The Tray Between Them

Snowflakes blew sideways across the school oval, tapping the metal goalposts.

Zayd bounced on his toes in front of the goal, his gloves squeaking as he rubbed his palms. Omar lined up another shot, his breath a white cloud.

“Ready, wall-man?” Omar called.

Zayd thumped his chest. “Shoot. Coach Lina is watching.”

He flicked his eyes to the sideline. Coach Lina stood with her arms folded, a wool hat over her ears, a clipboard under one arm. She talked to another teacher, but every few seconds her gaze slid to the field.

Omar struck the ball. It skimmed fast and low. Zayd dived, his side slamming into the icy grass. The ball stuck to his gloves with a soft thud.

“Yes!” He sprang up, holding it high.

From the sideline, Coach Lina raised one thumb. Just a small move, but Zayd’s cheeks warmed.

“Show-off,” Omar said, jogging closer. There was a grin on his face, but his voice was tight. “You only care because she’s watching.”

Zayd tossed the ball back. “So? Trials are next week. If I don’t make the team this time, I have to wait a whole year.”

“We always play together,” Omar said. He tapped his chest. “Striker and keeper. Remember?”

A shiver ran down Zayd’s arms. “I remember,” he said. “I just… I really need her to see I’m good.”

“Yeah,” Omar muttered. “More than you care about me not freezing my toes off out here.”

The words pricked. Zayd’s jaw tightened. “If you don’t like it, go inside,” he snapped.

Omar’s eyebrows shot up. “Whoa, okay.”

Zayd turned away before he could see Omar’s face change. He yanked off one glove, then jammed it back on. His chest felt hot and tight.

“I’m done,” he said. “I have to get ready for the evening meal.”

Without waiting, he strode off the field. Snow crunched under his boots. Behind him, the ball rolled until it bumped the post.

On the walk home, the sky was dim. The air tasted like metal and wet leaves. From the small masjid near the shops, the call to prayer floated through the cold.

Zayd pulled his scarf over his nose. Omar’s last look kept sliding into his mind, the half-grin, half-frown. In his room later, he lay under his blanket, listening to the clink of plates as Mama set the table.

Usually, the thought of Eid made his stomach flutter.

Tonight, his eyes stayed on the dark line where his curtain didn’t meet the window. Snowflakes drifted past that thin strip of sky.

The next day at lunch, the oval looked like a white sheet with green patches where feet had trampled the snow. Zayd’s stomach felt heavy and hollow from fasting, but his legs buzzed.

“This is it,” he whispered as he pulled on his gloves. “She has to see me today.”

Coach Lina blew her whistle. “Two teams! Quick, quick. We only have twenty minutes.”

Omar jogged to the front of the line of bibs. His right wrist was bare, just his usual black sweatband. He didn’t look at Zayd.

Zayd swallowed and jogged to the goal.

The game started fast. Breath puffed from every mouth. Boots slapped the wet ground. The ball skidded over slush.

“Keeper, focus!” Coach Lina shouted.

Zayd bounced on his toes. His fingers tingled. A shot from the left—he punched it away. A high ball from the right—he tipped it over the bar. Each save made his heart jump.

Then Omar got the ball.

He was already running by the time Zayd saw him, cutting through defenders, his feet light and quick on the slippery grass.

“Omar’s through!” someone yelled.

Omar’s eyes locked on the goal. For a second, Zayd saw only his friend, the same boy who had kicked a rolled-up pair of socks at him in the hallway last year and said, “Practice, keeper!”

Then he saw Coach Lina on the sideline, leaning forward.

If Omar scored now, she would cheer for him, not for Zayd.

Zayd charged out of the goal.

His boots slid. Snow sprayed around his ankles. Omar took one more step and swung his leg.

They crashed together.

Zayd’s shoulder hit Omar’s chest. Omar’s feet flew out from under him. He landed with a sick, flat sound, his right hand taking most of the fall.

“Ah!” Omar’s shout sliced through the cold.

The ball rolled past the empty goal.

Everything went quiet for a heartbeat. Then kids rushed in, voices rising.

“Are you okay?”

“His wrist!”

Zayd pushed himself up, snow clinging to his sleeves. Omar lay on his side, his face pale, his right wrist curled against his chest.

Coach Lina knelt beside him, her hat slipping. “Don’t move it,” she said. Her mouth was a hard line. She glanced up at Zayd. “That was too much, Zayd. You have to stay in control.”

Zayd’s stomach lurched. “I was just trying to stop the shot,” he said. His voice was small.

By the time the bell rang, Omar’s wrist was wrapped in a bandage from the nurse. He held it stiffly, his jaw clenched.

As they filed out after school, Zayd heard whispers.

“He smashed into him on purpose.”

“He didn’t want Omar to score.”

“He wants the team spot for himself.”

The words followed him down the path like cold wind.

Ahead, Omar turned the corner with two boys at his side. He didn’t look back.

Snow swirled harder on the walk home. Zayd’s gloves hung from his fingers. He didn’t bother putting them on. His hands stung, but the ache in his chest was worse.

That night, after the evening meal, Mama and Baba sat with their prayer beads. The living room smelled of lentil soup and fried onions. On the TV, a news reader talked about “a rare white Ramadan in Melbourne”.

Zayd sat on the rug, knees pulled to his chest, his phone dark beside him. He could picture Omar’s name on the screen, his thumb hovering.

He didn’t pick it up.

The next day, he tried to fix it.

He waited by the school gate after practice, his bag strap digging into his shoulder. The air hummed with car engines and squeaking bike brakes.

There—Omar, walking with the same two boys. His wrist was wrapped in a thicker bandage now, tucked in close.

