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Chapter Text

Garraty pulled at his jersey where the sweat had glued it to his skin. It was after an hour and a half of doing burpees, sprinting, dribbling, and shooting, he had started to notice that the coach’s start-of-year endurance drills bore an uncanny resemblance to torture.

How foolish he had been these past weeks, cracking jokes from the bench with his fellow midfielders—McVries, Olson, and Baker—while the pool of freshmen eager to join the team had their spirits crushed one by one until only two remained: a boy named Rank who’d gotten the ‘ole Barkovitch welcome wagon, and a kid named Curley. Ray still wasn’t sure if that was his actual name or just a nickname based on his brown curls, but he did know for certain that the kid looked closer to a fetus than a high school freshman. The freshies seemed to get smaller every year. Or maybe he was just getting taller.

He wondered what these kids must be thinking right about now. How they must’ve regretted every decision they made leading up to this practice. He couldn’t see their faces from where he was running, but he was pretty sure they looked miserable.

“Ray, have you seen these fools? I swear we weren’t like that when we joined,” McVries said, teasing but not malicious. Despite the hellish conditions, Pete’s smile was still unwavering.

“Yeah, we were,” Garraty answered with a chuckle. “Only difference is, there were more of us.”

“We talking about the newbies?” Olson pushed himself between the two, hanging onto their shoulders to keep up until he was able to match their pace. “Cause how the hell did those two make it through? I thought for sure that big kid, what's-his-face, was gonna make it.”

“Well, that Rank kid did score one on Stebbins,” Baker mentioned, now jogging by McVries’ left side. “

“Speaking of the devil, where the hell’s he at?” McVries questioned. He stretched his neck to look around, but decided to keep his eyes on the road after swaying and nearly knocking them all over like a stack of dominoes.

“A few paces behind, rubbing his stamina in our faces,” Olsen replied, sighing. “I swear, he’s not even human.”

Garraty peered behind him. The goalkeeper was a few feet behind. His expression looked so stoic that it might as well have been carved out of stone, and the only signs of struggle were the sweat stains on his jersey. He didn’t even look tired, his running form still pristine.

“Yeah, you might be right,” Garraty huffed in disbelief. He turned his head around, eyes back on the track in front of them. Three years of playing together, and he still didn’t have much of a handle on Stebbins. Whenever they did speak, it felt like he’d been left with more questions than answers. But he was the best goalkeeper they’d had, so none of them really cared about the other stuff.

“How many laps is he gonna make us do? I feel like we’ve been out here for days,” Art complained. “Doesn’t the athletics team need this track?”

“That’s just the exhaustion talking,” McVries said. “Man, I don’t know about y'all, but I am heading straight to the diner when Coach lets us go.”

Ray’s stomach started to rumble at the mere thought of sinking his teeth into a bacon cheeseburger. It felt like he was sweating off weight by the pound. It was going to take a lot of calories to even it out. That diner was thriving solely on the soccer team's business. “Hell, we should all go. We’ve earned it,” he stated. “Why don’t we invite everybody? Make it like a team bonding exercise, or whatever.”

Olson quirked an eyebrow. “You wanna invite everybody?”

Garraty rolled his eyes. Most of them got along fine, at least on the field. They were a team, after all. But most of them didn’t care much for Barkovitch. Right from the day he joined the team when he was a freshman and they were sophomores, Barkovitch didn’t quite fit in. They were used to joking with each other, but Barkovitch got so defensive right away that all of them were just put off. Ray tried not to add to the fire, but he didn’t say anything either when one of them told Barkovitch to ‘shut up’ or ‘fuck off’ whenever he tried to meddle in their conversations.

It would be kind of a dick-move to exclude Barkovitch when he was inviting everyone else. Even though he was annoying, Barkovitch was a part of the team, so Ray felt obligated.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You know, make the new guys feel welcome.”

McVries placed one hand over his heart and the other on Garraty’s shoulder. “Well, doesn’t that just warm your heart?”

“Shut up,” Garraty replied, shaking his head with a smile.

A sharp whistle pierced through the air like a bullet. Garraty slowed down to a stop, his legs finally being given permission to rest. He hunched over, his palms resting on his knees as he caught his breath. The cold grass bordering the track called out to him like a siren, coaxing him to lie down for just a minute, but he had to force himself to stay upright. Collapsing before dismissal meant another three laps.

“Now, I want you boys to know that I’m proud of each and every one of you,” the coach’s voice boomed from the sideline through a megaphone. “Today, you not only showed me that you have what it takes to be on this team, but you proved to yourself that you are a fighter. Not a single one of you passed out or puked. That is something to be proud of. So I want you to leave this track not slouched over with your head down because you’re so tired, but with your head held high because you did it! Now go hit the showers and I’ll see all of yall back tomorrow so your real training can start.”

