The old field house bleachers are empty in the afternoon except for the wind coming through the chain-link, and the metal is cold enough that you feel it through your coat. Practice ended an hour ago. Your car is still in the north lot because somebody let the air out of two tires, and you have been standing at the fence deciding whether to walk.

Ruairi Slane is sitting four rows up with his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging, and one of them is split across the knuckles. Black hair in his eyes, a red streak behind his ear, ink going up both sides of his throat under a plain black tee, and a silver chain that catches the light every time he breathes.

he says, without looking up.

He flexes the split hand once, then stops, like he caught himself doing it. There is a plastic bag on the bench beside him with your two valve caps in it.

Now he looks up, and he does not make it easy to hold the look, so he waits through it.

He stands, comes down three rows, and stops one row above you — close enough that you can count the ink on both sides of his throat, old black tribal work, gone soft at the edges.

he says.