just need maybe the answer to five questions. Six depending on how you answer them," I say as I look up at him, as I'm shorter.

  "Sure thing. What's the first one?" he asks.

His voice is almost like rich caramel, if that's possible. It's what pops up in my head when he talks.

  "How does it feel to win the last three games?" I read off my notepad.

  He answers, and I write down his response. It's hard to do so, as my numb fingers hardly move, and I can barely write coherently.

  But somehow, I manage to get through the first two or three questions, just jotting down what he says.

  "You're in my physics class, right?" he asks in the middle of my writing attempts. My words like a failed connect-the-dot done by a four-year-old.

  "Um," I say taken back, "I think so?"

  "What's your name?"

  "Walter Reed."

  "I think you are."

  "That class is so mind-numbing that it's hard to notice the people," I say jokingly, my notepad lowering a little.

  Ike laughs.

  "You're right about that," he replies. 

  Continuing on, I finish asking, and then after a quick 'thanks' I walk away and he goes back to practice. I'll write what I can about him later, but that dinner is digging in my mind.

..............................................................

    It's amazing what that Ike kid can do. It's been barely two weeks, and another game with another school and I'm going back for another interview. I think my newspaper club is just full of die-hard fans of him now, and because I'm really impartial, I'm the only one who can ask questions to him and not turn the session into an awkward scene of endless praise.

  So the interviews are all allotted to me.

  It's fine. Tonight is takeout so I can be loose about what I ask and not be rushed like last time.

  Entering the field again, the same coach sees me, and he gets the idea as he whistles and calls Ike over. Ike jogs over again, this time in a different uniform, and we walk over to the part of the bleachers as last time.

  "So, this time, I have a few more questions. Some fans of yours asked us as the newspaper club to ask a few," I say as I flip through the same notepad, trying to find the page where it was.

  "Do you have a lot of questions for me?" asks Ike.

  "Yeah. I mean, I think I just said that," I say, not really paying attention to what he says and still flipping through my notebook.

I find the questions and unscrew my pen.

  "So, the first question, it's from a fan, is, 'how many pushups and sit-ups do you do in a week?'" I read off.

  "Um, well thirty of each before each practice, and twenty of each after, and six times a week, so three-hundred. Roughly," he says.

  I give a low whistle as I write it down in my notepad, the same winter air numbing my fingers.

  "That's a lot," I remark.

  "Do you think so?"

  "Yeah. I mean, isn't it?" I ask as I look up from my notepad.

  I didn't know his eyes were a little lighter than they appear to be. They're a light soft brown. Caramel.

  "Um, I think it is. The more the better, right?" he replies with a grin.

  "Yeah, Especially in your case," I say with a chuckle, "so next question, another fan, if you were to date somebody, in this school, who would it be?" 

  I can see him slightly troubled, not a lot, by the question. I'd be too.

  "You can just say that you really can't say and that there are too many fine girls around. That'll have them fawning over you," I suggest.

  "I-" starts Ike as he looks at me for a second, hesitating, then saying, "I'll go with that."

 "Righto," I say as I jot it down.

More stabbing of my notepad.

  Writing the last part of a lowercase 'd' my finger slips and my pen falls.

  "Crap!" I say as I reach down to grab it.

My shaking pale hands grasps it but holds it awkwardly.

  "Are you okay?" asks Ike.

  "Yeah. Just numb in my hands. I've got to find my gloves," I say as I raise my hands in a gesture of defeat.

  "Here," says Ike, and I notice for the first time him wearing black gloves on his hands, slipping off now, "take these."

  "Oh, no it's okay. I'm just here for a few minutes and then I'll be gone so it's fine," I say.

  "Then once we're done you can just give them back. So here," he says as he slips off the other glove and holds them out.

  "Oh, well," I say a moment to think, "if you insist."

  "I do."

  I take them from him and slip them on. The lingering heat and the warm cloth is comforting, and the poles of numbing cold fade out almost instantly from my hands.

  "Thanks," I say with a smile.

  "Anytime," replies Ike.

  Asking the remaining questions, about ten, I jot down his answers with ease, and then we're done.

  "Here's your gloves," I say as I begin to slip them off.

  "No, keep them. Your hands will be cold on your way home," says Ike.

  "How do you know I walk home?" I ask, surprised.

  "I-I never see you ride the buses," he says.

  "Oh. That is true," I say.

  "Anyways, I'm tough against the cold, so keep your hands warm instead," he says with a smile. 

  Before I can say a word, he's jogging back to his teammates and I'm left stupid with my mouth open.

