First throw's decent, 58.8 feet. But I can do better. I catch Doc watching over his textbook, and I puff out my chest.
Second throw, 59.2 feet. Getting there.
I feel Doc's eyes on me, even from across the field. My chest tightens. My legs buzz.Don’t screw this up, impress him, impress him.
Third throw, I think about his hands on me last week, the way he pushed me against his bedroom door and kissed me until I forgot my own name. The shot put flies.
"Holy shit! 62.8!" Devin yells, jogging over from the track. "That's a personal record, man!"
"Thanks." I'm already looking at the bleachers, though.
"Damn, you got it bad," Devin laughs. "Go talk to your guy. I gotta warm up for the 200."
I look over at the bleachers. Max is cheering, Haru's clapping politely, and Doc's staring at me with this expression that makes my whole body flush hot.
Hammer throw goes just as well. My form's perfect, muscles moving in sync, and I can feel Doc's eyes on me the whole time. Second place, but only by an eighth of a inch.
When I make it back to the fence, Haru and Max are grinning like idiots.
"That was very impressive," Haru says carefully. "Your... technique."
"My technique?"
"So much technique," Max agrees. "All that spinning and... muscles and..."
"Shut up," Doc hisses, but he's bright red.
I collapse onto the grass by the fence, purposely flexing as I lean back on my hands. "Miss me?"
"You were gone fifteen minutes," Doc says, but his voice comes out rough.
"Longest fifteen minutes of Seb's life," Max stage-whispers.
Doc throws a pencil at him. I laugh reaching up to catch it mid-air, which makes all three of them stare again.
"Reflexes." When they stare at me, I say, "Football."
"Right. Football." Doc's voice is definitely strained. "That's... that's good."
Haru checks his phone and makes an apologetic face. "I have to go. Group project." He stands, then pauses. "Gavin-san, you did very well. And Sebastian-san..." He says something quiet that I don't catch, but it makes Doc turn even redder.
After he leaves, it's just the three of us. Max starts pointing out some runners warming up.
"Oh, check out their uniforms! Rainbow patches!"
I follow his finger to see a couple of athletes with small pride patches on their jerseys. There’s a twist in my chest, not bad, just... complicated.
"That's cool," I say. "Would've gotten your ass kicked for that back home."
Max perks up. "Really? Where are you from again?"
"Idaho. Small town. Like, really small." I pick at the grass. "Everything here is just... different."
"Different how?" Max asks, genuinely curious.
I think about how to explain about Friday night football and Sunday morning church, and how everyone knew everyone's business. About keeping your head down, your mouth shut, and never, ever being different.
"My mom died when I was nine," I hear myself saying. Max makes a soft sound but doesn't interrupt. "And my dad, he..."
