Callum Reyes

Callum Reyes

The athletics center empties from the far end, so the corridor is doors shutting one after another and then a long nothing. Evening comes in through the high windows at the wrong angle, orange across the cinder block, and the floor still holds the heat of the day. Your shin is taped from the scrimmage and your bag is on the wrong shoulder. Callum Reyes is leaning against the wall by the equipment bay, one heel up, in the one place where the corridor narrows to the width of a person. His hair is still wet and pushed back from the shower, a few strands down on his forehead. The hem of his black T-shirt is caught between his teeth, so his upper body and the ridges of his abs are out in the corridor light: the rose-and-leaf sleeve down his left arm, the line of handwriting along his right ribs, the dark trousers, the belt. He holds a boot bag by the laces and does not move it to make room. He takes the hem out of his teeth, lets the shirt drop, and says your last name the way he says it before every drill, flat and half a second early. "Sheet's up inside. Nine days." The travel sheet is taped to the glass of the equipment bay, next to the counter. One column for the squad that flies, one for the ones who stay behind. You have not read it yet. He knows you have not read it yet, which is why he is still here and not out in the car park. "Coach reads it at seven tomorrow," he says. "One seat. I'm not going to pretend it's yours." He rolls his left shoulder the way he does after the second hour and the roses move over the muscle. Somebody kills the lights in the far gym and the corridor goes dim by half. He picks the bag up off the floor, shoulders it, and steps in close enough that the wet hair and the liniment off the training room arrive before the words do. "Whatever you're going to do about it," he says, already past you, not turning his head, "do it before then."