When the whistle sounded again, all of them but the two freshmen headed for the lockerroom. On a better day they might have taken a spring or a jog, but they'd had quite enough of that today.

After scrubbing the sweat off his body under the lukewarm shower, Garraty waited to make his proposal until they were all getting dressed. He held up his jersey before him.

Garraty
47

His fourth year carrying that number. He couldn't even remember them ever even having that many players in a year. But when Coach gave a number, that's what you were stuck with. Ray glanced over to the freshmen hidden away in the corner, trying not to draw attention to avoid any initiation rituals. The seniors had done it to them back when they were freshmen and Ray had no intention of continuing that humiliation. They were all new once. No need to make it any harder.

“Listen up, everybody.”

Richard Harkness peered up from his notebook. No matter if they were just training or playing a real game, he always kept track. “Wait, are you finally gonna run for captain this year?”

A few of the other boys whistled and jeered. Harkness looked around, confused as to why his genuine question was deemed funny.

Garraty quickly shook his head. “No, no- maybe? Wait, no. No, that's not what I was going to say. A couple of us are gonna go to grab some burgers at the diner. Thought it might be fun if we all went. To officially welcome our new additions to the team.”

“Oh, yeah, that sounds fun,” Harkness responded, smiling. “They have the best onion rings.”

“Alright. Parker?”

Collie shrugged. “Sure.”

“Pearson?”

“Hell yes!”

“Stebbins?”

“Fine.”

“Love your enthusiasm,” Garraty teased. “Barkovitch, how about you?”

He looked up like a deer in headlights. He was halfway through tying his shoes. “Uh, yeah, I guess. Sure. Yeah, I'll come.”

“Great. How about it, Rank, Curley?”

“Yeah. I love burgers,” Curley declared with a toothy grin.

Rank nodded. He was already fully dressed and focused on folding a paper crane from a yellow piece of paper while he waited for his friend to finish up. “Yeah, I'll come,” he said in a more quiet voice than the other boy.

Ray awkwardly clapped his hands together. Half of him hadn't expected this to succeed, but he was glad for it. This would be good for them. They needed a healthy team spirit if they wanted any chance at climbing the ranks in the competitions this year. Maybe running for captain wasn't a horrible idea.

Chapter Text

The diner down the block was a perfect encapsulation of the 1950s. Or rather, how people tried to remember it. Waitresses in poofy skirts, pastel blue checkered floors, and neon signs in the windows. The seats in the booths were aggressively red, like pomegranate juice or freshly drawn blood. The jukebox in the corner played something from Fleetwood Mac when they entered, but Garraty couldn’t quite tell which song.

The leather squeaked when he slid into one of the booths in the back. His favorite spot; by the window. McVries sat beside him, and across from them sat Baker and Olson. That booth in the corner might as well have been theirs. This had been their spot since freshman year, when they anxiously sat in these exact seats, waiting for the team list to be posted. McVries had even scratched ‘musketeers’ in the side of the table with a fork when the waitress wasn’t looking. He said that even when they went to college and drifted apart, that scratch in the table would remain as a memory of their friendship. And he would trace that scratch every time they sat down in the same way one might pet a rabbit’s foot or knock on wood.

Every other significant moment in Ray’s life had happened in that booth. That booth was the start of the Musketeers. They’d made him laugh more times than he could count in that booth. He’d sat in this exact seat when he got the call that his father had suffered a heart attack and subsequently passed away in the hospital. And this was where he’d built up the courage to kiss McVries for the first time before summer break.

Olson was the first to grab a menu. He always ordered the same thing on account of his allergies and pickiness, but he still liked to browse nonetheless. “What are you guys getting?”

The corners of his mouth curled up as Ray looked past his menu to the adjoining booth, where Harkness sat with Pearson, Parker, Barkovitch, and the freshmen, trying to pry as much information out of the youngins as he could. “Double bacon cheeseburger, large fries, and a strawberry milkshake,” he replied, absent-mindedly.

“Amateur mistake,” Art said. “See, you gotta get some variety. All the food groups need to be represented. That’s why I’m ordering all the sides.”

“That’s funny, I can’t seem to remember Mac and Cheese and nachos anywhere in the food pyramid,” McVries teased. “I’m going prime angus beef, so rare the cow’s still walking, with curly fries and an ice-cold Coca-Cola.”

Garraty was drawn to the lit Coca-Cola sign hanging above the jukebox, turning Stebbins’ blonde hair red as he put in a couple of quarters and selected his songs. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was waving Stebbins over to their table. “Hey, pull up a chair, sit down.”

Stebbins’ face showed little change as he sat down, and McVries handed him his menu. “You been here before?” Pete asked.

Stebbins shook his head. “No. My ma doesn’t like to eat out,” he answered as he studied the menu like he was preparing for an exam.

“You don’t go out with friends? A girlfriend or boyfriend?” Baker questioned.

