“Do you even want to play?” My question seemed to throw him because his furrowed his brow in confusion. “Why would you even ask that?” “Because you never look happy on the pitch,” I replied, readjusting my hold on my towel. Looking up at his face, I offered him a sad smile. “You never look happy anywhere.” “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” he was quick to counter, immediately on the defense, as his walls shot up around him. “Watching everything I do like a fucking stalker.” “Lower the gun, Joe.” Knowing every one of his tricks, I kept my tone even when I said, “I’m not the enemy.”
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