Zayd stepped forward.

One boy leaned in to Omar and whispered. All three looked up at the same time. Their eyes landed on Zayd.

The boys’ mouths twisted. One shook his head.

Heat rushed into Zayd’s face. He ducked behind the low fence, pretending to tie his shoellace. His fingers fumbled with the wet laces. By the time he stood, Omar was at the far corner, his back a small, straight line against the snow.

That evening at the masjid, the carpet was crowded. Wet shoes lined the doorway. The air was thick with damp wool and a hint of perfume.

After the night prayer, men and boys moved slowly towards the exit, shoulders brushing. Zayd spotted Omar near the front, sitting on a low chair while his mother adjusted his bandage.

“It still hurts?” she asked, her fingers gentle.

Omar nodded. “The team doctor said no trials,” he said. His voice cracked on “no”.

Zayd’s steps slowed. He could feel every fibre of the carpet under his socks.

He took one step towards them. Another.

Then Omar’s mother said softly, “Insha Allah it heals soon. You were so excited.”

Omar stared at his wrapped wrist. “Maybe it’s better,” he said. “Now Zayd can show off without me getting in the way.”

The words hit Zayd like a ball to the chest.

His feet stopped. He stood there, halfway across the carpet, hands hanging by his sides. Someone behind him bumped his shoulder.

“Move, son,” an uncle said kindly.

Zayd nodded and shuffled aside, then slipped out a side door into the cold.

Snowflakes landed on his hair and melted down his neck. He tilted his head back, eyes stinging.

The next night, the community hall next to the masjid glowed with yellow light. Long tables were lined with foil trays. The smell of rice, grilled meat, and sweet pastries wrapped around everyone who entered.

Baba balanced two plates. “Come on,” he said. “Sit with your friends.”

Zayd’s eyes found Omar’s table. Omar sat at the end, his bandaged wrist resting on the edge, his left hand picking at bread. Coach Lina sat across from him, her scarf tucked into her coat.

“Go,” Baba said, giving Zayd a gentle nudge.

Zayd’s feet carried him a few steps that way. The hall buzzed with voices and clinking cutlery. A baby wailed, then quieted.

As he drew closer, Omar’s words floated through the noise.

“At least Zayd will get his chance now,” Omar said, staring at his plate. “He really wanted it.”

Coach Lina’s fork paused. “It’s not a good way to get a chance,” she said quietly.

Zayd stopped. His fingers tightened around his plastic cup until it bent.

He turned away, walked to the drink table, and pretended to refill his water even though it was still full. Cool drops splashed his knuckles.

Through the window, the night outside was a blur of white. Snowflakes spun under the streetlights.

If he kept quiet, no one could say more bad things about him. Maybe, with Omar out, there would be one more space on the team.

His chest felt like someone had stacked heavy books on it.

He slipped out the side door into the dark. The cold bit his cheeks. His breath came out in sharp clouds.

He imagined Eid morning. New clothes. Sweet biscuits. The special prayer. Omar’s empty place beside him on the field.

Snowflakes landed on his eyelashes. He didn’t brush them away.

On Eid morning, the sky was bright and hard blue. The snow on the footpath had frozen into crisp layers. Every step to the masjid made a soft crackling sound.

Zayd walked between Baba and Mama, his new jacket zipped to his chin. The smell of someone’s Eid perfume floated on the cold air, mixed with car exhaust and snow.

Inside the masjid, coloured lights hung along the walls. Children in bright clothes whispered and giggled until the prayer leader raised his hands.

After the prayer, everyone stood and hugged and shook hands. The air filled with “Eid Mubarak!” and the rustle of coats.

Zayd moved with the crowd towards the exit. His eyes slid over faces—uncles, aunties, kids from school.

Near the door to the hall, a shiny foil tray wobbled in the air.

Omar stood there, his bandaged wrist pressed against one side of the big tray. On the other side, his left hand gripped the edge, fingers straining. The tray sagged in the middle under the weight of small syrup-soaked cakes.

A group of adults stood a few steps away, laughing. Coach Lina was among them, her scarf a bright splash of colour.

Snow glare flashed through the open door behind Omar. Cold air seeped in around his legs.

Zayd’s feet slowed.

If he walked past, no one would stop him. He could slip into the crowd, eat sweets, talk about the team, and pretend his stomach wasn’t twisting.

His heart thumped so hard he felt it in his throat.

He took one breath. The air tasted of sugar and snow.

Then he stepped forward.

Each step sounded loud in his own ears, though the hall was full of chatter. His palms felt damp inside his sleeves.

He reached the tray and slid his hands under the far edge. The metal was cold.

“I’ve got it,” he said, his voice rough.

Omar’s head jerked up. His eyes widened.

Zayd swallowed. “I’m sorry I knocked you over, Omar,” he said. His words hung in the air between them.

The chatter behind them dipped. Someone coughed. A child laughed in another corner.

Omar looked at Zayd’s hands under the tray, then at his face. His jaw moved like he was chewing words.

He shifted his grip, letting more of the weight rest in Zayd’s hands. The tray steadied.

“Okay,” Omar said. His voice was small, but it didn’t shake.

They turned together towards the hall. Snow crunched under their shoes as they stepped outside and crossed the short path.

The foil tray shivered once, then settled, held firm by four steady hands.

At the doorway, Zayd adjusted his grip so the heavier side tilted towards him. Syrup slid, but nothing spilled.

Omar glanced at the tray, then at Zayd’s fingers taking the weight. He didn’t say anything.

They walked through the doorway side by side, the warm smell of Eid sweets rising around them, the tray between them held straight.