  "Well," I mumble to myself, "it is one mean winter."

.........................................................................

  "Are you sure you don't need a haircut? Your bangs are coming down over your eyes a lot," notes Jane as she lightly pushes my hair out of my eyes.

  "I suppose so. I'll have to get the barber to hack them off sooner or later," I say.

  In the lunch line, waiting for lunch we talk and jest. Laura, Jane's sister, stands ahead of us, and Anderson, who's also a friend, stands behind me with his phone in hand.

  "Do you wanna go to the mall this weekend?" asks Jane.

  "Sure. I'd have to pass on the party that everyone's going to though. I have some homework, and I also have to finish up writing a newspaper article," I mention.

  "Which one? You write way too many articles it's hard to keep track," says Anderson.

  "It's the one on Ike. The one where I asked him for the second time about his awesome record," I say.

  "Hmm. Well, he definitely is something to look at," says Jane, as she glances behind us in the lunch line.

  Turning around, I tilt my head back to look too. Further down the line is Ike and his soccer teammate friends. Some of his other friends, some girls, talk and jest with him too.

  Despite his popularity, and what most high school kids would expect, there's no girl stuck on him like paint. The ones around him just talk calmly and without a hungry smirk.

  Ike looks around and notices me watching, or it might have been he already saw before I noticed him. He smiles and waves. I smile and wave back, before turning back in the lunch line.

  "Yeah, I have to write another article about him," I say as I nod back to imply him.

  "Well, have fun. We'll send you some pictures of the party," says Laura with a grin.

  "I will."

..............................................................................

  My God, he's really done it this time, I think as I walk out onto the field again.

  It's been a while since I had my last interview with Ike, and he's had five or so matches since then. I've had a few quizzes and a few encounters with him in the halls and the physics class it turns out we share.

  But the five matches have taken a toll on poor Ike, and it seems he got hurt. He was walking around with crutches, and I heard from Laura that he hurt his foot in the last match. He and his team won, but the expense seems grim.

  The weather has cleared a bit. Winter is entering the last moves of the yearly dance it has. Some of the winds that were bitter and cold have changed to be softer and not as sharp and agitating to the skin. The sun too sinks later and later in the day, passing through a longer arc in the sky.

  Ike I spot on the bleachers. He's not in his uniform, but rather in a coat and long pants, not unlike coach. Coach notices me and I nod to his nod and then walk over to where Ike is.

  "Hey," he says nicely.

  "Hi," I reply in an equal tone, "I've seen you better."

  "Yeah," says Ike with a laugh, "I've seen me better too."

  "Does it hurt still?" I ask as I take a seat and point to the cast on his foot. He has a second jacket over part of it to cover the toes.

  "It's numb. I'll have to take another painkiller soon, but right now it's fine," he says with a shrug.

  "Hmm. Well, I'll buy you a get-better card," I say with a smile. 

  Opening my notebook, and I flip through some of the pages to find the few questions I have to ask.

  "Do you still wear the gloves?" asks Ike curiously.

  "Oh, yeah. Just not today as the weather is getting better," I reply.

  I pull them out from my hoodie pocket and show him.

  "See? I use them, though I should give them back," I say.

  "It's yours. I already got new ones," he says with a smile.

  "Well, I'm eternally grateful," I say with a grin, "so the first question is, 'now that you have a battle-scar, and also since you are the school hero, do you feel noble?'"

  Weird question.

  "I'm not sure I feel noble, no," says Ike with a laugh, "but as the school hero, I do feel some bit of pride. Though daily it's questioned by this."

  He motions to his foot.

  "I see," I say as I jot down his answer.

  "Do you pick those questions?" asks Ike.

  "No. Heaven no. I just get told to ask them, and don't worry, it's embarrassing to ask them, so you're not the only one uncomfortable," I reply with a reassuring smile.

  "Oh..." says Ike, strangely sad.

  "So, the next question is, 'if I asked to help you around school and push you in a wheelchair, would you let me?'"

  "Sure, I'd let you," says Ike.

  "Okay," I say as I jot that down.

  "And next is, 'before you hurt your leg, did you think for a moment of the pain that would happen?'"

  "I think I did, but I think I just went for it. I did it for a specific reason anyway," says Ike, focusing his eyes, caramel, on mine.

  "What was the reason?" I ask, lowering my notepad.

  "You," he says as he leans forward a little.

  "That," I say as I jot that down, "will get the fans fainting for sure!" 

  A hand makes me lower my notepad and I look to see Ike staring at me intently.

