The Sea Lanterns by Ben Nickol

Author:Ben Nickol [Nickol, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: books about male friendship;novels about american college;basketball coaching books;psychological fiction for men;literary fiction for men;fiction about team sports;fiction about coaching;fiction about famous coaches;basketball a love story;novels about sport victories; bromance book
Publisher: Vine Leaves Press
Published: 2023-03-20T23:00:00+00:00

16.

By eleven that night, the LaCrosse’s floor mats, upholstery, armrests and console are as soaked with rainwater as the suit I hung from my ceiling tiles seventeen hours ago, and the suit that replaced my drenched suit is demolished—sodden, like everything else, but also mud-spattered and torn in the elbows and shins from the nettles we wrestled through while fucking around in the national forest north of town. (Nettles and also one lone patch of cactus, if you can believe it, which I’ve made a mental note to report to Jade. No need for any guided botany tours, thanks very much, I’ve shown myself to the prickly pear.)

Our destination initially was the forest near campus, where Michael “lives,” but once in the car I encouraged Leo in the belief that relying on woods near his house constituted faintheartedness on our part, and that our loved ones, Michael and Audrey, needed to know, needed to see, that we were all-in and would die to be with them. “They can’t think we’re chickenshit,” I said, accelerating up the hill leading out of town.

“But that’s where he lives,” Kelly said. “In those woods off Azalea Street.”

I shook my head. “Michael lives in the rain. You said it yourself. He lives in rain, wherever it’s falling.”

And Fog Harbor disappeared behind us.

How to explain this next part? Or have you, like me, abandoned the quest for explanations where Kelly’s concerned? It doesn’t matter. This is what happened: I parked the Buick at the end of a deteriorating two-track, where the canopy closed over us and streams washed out the road. Exiting the car, groaning with stiffness, Leo stood in the forest and—bear in mind, I’m just telling you what happened—stripped to the waist, tossing his sweater and shirt into the brush. Already wet from his time in the yard, Kelly’s full torso was gooseflesh. His thick hide, with its white fur and liver spots, shivered like a horse’s. “Are we going swimming, Coach?” I called through the window. “What’re you doing?”

Lifting his face to the rain, or what rain sifted down through the trees, Leo said, “You could say that we are, Darrow. We’re leaving behind the shore.”

Exiting the Buick, I stood with Kelly with folded hands, waiting for him to lead us somewhere. With Fog Harbor far behind us, all my requirements for the day were met. We could swim, if Leo wanted—metaphorically, literally or both. We could roast marshmallows, forage for leeks, count woodpeckers, fuck it. Kelly could be God of this trip to the woods, provided he didn’t cut it short.

Stirring a finger at me, he said, “You too.”

“What?”

“We didn’t come into the rain to wear raincoats, Scott. Off with it.”

Possibly Leo expected me to shed my suit jacket and shirt, too—and possibly I should’ve, to save them—but I tossed just my overcoat back into the car. Then, with no further commentary, Kelly scrambled down the ditch and up the other side into the trees. I ought to have hopped in the Buick right then and burned rubber back to town.

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