“ALL RIGHT, THAT’S IT. It’s been four days. You have to do something.” My brother Tanner doesn’t bother to knock before his heavy steps bound into my room. He stops quickly and wrenches open the blinds.
“It smells in here,” Booker says quietly, his nose scrunching up as he props himself on the doorframe. “It smells like stale tears and crushed dreams.”
I roll my eyes and squint at the onslaught of light. The bright London daylight pours in behind Tanner, giving him an eerily similar silhouette of Big Foot.
I roll over, shove my hands beneath my pillow, and bury my face in darkness again. “Go back to the casting set of Planet of the Apes and leave me be,” I groan. Despite my desire to be alone, Booker’s amused laugh pleases me.
“Ha ha…Great hairy joke. At least your brain hasn’t reverted back to ape status quite yet.” He pulls the duvet off me in a dramatic fashion. “Cam, all you’ve done since you got home is sleep and physical therapy.”
“That’s called healing. What more do you want?” I ask, glowering at him over my shoulder. My knee isn’t bothering me at all. Truthfully, I’ve been working out in our gym after the therapist leaves and it feels completely recovered. It’s almost like it was never injured, which I wish was the case.
I’ve been in a funk ever since I left the hospital. Not because of what happened or didn’t happen with Indie, even though I’m almost embarrassed of myself for caring about that situation as much as I did. No girl gets under my skin like that. Not even a doctor.
Instead, I’m going stir-crazy without football in my life.
“The doctor said, aside from football, you can go back to things as usual. You skipped dinner at Dad’s today. No one skips dinner at Dad’s.”
Booker chimes in, “Vi made Swedish pancakes.”
“With lingonberry jam,” Tanner finishes, his tone obvious.
Damn, I love Vi’s Swedish pancakes. Then I remember that if I had gone to dinner, I would have had to talk, and I’m avoiding the whole talking thing in general. My first conversation with my dad did not go well since he failed to ask me how the surgery went. He just wanted to know how soon I thought I would be able to play after the second surgery. I can’t predict the fucking future so I’m not sure what he wanted from me exactly.
“You need fresh air. You need some food that’s not chicken and rice. You need to get laid. Booker and I are leaving right now for our last match, but I swear I’ll skip it if this is how you’re going to be while we’re gone.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I grumble, rolling over and sitting up to hit Tanner with a death stare. “Why don’t you just leave me a honey-do list before you go like a proper footballer’s wife.”
“Great. We haven’t Hoovered in weeks, so go ahead and start there. Then…I don’t know…maybe read a book or something. I haven’t seen you touch this one since the hospital.” He pulls the novel out of my duffel bag that’s remained packed since I got home.
“You want me to read?” I ask. “What does that have to do with football?”
“Nothing. I don’t give a toss about football right now. I care about you. You’re acting weird and depressed or something. I actually considered buying you a puppy today for Christ’s sake.”
I look at Booker and he nods in confirmation. “What the hell would I do with a puppy?”
“Walk it. I don’t know. Ask Vi. She’s the one with a dog. I just want you to stop being weird and mopey. It’s making me feel awkward.”
“Give it here,” I groan, taking the book from his outstretched hands. “If I read this, will it make you go away?”
“Yes. It will.” He smiles like a dope and bats his eyes happily. In a high-pitched falsetto voice, he adds with a shake of his pointer finger, “And I want a full book report once you’ve finished.”
I roll my eyes as both Tanner and Booker continue watching me, evidently expecting me to start reading right in front of them. I crack the book open. “There. I’m reading, now get out. Go kick some arse, but don’t score any goals and show me up, all right?”
“No promises,” Tanner says, smiling broadly. “Someone has to keep the Harris name in good standing while you’re on holiday.”
“Suck my balls,” I grumble.
“On that cheery note, I’ll see you when we get back in a few days. Call if you need anything, but I think Vi is bringing you lunch tomorrow, so consider yourself warned.” He walks over and kisses me on top of my head, his nappy beard tickling my face.
“Get away from me, you freak.”
“Later, Broseph,” he beams as he hustles out, shoving a quiet Booker ahead of him.
It bothers me to not be going to the match, but not as much as it would bother me to sit on the sidelines and not play. Plus, if I go to the match, I’ll be expected to talk to the press. I’m not ready for any of that until I have my follow-up surgery and can start training at full throttle again. I need to lie low for the next month or two. Then we’ll see how things turn out.
As I thumb through the pages, the familiar scent of paper and ink wakes a part of my brain that’s been dormant the last few days.
I’ve loved reading for as long as I can remember, and writing in the margins makes me feel like an active part of the story. I highlight plot points and underline areas that might be symbolic to what’s coming. I think I love puns so much because of the double entendres they can represent. Plus, I’ve always thought it might be something my mother would have appreciated about me.
Last year, Vi gave our brothers and me a bunch of poetry our mum had written. She was a full-blooded Swede so some of it had to be translated. She and our dad met while she attended University in London. Gareth told me once that he remembers Mum yelling at Dad in Swedish when they fought. I would have liked to have heard more, but pulling memories about Mum out of Gareth is more difficult than pulling teeth. Reading her poetry made me feel connected to her, though. Her poems were chock-full of symbolism and clever rhymes, not terribly unlike puns.
I start rereading my margin notes to familiarise myself with where the plot was headed last I left off. An unfamiliar script stops me in my tracks.
“What the hell?” I whisper and turn the book sideways to get a closer look.
It’s not that the woman did not know how to juggle, she just didn’t have the balls to try.
I touch my fingertips to the inked pun inside my treasured book and know instantly it had to be Indie who wrote it. After our bit about puns, there’s no one else it could have been. Did she do it when she left my room that night?
I recycle the words over and over in my mind, attempting to look for the hidden message within the phrase. That’s what I love most about puns. They aren’t just funny one-liners; most are full of symbolism. I know she’s trying to say something more than what’s written here.
I check the time and note that Indie should still be at work right now. After my harsh brush-off, I’m not sure she will be receptive to a phone call or a text, though.
Plus, mysteries are easier solved in person.
My well-rested brain kicks into overdrive. Before I realise it, I’m sliding my legs into a pair of jeans and throwing on a T-shirt.
Maybe my redheaded distraction still has some potential after all?
