He found Dal Bland huddling on the bench, snug in Fishburne’s leather jacket, basking in the sun. Her cropped blonde hair ruffled in a slightly disorder but attractive way. The Athletic field was draped in the filthy odour of freshly-mowed grass and liquefied sunlight. When the light winter breeze stirred, it brought in the sweaty deodorant and overdosed male hormones that made Jaime’s body unconsciously shuddered.

“I’m surprised that you aren’t in the cheerleader team.” He spoke up eventually as he descended from the top, startled her. Alarmed shaded Dal’s eyes. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” He said, slotting himself next to her, nodding at field sprawling before them. Rugby jocks sprinting across the green field, breaking for the other side’s poles, while the soccer team occupied another corner.

“Hey,” She drawled.The sun shone off on Dal’s skin, danced and bejeweled the smooth planes and curves of her flesh. She ran her tongue across her top teeth before speaking. “Well, one: I’m not excellent with my body coordination, and two: I’m here to get rid of drama from my life, not adding more.”

Jaime smiled.

“How long you’ve been standing there?”

“Just a minute or two,” He said. “I’m sensitive to the sunlight, so the sudden change in exposure dazed me a bit.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah, thanks for asking.” His gaze locked on Dal’s Her blue, brilliant eyes widen, glistening like the ocean in the summer. “Dal Bland?”

“Nothing a secret around here, anymore.” Dal laughed.

“You’ve come to a wrong place to meditate.”

Dal threw her head back, her shoulders trembled as she belted out her chortle wholeheartedly. After a second of hesitation, he decided to relax his muscles and mirrored her laughter. “Sorry, what’s your name again? I forgot.” Dal said after wiping the tears from her eyes, words distorted by her lingering giggling.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m no one special.” He chuckled, enjoying the faint frown that immediately settled on Dal’s features. “Jaime.” He said, finally, stretched his hand out with a smile. “Didn’t get a chance to formally introduce myself to you, actually. We’ve only saw each other once or twice.” Dal’s palm was firm, warm, her face open, however Jaime didn’t miss the subconscious way her hand is on the higher position with her palm pointing towards the ground. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, her dominating nature came off in a gentle wave. It was like hovering near a bonfire, the heat slowly coaxed him closer. He had to admit it, Dal Bland had charisma. If it was him against her, Jaime thought he would not be bother too much at his defeat. She had a certain charm that forced you to obey her wordlessly. She was a leader.

She grinned. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’ve got some drafts I need Fishburne to approve.” He explained, patting his backpack. “The DJs we contacted had sent us their quotes, and the cost for the services, food and decoration are calculated. I’ve edit the proposal, so hopefully by the end of the week we’d wrap up everything.” He shrugged. “Figured Fishburne would definitely ditch me again, so I camped here to catch him early.”

“Oh, you were the boy next to Olle at the Ceremony, right?” Dal said. Jaime nodded, and she continued. “You’ve absolutely no idea how much he boasted about you,” Dal chuckled fondly, peering at Jaime from the corner of her eyes. He allowed the blush made its way across his cheeks, feeling his stomach coiled in coy. “You guys must be great friends.”

“Well, Fishburn had always been there for me in my darkest times. My whole high school life wouldn’t the same if I hadn’t meet him.” He said, observing as the whole rugby squad trotted to the centre where Fishburne was standing. Fishburne tucked the quanco underneath his armpit and made some wild gestures, glaring at each of them in turn, tendons on his necks and forearms straining. The teammates nodded and massaged their scalp in a tense manner as if each of them was a winded spring. Their flushed faces shone with livid determination.

He distractedly noted that it was mid-week already, two more days before the big match against St. Valda, a Catholic school ten blocks down the main route. The final, biggest local match before the season concluded to Exam time. St. Valda kids had unwavering faith, their praying hymns could be heard as they marched through the Foyer enrouting the locker room. The problem with St. Valda kids was that they were tiny compared to the Castleton blokes. Theoretically, Castleton should be winning, considering their players’ physical and home court advantage and its magnificent Sports SHSM. However, ironically, Castleton would lose to St. Valda every time. Coach Caden would blame this on Christ’s bias, although it went unacknowledged that the problem was Coach Caden, a History teacher with more experience shelving old books and gave children candies than running for life and commanded adolescents to bash each other’s face in.

This year was “the Castleton year”, according to Coach Caden. Under Fishburne’s guidance, the team had beaten St. Valda at the beginning of the season—although they were promptly defeated after their optimistic advance. The point was: that one single barely scraped-by triumph proved they had the ability to defeat St. Valda.

“I had always thought rugby and football were supposed to be summer sports.” Dal mused, leaning back on her hands.

Jaime laughed, turning to her. “Trust me, summer rugby lives up to the romantic-image better. Winter rugby is a bitch, especially if it snows. You really can’t run with fluffy feather winter jackets on.”

“Do you play sports?” Dal asked, genuinely interested.

“Take a guess.” He waggled an eyebrow at her.

“Well,” She eyed him up and down, humming. “You look fit enough. Maybe track ‘n field? Or baseball?”

“Swimming.” He grinned. “Not a key swimmer, much to my dismay, but I got a few medals under my belt, so I’m not complaining.”

“Really?”

He felt an eager amiable sensation drummed along his skin. “Really. Used to be on track ‘n field, too though, but after Freshman year I quit.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m a difficult kid.”

“No way.” Dal guffawed. “You don’t seem the type.”

“I am not what I am.” He said teasingly.

Dal replied back without missing a beat, almost unconsciously. “We’re not what we’re.”

He simpered, tuning his attention back to the torturous drill Fishburne was having his teammates to carry out, ignored the automatically quirk on one of his fingers. Dal’s words tampered with the air, charged it with electricity and an immense nostalgic that condensed in his lungs. Her voice was husky and low, not silvery like how most girls would be. The quality was neither soft nor silky the way elite girls were groomed to be, but like the magnolia bark decaying into ashes. His father’s piercing eyes resurfacing from his memory, and he quickly swiped it under the rug.

“Yeah,” He agreed to nothing. And they sat in silence.