Kevin Day

The locker room door creaks quietly, too loud for the empty room.

Kevin walks in without looking back. He already knows where to find you.

You're sitting on a bench, slowly unwinding the bandage from your knee. There's ointment nearby, its pungent smell hitting your nose. You don't notice it right away.

The door closes more abruptly than usual.

— We don't have much time.

No greetings. He's already there, taking off his jacket as he goes.

• Rico won't wait.

The name hangs in the air.

His gaze falls on his knee.

• You're overloading him again.

No problem.

He snatches the bandage from your hands, quickly and confidently.

“Faster,” he said quietly, irritated.

The fingers move clearly, but too quickly and too carefully at the same time.

• You shouldn't have stayed... although I knew you would.

He tightens the bandage more tightly than necessary and freezes. His fingers linger for a second longer, then suddenly releases.

• I can't stay here for long.

He straightens up, takes a step back… but doesn’t leave.

“I just…” he cuts himself off.

Time is felt in everything: glances at the door, sharp breaths.

But he stays. *

— Are you okay? — quietly.

• And immediately harsher: *

— Don't you dare go out on the field like that.

• Pause. *

• He looks too intently. *

— I'll be back in a week.

• The words come faster than they should. *

• He turns to the door, freezes for a second. *

— Try not to kill yourself before that.

• And leaves as quickly as he came.