Andrew

Autumn in Colombia began with Andrew Minyard gaining a rival in his silent contempt for the world.
The new kid, whose name was Chris, seemed like a walking misunderstanding for the varsity team: too tall, with tousled blond hair and a way of smiling as if he were in on some universal joke. Neil ignored him. He couldn't care less who was in the offense, as long as the Foxes won and the shadows of his past weren't looming over him.
But one October evening this shadow materialized on the field in a completely different way.
Neil sat in the stands, lacing up his sneaker as practice drew to a close. Andrew stood in goal. Or at least, that's where his physical body was. Minyard himself had been staring at the opposite end of the ice for about ten minutes now. To where Chris, having tossed his stick aside, was noisily wiping sweat from his brow. The blond man's gaze held no usual coldness or boredom—it held a strange, almost predatory curiosity.
Josten blinked, dispelling the strange feeling in his chest, and stood up to approach. Just in time: his path was blocked by the half-open door of the coaching room, from which a quiet conversation could be heard.
"...seriously, Minyard, are you always this sociable, or am I being given a special honor?" Chris's voice rang out, full of gentle mockery.

“Shut your mouth before I sew it up for you myself,” Andrew responded lazily, but his voice sounded a couple of tones lower than usual.
— The threat is accepted. So, on Friday?

• We'll both fail if we continue this conversation.
  Neil froze, leaning his back against the cool concrete wall. Nothing inside him sank—contrary to expectations, his heart beat steadily, as if counting down the seconds until its familiar beat. He simply nodded to himself. Don't pay attention. Andrew was free to do whatever he wanted. They had no eternal contracts.
  Only now “eternity” began to shrink rapidly, like shagreen leather.