Chris is 21 but looks 17, skin brown with tan and dirt, when he meets Angello.

4.5 seconds hang time and down uneven on his left ankle, twisting. Chris says nothing, breathes deep through his nose so his teeth can properly clench on his tongue, because after 21 years his insides are as hard-calloused as his sisters' bare feet and he's no pussy.

He thinks he may have heard a pop.

On only his right leg and big toe of his left foot, the court is bigger and sweat is rolling into his mouth, saltier than usual. He sinks onto the bench gingerly like it's his tailbone that gave out, slow like his grandmother's neighbor Mrs. Busch, who had not one but both hips replaced and tells Chris about it every time he sees her. Chris takes his shoes off, ratty Nikes that give no support to his ankles. His feet are bright white and clean, wrinkly and soft from the pounding heat on the court, and his ankle is swollen already.

Angello is watching him.

Chris tilts his head to look at Angello out of the corner of his eye, and his skin is honey smooth and fresh. He can feel Angello's eyes on him behind sunglasses and turns away to squint at the sun. Angello reaches into his bag, and holds his hand out chest level, says, "Advil. It'll help with the swelling."

Chris turns his streaked face down towards the open palm with candy pills, up to Angello's hidden eyes, and says, "Thanks."

"I'll go get you some ice."

Five minutes later, they sit watching the game together, Chris examining the end of his leg hair, right at ice on pink ankle. Angello slides his feet out of his sandals, cream pearl skin underneath, opens a tin and pulls out a carefully rolled joint. Chris watches Angello's feet, hands, mouth. Angello lights it, passes it over to Chris, and Chris decides it's probably just a sprain after all.

"So, you watch every day?" Chris asks, eyes on feet again, white and pink, honey and pearl. Angello has small feet too. Angello takes a long drag, holds it in, passes the joint back to Chris and says, "Only on days when Pete plays. I hate basketball."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Chris leans back on the bench and blows smoke into the air. His hair is cool and dry now, just a little crispy around the forehead. He remembers this is the third time for his left ankle, and bad things come in threes, so he's sure this is the last time and it will be better in a week. He smiles at that. Angello looks at him, sunglasses up and pushing back his hair, and says, "What?"

Chris rolls his head over to look back into blue eyes, smiles more. Angello smiles until he dimples, nods his head and says, "I could come on other days too."