The Calm Before The Game

Blake, Ethan, and Nick went to Riverside Park to decide what to do.

"So how about a walk to Cotton Row?" Nick asked, referring to the row of old warehouses built near the railroad tracks, now long abandoned and half-swallowed by weeds and graffiti.

"Nah, too far. I have to be at the school gym in less than two hours," Blake replied, adjusting the strap of his backpack.

"Hmm, how about we just take a walk? I heard there's some cool stuff on Gate Street," Ethan offered.

"I'm down," Blake said.

Nick gave a nod, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. "Yeah, sure. Let's go see some old junk."

They set off, the low sun filtering through the trees of Riverside Park, casting fractured golden light across the path. Leaves swirled around their sneakers, crackling underfoot. They passed kids tossing a frisbee near the swings, dogs tugging leashes, and someone playing lo-fi beats from a tinny speaker on a picnic blanket.

Gate Street was one of the oldest in Resin Grove, if not the oldest. It ran from the original town entrance straight into the square, threading through the Old Quarter. Over the decades, the street had evolved into a kind of local oddity—an accidental attraction made up of small shops, vintage boutiques, secondhand bookstores, dusty music stores, and a few stubborn family businesses that had been there since the '50s.

The boys meandered through the quieter backstreets leading from the park to Gate Street, their path lined with low brick homes, porches wrapped in dried vines, and neat gardens framed by iron fences. They passed a front yard where two toddlers chased each other with bubble wands and a woman waved at them from her porch.

The day was in full swing now. Weekends in Resin Grove always moved like that: slow and soft in the morning, and then, after lunch, blooming into something busier. A dog barked behind a fence. Wind tugged loose leaves into little eddies on the sidewalk.

They crossed the now-bustling Mariner's Hollow, a four-way stop near the edge of the square, and stepped onto Gate Street. The buildings leaned slightly from age, their facades a mix of peeling paint, sun-faded signs, and old window boxes with half-dead mums. The sidewalk was cracked in places but well-worn, the kind of path shaped by decades of passing feet.

"This place always smells like incense and antique furniture," Nick said, scrunching up his nose with exaggerated disgust.

"That's because it's full of incense and antique furniture," Blake said dryly.

The first place they ducked into was Curio & Co., a narrow vintage shop wedged between a bakery and a forgotten-looking tailor. The second they opened the door, a bell jingled overhead and the scent of lavender, paper, and something faintly metallic greeted them.

The shop was cluttered in the best way—organized chaos. Brass candelabras crowded beside cracked porcelain dolls, while old travel posters lined the walls in mismatched frames. Globes of all sizes perched on high shelves, turning slowly from the breeze of a ceiling fan. Each table and corner seemed to be an invitation to get lost in some other time.

Nick beelined to a dusty display case and picked up a taxidermy owl with one cracked eye. "Blake," he intoned dramatically, lifting it like a prophecy, "destiny awaits on the court of fate."

"Put that down before it curses you," Ethan said from a corner, flipping through a box of dog-eared vinyl records.

Blake found an old basketball magazine from the late '80s. The cover featured a player mid-jump shot, hair like a helmet, shorts like swim trunks. "Should I rock this look tonight?"

Nick nodded gravely. "For history."

They left the shop empty-handed but grinning, the bell jingling behind them. Ethan paused at the door, watching sunlight catch the floating dust. Then they moved on.

Their next stop was Pocket Notes, a hole-in-the-wall record store that always smelled faintly of wood polish and mothballs. The owner, Felix, sat behind the counter like a fossilized guardian of sound. Jazz played on the store speakers—sax-heavy and too loud, thanks to Felix's partial deafness.

"Still alive?" Blake called over the music.

"Barely," Felix replied, not looking up from his crossword.

The store's aisles were so narrow they had to walk single-file. Ethan slipped toward the back, where blues and folk records lived. He moved slowly, brushing dust off the covers, occasionally tilting his head to listen to a song snippet drifting from overhead.

Nick found a stack of clearance CDs marked CLEARANCE / PROBABLY CURSED and immediately tried to convince Blake to buy one.

"Good luck charm," Nick insisted.

"Or a bad mixtape from a demon," Blake replied.

"Same thing."

Blake picked up a cassette tape, squinting at the handwriting scrawled across its label. "You guys ever think about how weird it is this stuff still exists?"

"You're weird and you still exist," Nick said.

They stayed for a while, poking around the shelves and listening to fragments of jazz solos curl through the store. Blake's fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on his jeans. He didn't seem to realize it until Ethan shot him a glance.

"You good?"

Blake shrugged. "Just pre-game jitters."

"You'll be fine. You're always fine once the ball's in the air."

After Pocket Notes, they hit a thrift store with flickering fluorescent lights and music from a boombox in the corner. The place was mostly coats, mismatched dishware, and VHS tapes. Nick emerged from a rack wearing a faux-fur coat that looked like it had been stolen off a disco yeti.

"My new courtside look," he declared.

Blake stared at him. "You'd get booed out of the building."

"They'd boo because they're jealous."

Ethan found a battered copy of a graphic novel he'd loved as a kid. He didn't buy it, just thumbed through the pages like greeting an old friend.

Last, they stepped into Old Spines, a secondhand bookstore that smelled like time and rain. A gray tabby cat named Mau was sprawled on the front counter, one eye open. The shopkeeper gave them a nod and went back to rearranging a shelf.

The aisles were taller here, books stacked high like towers. Blake ended up near a shelf labeled "Local Histories & Urban Legends." Nick poked fun at Ethan for browsing the poetry section. Mau followed them around in a slow, lazy stalk, clearly unimpressed with their selections.

Eventually, the boys stepped back out into the sunlight, each with a soda from a corner café. They claimed a wooden bench near the edge of the square, where the shadows stretched long and gold across the bricks.

A little kid zipped past on a bicycle, dressed in a pumpkin costume even though Halloween was weeks away. An older couple argued across a small cafe table, the woman insisting the leaves were "too orange this year," as though nature had gone overboard.

The clock tower above the square rang softly—four chimes and one smaller bell. Quarter to four.

Ethan stood. "Alright. Let’s get you to the gym, superstar."

They tossed their empty cups in a trash bin, said goodbye to the square with a silent glance, and began walking. The sun had dipped lower, the air carrying a chill that hadn't been there an hour ago. As they neared the school, the quiet hum of town noise faded behind them, replaced by something quieter, deeper.

The steady, rhythmic thud of anticipation.