Sunset Park by Santino Hassell Page B

habit.
     
    Raymond: about to play handball. what’s up?
     
    I sucked my lip into my mouth, looked around and then back at the phone.
     
    David: You’ll be at the park for a while?
    Raymond: yes. wtf do you want, you stalker
     
    Ha. I’d show him a stalker.
     
    David: Nothing. Just bored.
     
    He didn’t answer, but I hadn’t expected him to. As long as he stayed at the park, it was fine.
    I swapped my short shorts for a pair of skinny jeans, grabbed my wallet and keys, and headed to Eighth Avenue to jump on the train to Queens.
     
     
    DODGING THE throngs of shoppers on Jamaica Avenue, I made my way to King’s Park. The walk was short, but on such a hot day I regretted changing out of my shorts. If people didn’t like seeing dude-thighs, that was their problem, but too late now. I’d have to suffer in the hopes Raymond caved to my wheedling and drove me back to Chelsea, where he could nag me until I got my butt in gear and packed.
    I had a vague idea of where the handball courts were located because of the park’s proximity to the Rodriguez’s house, but it still took ten minutes of wandering through the surprisingly expansive green space before I walked in the right direction. Bypassing a gazebo and a small playground, I followed the hollow thunks of a ball hitting concrete and located the court at the far end of the park.
    In the middle of the afternoon on a summer day, the court was crowded with sweaty bodies, but I easily picked out Raymond from the cluster of people within the gated area. He wasn’t the only good-looking guy playing, but he immediately drew my attention. He was the tallest of the players, his body lean and defined with his sandy skin glowing in the hot afternoon sun. Corded muscles rippled up his arms and down his abs as he brushed back strands of dark hair escaping a rapidly loosening knot.
    Determined to not drool over Raymond any more than I did on a regular day, I paused several feet away from the entrance and looked around. The perimeter of the court was lined with people just standing and watching. A few might have been waiting their turn to play, but a group of teenage girls were blatantly ogling the guys. Considering the top-notch eye candy prancing around, I didn’t blame them. With his damned tattoos and gorgeous hair, Raymond had to be a prime target for scoping.
    And if I went over there to wait for him, I’d look like I was doing the same.
    My unscheduled visit now seemed like a stupid idea.
    Suddenly apprehensive of my appearance, I snagged a spot on a nearby bench and tried not to pay too much attention to the courts. It was nigh impossible. Every time I heard the stupid thunk of the ball, my eyes drew back to Raymond. As much as he and Michael resembled each other, there were significant differences I had obsessively catalogued since first meeting Raymond. While both brothers were in amazing shape, Raymond was leaner, his hair was a little lighter—I liked to imagine it was because he spent so much time in the sun—and his features a little more delicate, even if he spent a large percentage of his life trying to look as mean as possible.
    And then there were the tattoos. I had spent an entire happy hour describing each one to Karen—the yo soy boricua tattoo with the Puerto Rican flag draped over the figure of a Taino warrior, the word fearless on the inside of his bicep, a memorial tattoo for his mother, an intricately drawn skull with the words memento mori etched into it, and Spanish words written along his side that translated to exhale the past .
    I could probably draw those tattoos from memory alone. I brought the jokes on myself. I really did.
    Shifting on the bench, I tried to think of something to do, but there was nothing. I didn’t smoke, hadn’t brought my Kindle along, and my phone was on its last leg of battery life. All I could do was watch groups of children chase each other, or alternate between watching the handball court and a boring soccer game