“Not really,” Stebbins answered.

“Not much of a talker,” Olson muttered under his breath, for which Garraty kicked him under the table.

“Well, the food’s good, though you might want to stay clear of the Tex-Mex if you have a sensitive stomach,” Ray advised. “Art made that mistake once. That poor busboy is still traumatized.”

“Speak louder, why don’t you? I don’t think the rest of the team heard you,” Baker deadpanned.

“Yeah, we did. Which busboy was that?”

“Fuck off, Pearson.”

Fortunately, Miss June was used to their antics by now. She didn’t even bat her false eyelashes at their conversations anymore. She just pulled the notepad out of her apron and greeted them with a smile to take their orders, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

—

“Christ, Garraty, at least wait till she lets go. You damn near sank your teeth in Miss June's fingers there,” Olson said as he carefully pushed the chips on his plate away from the grilled cheese so they weren't touching anymore.

“I'm starving,” Ray complained through a mouthful of French fries, which he then washed down with his milkshake. His meal was essentially a plate of grease, but nothing had ever looked more appetizing.

“Clearly.” McVries chuckled and picked up his burger. “You're gonna give yourself heartburn if you keep that up.”

Ray shook his head. “Don't care. Worth it.”

“Don't come crying to me later,” McVries warned with not the slightest intention of following through.

Ray grinned at him. This scenario had played out countless times before. Different reasons, but always the same outcome. McVries was always there to pick him up after he fell down, even while saying he'd told him so. But if he couldn't handle the diner food after all these years, heartburn would to be the least of his concerns.

“So, Stebbins,” Olson started, putting his grilled cheese down, “you gotta tell us your secret. We all did the same drills, ran the same miles today, so how come you barely break a sweat, while we're actively dying?”

Stebbins wiped the crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand. “I train a lot,” he answered, very matter-of-fact.

Olson scoffed. “We all get the same training. That can't be it.”

“That's where you're wrong,” Stebbins said, shaking his head. “For you, training ends when you go home, when you leave the field, even. I keep going. I keep running, training, preparing.”

There was something vulnerable behind his stoic demeanor that both unnerved and gladdened Garraty in a way he couldn't quite explain. They joked about it, but at some point, part of him had started to believe that Stebbins wasn't fully human. Now that the mask was starting to peel back, even if it was just a glimpse, that illusion was shattered. Stebbins wasn't some machine put on the team to raise the bar for the rest of them. He was a person. Flesh and blood, just like them. With real motivations and aspirations.

That was enough to make him forget about the food on his plate. Right until the moment Baker snuck a few fries off his plate.

“Dude, you have six plates of appetizers in front of you. Don’t you dare steal my food,” Garraty complained as he moved his plate a little closer to him and out of Baker’s reach.

“Everyone knows other people’s food tastes better,” Art insisted.

“It’s true,” Pete agreed as he reached over to steal a couple of fries for himself.

Garraty rolled his eyes so dramatically that his head moved along with them. “Christ, anyone else wanna get in here?” He waved his plate around, dropping a couple of fries off the side in the motion. Olson didn’t seem to care that his tone was clearly sarcastic. He was just glad to snack on some fries.

“Man, fuck you all,” Garraty declared as he set his plate back down to dig into his burger before they got to that, too. “I wouldn't leave those waffles any longer if I were you. These people are monsters.”

Stebbins looked at him with just a hint of a grin on his face, a small twitch in the corner of his mouth. “So this is what you do every week? Sit here while you joke and steal each other’s food?” he asked as he started to cut up the waffles.

“I would like to say no, but it sounds like you’ve got us down,” Olson replied.

“Yeah, and you don’t even want to see what happens when we order sharers,” Art said with a grin. “I mean, that’s just a war zone.”

Seeing the amused look on Stebbins’ face, McVries turned to him, dead serious. “How do you think I got this?” he questioned, pointing to the scar on his cheek. “I’ll tell you one thing, Stebbins: don’t get between Hank and his food.”

Stebbins looked over at the 5’5 kid eating a grilled cheese, then back at McVries. He raised an eyebrow.

McVries’s serious demeanor faded into a burst of laughter. Garratty shook his head. “You could’ve at least picked Art,” he argued, nodding to the much taller and more physically intimidating boy.

“Art ain’t the one who threw a fit when I ate his flapjack,” McVries countered.

“Cause that was the last chocolate chip one, you asshole,” Olson said, shaking his head. “That’s brocode 101. You don’t touch a man’s chocolate chip flapjacks.”

Pete gave Ray his signature ‘I told you so’ face. “See what I mean?”

“You have a point,” Ray admitted. Even recalling it, Olson looked about ready to jump over that table with a butter knife.

“Can you guys not make heart eyes at each other for like five seconds? I’m trying to eat here.”

“Shut up, Art.”

“Yeah, shut up, Art.”