“I might watch you guys finish out the season.” He chews his lip, staring at a spot over my shoulder, as if mulling it over. “Cheer you on when I’m not under the knife, but after that . . . My father’s a general contractor. Wants me to take on some of his projects, since he’s looking to retire soon. I only came to college because I got a partial scholarship.”
I swallow, unsure of what to say. It’s not the first time I’ve seen one of my fellow teammates taken out by an injury, but it sucks every time regardless. “Well, fuck.”
He grins. “Yeah.Fuck.”
I rise to my feet as he makes his way toward the door. I hold it open for him, then stretch my fist out toward his and bump knuckles. “See you in a few days, then?”
“That’s the plan. And, hey, say hello to your girl for me.” He winks, and I start to tell him she’s not my girl, when I simply shrug and close the door behind me.
Sliding my phone from my pocket, I open a group text with the boys. With the exception of West and myself, they’re all hanging out with their girls today. Lucky bastards.
ME:
Looks like Chase is out. I didn’t realize this, but he had an ACL tear in high school, too. He’s cooked.
CHRIS:
He tell you that?
ME:
Yep.
DAMON:
Shit.
ME:
Is it bad that I’d rather tear my ACL and risk football than lose Tate?
JACE:
Damn bro.
DAMON:
I get it. Football is temporary, man. The right girl is forever.
WEST:
That’s deep.
CHRIS:
Listen to you guys! Have some confidence, will you? You’re already talking like it’s over.
I sigh as I watch the typing bubbles dance on my screen before a paragraph-long text comes through from Chris talking about the Playbook that I don’t bother reading. One, because I don’t care to, and two, because a knock at the door pulls my focus.
Setting my phone down, I make my way to the door, trying not to get my hopes up. It could be anyone—West stopping by, the neighbor asking to borrow something, a delivery person. But when I swing the door open, it’s not just anyone. It’s her.
Tatum stands in my doorway, hair damp from the rain, wearing an oversized gray Griffins T-shirt I recognize as the one she stole from me during freshman year, along with leggings. Hercheeks are flushed—whether from the cold or the sprint from her car to my door—and the unguarded softness in her gaze tugs at something deep inside my chest.
“Hi,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the distant rumble of thunder outside.
“Hi.” I grip the doorframe, afraid that if I let go, I might reach for her. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t see you today.”
She tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear, giving me a little shrug. “It’s Sunday,” she says, like she’s stating the obvious, even though I was starting to worry Sundays don’t belong to me anymore.
