Chapter Seven - The Hill (Maverick)

Maverick found himself back on the sidewalk, walking the neighborhood as he thought through the day’s events, when a soccer ball rolled across the path in front of him, dropping off the edge of the curb and bouncing out into the street. He stuck his arm out just in time to stop the kid who came careening down the hill after it.

“What are you doing?” Maverick snapped, pulling his arm back to drop his hands on his hips and glare at the kid before him, his curly hair glued to his face with sweat. “You can’t just run out into the road!”

Gus bent forward, turning his head left and right in an over the top examination of the dead street and empty cul-de-sac. “Nothing’s moving,” he said.

“That’s beside the point.” Maverick threw his hands up in the air. “It could’ve been and you weren’t paying attention.”

“I looked from the top of the hill.”

“Didn’t.”

“I did too!” Gus huffed, slapping his own tiny fists onto his hips as he glared up at Maverick.

“It’s not nice to tell stories, kid.”

“I’m not telling stories,” Gus answered, ducking around Maverick to grab the ball from where it had rolled back to the edge of the sidewalk. “And I told you before, Mister, my name is Gus.”

“Alright Gus— hey, hold up a minute,” Maverick said, following behind as Gus stomped his way back up the hill he’d come down. They reached the top of the empty lot and Maverick took a moment to glance around and appreciate what the kid had managed. There were two flimsy soccer goals spiked into the ground on either end with plastic tools and white lines outlining the field with what appeared to be chalk on the grass. They were a bit uneven in places, clearly hand-drawn, but it was no doubt a soccer field. How much time was the kid spending out here on his own?

“So Gus,” he began, “Where are your parents?”

“My mom is at work. There’s a sitter at the house though that I have to check in with to stay outside.” He dribbled the ball in a circle, then popped it up onto a knee, bouncing it in place. “Happy?”

“No,” Maverick answered, mimicking his sarcastic tone. “Where is your house?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a stranger.”

Maverick rolled his eyes. “Alright, then where is your dad?”

“He’s dead,” Gus answered, his tone seemingly unaffected by the gravity of his blunt words. He caught the ball in his hands and tucked it between his elbow and his side, meeting Maverick’s gaze.

“I’m sorry, ki— Gus.”

“Don’t be.” Gus shrugged. “Things are better now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, Mom said he’s gone back home, where he belonged.”

“Ah,” Maverick nodded quickly, feeling suddenly and wholly inadequate. He had no idea how to handle a child’s grief. “I’m sure he’s at peace now.”

“I don’t think it’s very peaceful in hell, sir.”

Maverick felt his jaw drop in response. “I’m sorry?”

“I said that I don’t think it’s very peace—“

“No, I heard you,” Maverick interrupted, shaking his head to clear the shock. The kid thought his dad was in Hell? Maverick blinked, watching as Gus shrugged again and simply returned to bouncing the ball between his knees. Maverick couldn’t fathom the idea of his own father going there, much less being unbothered by the idea.

He opened his mouth to ask more questions, but Gus chose that moment to kick the ball his direction and Maverick had to leap sideways to stop the momentum before it went back down the hill. When he glanced back up, Gus was moving towards the makeshift field and settling himself in front of the far goal. A clear challenge if he’d ever seen one. Maverick sighed. He should’ve worn better shoes.

They scrimmaged for a while, playing one-on-one. For an eight year old, Gus was giving Maverick a run for his money. It was size alone keeping Maverick in the game, for Gus had both speed and technique on his side.

“Why do you think your dad’s in Hell?” Maverick asked a while later, curiosity winning out as they drilled free kicks.

Gus scrunched his nose, and for a moment Maverick wondered if he’d overstepped, but then Gus shrugged once again, his tone nonchalant as he answered, “He wasn’t a good man.”

“That’s what your mom told you?”

“She told me he went back home. I already told you that.”

Maverick chuckled, lunging sideways to catch the ball Gus kicked, barely snagging it. “So you just assumed she meant Hell?”

“Well he didn’t go to Heaven. It’s one or the other, right?”

“Right…” Maverick said, thinking. “And you don’t think Heaven is a possibility at all?”

“My dad was a bad man,” Gus said, eyeing the ball at his feet. “He was mean. He said things to my mom. He yelled all the time. At everybody. He told me that sports were for dumb people. He made fun of my brother for reading. He locked my mom outside with my sister once in the cold because she wouldn’t stop crying. She was just a baby. She didn’t know better.” Gus paused, then sprang forward, feigning right before kicking left. The ball hit net. Maverick hit the dirt. “He died because he was a bad man. I can’t think of any reason why he’d be in Heaven.”

Gus glanced over at where Maverick was getting back to his feet, dusting off his thighs. “Fair enough,” he grunted, kicking the ball back. “Re-do on that kick, you were distracting me.”

“You asked the question!”

“Re-do!” Maverick repeated grumpily.

Gus shrugged for the umpteenth time, the epitome of nonchalance, before repeating the exact same maneuver. Maverick expected him to change it up, to try a different angle, but he simply repeated the same feign, the same kick, and found the same net. Maverick stared at the spot where the ball landed and shook his head. “Alright, I’m calling it.”

“I’m going to stay for a while,” Gus said.

“Color me shocked.”

“Give it one more good kick,” Gus said, ignoring the snark and pointing at the ball in his hands.

Maverick nodded, dropping it to the grass and lining up, the far goal in his sights. Then he ran and kicked, sending it flying over Gus’s head. The kid kicked it into high gear, veritably flying across the field to snag it before it found its mark.

Watching him chase down the ball, however, Maverick glanced around, a sudden realization coming to mind. He took in the scene with a fresh, analytical eye as he walked back towards the sidewalk. He noted how far the hill and street were from the nearest goal, acknowledging that Gus would never have missed by such a margin — and even if he had, he would’ve had plenty of time to chase the ball down.

Maverick turned back at the edge of the field to shout, “Hey! Did you kick the ball down that hill on purpose earlier?”

“I told you I’d looked first,” Gus shouted back with a smirk, before turning and dribbling back towards the other end of the field.