Her eyes widen. “I know. I just can’t believe you noticed them.”
I shrug. “I notice things like that.”
“I never liked wearing sunscreen growing up. It’s too sticky. While there’s a genetic component to freckles, they are mostly due to UV exposure from the sun.”
“I like them. Your freckles, I mean,” I blurt out. My hand drags up and down her spine, and I find I enjoy the sensation against my fingers. “They make you unique. And I agree about sunscreen being sticky, but I’m in the sun too often during football season, so I have to wear it. I’ve found some that aren’t as sticky. I can give you a recommendation, if you want.”
She shudders. “I don’t think I could do it. It’s all I could think about the times I was forced to wear it. I had originally thought about working in a zoo or animal rehab facility, and I think part of the reason I went into veterinary medicine was because it would involve being indoors most of the time.”
Flash barks again. “I got used to it. I’m sure I had a few meltdowns as a kid, though. It’s tough getting over sensory challenges.”
Audrey nods, and her eyes seem to change. Like our conversation is bringing forth a new dawn. Her lips hint at a smile, and she bites her bottom lip bashfully. The same lip I just stroked. “I have lots of sensory challenges.”
“Me too,” I answer tentatively. “I also struggle with saying things at the wrong time.”
“Sometimes I can’t read a room.”
“Or see a social cue?”
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes sharpening on mine. “And I’m really bad with confrontations.”
“I don’t do well with messes,” I confess. “Things have a place, and if that gets messed up, I can’t move on until I correct everything.”
“I have areas that are really organized, then parts of my life are in complete disarray. I can ignore a huge pile of crap, but the placemat being crooked on the table will set me off.”
“I don’t like to be touched,” I blurt out. Audrey’s eyes widen in horror as she attempts to scurry out of my lap. “No! Wait. I didn’t explain that correctly. I don’t like it when people touch me without knowing if I want to be touched. Or without my consent. I very much want you on me right now, Doc, so don’t you dare move.”
The relieved smile that covers her face is blinding. “Will you tell me if I ever step over one of your boundaries? Sometimes I struggle to read body language, so I hope you’ll trust that you can be honest with me.”
“Will it hurt your feelings if I ever say I need some space? Sometimes I need a moment to reset.” I wait with bated breath for her response, fearful of her answer.
“I’m not sure. I’ve never been in a similar situation, so I don’t know how I’ll feel. I might be hurt initially, Jamie, but I hope I’ll be able to see things from your perspective too. When you need space, is it due to certain things? Like overstimulation?” she asks quietly.
I nod. “Yes. Also when I’m overly exhausted, or really stressed.”
She takes a deep breath, her eyes dropping to my neck. “I want to ask you a question, and I hope you know I’m genuinely interested in the answer. Okay?”
Before she asks, I know. I see it in her eyes. She’s asking me the big question. My hands drop to her waist, gripping her tightly, both excited and fearful of her response. “Ask away.”
“Jamie, are you autistic?” Her eyes are focused on mine, zeroed in on my reaction, and I can’t find the words to answer. Instead, I just nod. I expect quiet reflection, or an attempt to dislodge herself from my grip. I definitely never thought she’d grin widely as she says, “I thought so. I’m autistic, too.”
It’spossible I’ve never been as happy as I am at this very moment.
I knew something seemed familiar about Jamie, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. As a neurodiverse woman, sometimes I can see people who have similar personalities, or traits that I recognize. But other times, I’m so in my own head that I can’t recognize anything outside of my tiny bubble.
I’ve never heard a word about Jamie being autistic. Neurodiversity is almost a four-letter word in professional sports, it seems. Hardly anyone talks about it. I’m sure there are other autistic men in sports, simply from a data perspective. I’d Googled it once out of curiosity. The CDC estimates under four percent of men are autistic. With almost seventeen hundred men on NFL rosters across the country, that means an average of fifty men are autistic, give or take. When adding in the number of coaches, trainers, medical professionals, and management, that number is bound to increase.
Honestly, I felt a connection to Jamie from our first interaction. Now knowing he’s autistic, it explains why I thoughtall of his media interviews were too perfect. He probably memorizes most of what he says. It’s somewhat refreshing to know that some of the same strategies I use in my everyday life, Jamie uses in his, even if our careers are nothing alike. I imagine the media are given a set list of questions they’re allowed to ask as well.
As I look at Jamie now, sheer terror is evident in his eyes, and I can feel his heart beating incredibly fast against my chest. I’m sitting in his lap, refusing to move, and I’ve never felt more at home before.
“Not many people know, do they?” I ask quietly, and he shakes his head. “Why?”
Jamie sighs. “I’ve never liked talking about my personal life. Telling the world I’m neurodiverse is definitely a massive step into my private life. And my agent thinks it’ll impact my reach everywhere else. He thinks it’ll snowball into my charity not getting as many donations, and it’ll scare away potential brand deals.”
“Do you care about the brand deals?” I ask warily. I don’t like that he’s hiding his true self because of money, but I bite my tongue.
“No, I couldn’t care less about them. But I donate a ton of that income to a variety of charities, as well as school districts in Oregon, Florida, and here. I have ownership in a variety of things, courtesy of my brand and sponsorship deals over the past fifteen years as well. Any leftover income goes into investments that I’ll use down the road for donating to charities and shelters.”