  "I meant, I did it for you, Walter," he says in explanation.

  "For me?" I ask, tilting my head in confusion, "I...I don't follow."

  "I...I've been making sure to win as many matches as I could so that....." Ike blushes and looks away.

  "So that you would interview me again and again," he finishes, connecting his eyes with me. 

  I blink and I open my mouth in surprise.

  "What?" I ask confused.

  "I...I like you, Walter," he says.

  I blush, and I think of how to deal with this. It's strange to be hit on, and confessed love to.

  "I...I don't know how to respond," I say honestly, in my flustered state and dip my head a little.

  "Do you like me?" asks Ike, vulnerably.

  "I..." I say as I connect my eyes, "I... I don't know."

  "Do you not like the fact that I'm..." says Ike, not finishing the sentence.

  "Oh, no. Don't worry. I'm totally whatever about you being a boy," I say in a reassuring tone, "I mean, I've never had a crush, but I do occasionally see a show and think that a boy is good-looking. Compared to me. I don't know if that means I'm, attracted, to that per se, but-" 

  I look him in the eye, and he stares back, his lips parted and posture leaning forward slightly, waiting for my next words.

  "I do think...you're a nice guy," I finish.

  "A nice guy. Is that all?" asks Ike, a little sadly.

  "No. Not as in pushing you away, but," I say as I wave my hands around, trying to unwind the jumble and mess of thought threads in my head, "it's just, it's sudden, that you like me and that I'm the focus of the school hero and..."

  I shrug and lower my hands in defeat.

  "It's just, I really don't know."

  Ike sits there and watches me. I lower my eyes and look at my shoes. I feel bad, for some reason, that Ike went out of his way to see me, even breaking his foot!

  Ike sighs and looks at the field, where his teammates are still practicing.

  I sit and stare back at the field as well. The space between us seems to have stretched.

  "You... you really did all that," I say as I wave my hands to the field full of soccer players, "to talk with me more?"

  "I did," says Ike, nodding, "I really liked talking to you in those interviews."

  "You're a little like a knight. That kind of chivalry seems to be dead nowadays," I say.

Ike just nods.

  Another stretch of silence, where it dawns on me that he might want me gone now.

  "If," I start, "if it makes you feel any better, you can have your gloves back. It makes sense you gave them to me now," I say as I pull the gloves out.

  Ike turns and his eyes widen when he sees the gloves.

  "No! I mean," he says, lowering his voice from the volume of the initial word, "I want you to have those, because you were cold that day, and I don't want you to be."

  "But, you did it because you like me, right?" I say.

  "Yes," says Ike, confidently, "I do like you."

  Why did I ask that? I know he likes me, look what he's done!

  "That was stupid," I mutter to myself.

Ike looks hurt.

  "I mean, I meant it was stupid of me to ask that!" I say as I raise my hands and try to snatch the words back from in front of Ike who looks very surprised at my hand-frenzy state, "I didn't mean you were stupid, I mean that I was stupid. So what I should have said is that, 'I'm stupid to ask that, excuse my stupidity', and maybe that's why this is so awkward and sorry but it's just that-"

  Ike bursts out laughing, his head thrown back and his hair falling from his brow. I blush and look away as I've made a fool of myself.

  "Oh, Walter. I'm sorry if you thought I was offended. I know you'd never say anything hurtful, don't worry," he says as he calms down.

  "I, what?"

  "You're a nice person. I like you for that, Walter," he says.

  "I, I don't know how exactly how to respond," I say, again.

  "Well, I'll ask a question that will conclude everything," says Ike, his voice serious, drawing my gaze to meet his.

  "Do... do you like me?" he asks.

  I sit and think. I like how he's nice. Like? I guess like. He's hot, everyone says it, and if somebody is better looking than me, which Ike is, I consider them handsome, beautiful, wonderful, mesmerizing, and amazing.

  Is Ike amazing? He's broken his leg, to see me. He's toiled through physical barriers to see me, through the battle and past the ramparts of the enemy, and all on his own strength internal. 

  It's so great to see that kind of determination, and I don't think there's much of that nowadays. Everyone seem passive to things they like and don't want to even toil for the aspirations desired.

  Yes. Ike is an amazing person.

  "I...I like how you are determined, in your amazing pursuit of me, even at the cost of yourself," I say, motioning to his foot.

  "Will...will you be my...boyfriend? Or better yet, can I be you knight? As you said it," he asks, leaning forward more, as well as using what I called him.

  I blink once, then smile.

  "I'd like it if you did."

  And Ike smiles larger than ever before