ROSE; its petals and thorns
Cent A. Ganiyat
Not with us yelling so our voice could cover the insane crowd noise.
With a quick scan at the guy, black jersey like the black and gold player’s jersey, ripped-muscled legs and arms, I realized he is the footballer I claimed I recognized. He is Balorz, David’s friend.
“You are Balorz,” I said. No way I could twist this around.
“I am Balorz,” he confirmed, smiling.
“Sorry. I should have been honest with you. I just don’t want to sound like a novice.”
“No, it’s alright. I like you. You’re funny.”
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