Because him and I, sitting like this, his hands in mine. It feels like something I’d like to do again.
But we’re just friends.The words rattle in my ribcage, thinking about the first time he said them, all those years ago.
I’d been waiting for him outside the weight room, sitting on the concrete bench with my backpack at my feet, swinging my legs just to burn off nervous energy. I had a great practice at the soccer field and couldn’t wait to tell Tyson all about it.
The doors swung open, and I heard his laugh before I saw him. He was talking with a couple of his teammates, helmet tucked under one arm, bag on his shoulder.
“I told you,” he said, “Blair’s waiting. I have to go.”
My chest warmed at the sound of my name—at the fact that he’d told them about our plans. It’s been a minute since anyone could make my stomach flip like this. Actually, it’s been months.
After the athlete mixer, the basketball-playing junior I was dating decided to end things. It wasn’t that serious between us, but seeing him with someone the following weekend stung like lemon in a cut.
And then there was Tyson. Present whenever I needed him. Wearing a smile I’d never get sick of. He invited me to the party where I saw my ex—he was trying to get me to do something fun—and he felt so bad he ended up leaving to get me ice cream.
Tonight was going to be pretty lowkey with nothing elaborate planned, just getting homework done for classes, and maybe watching whatever NBA game was on.
The sound of the guys chatting pulled me back to the present. I could see them if I peeked around the pillar in front of me. One of them pressed, “Oh, so sorry! Forgot that your girl’s waiting for you, Bishop.”
I frozewhere I sat, my whole body lighting up at that—your girl.
Then came the questions, quick and relentless—were we a thing, had we kissed yet, was he ever going to make a move?
I gripped the strap of my backpack, heart hammering, waiting for him to smile and say yes, waiting for him to claim me in front of everyone.
Instead, he shrugged, casual as ever. “Nah. We’re just friends.”
Just friends. Two little words that knocked every bit of air from my lungs. One of the first times I realized how much I wanted something more but it wasn’t in the cards to have.
They all laughed and moved on, still talking about weekend plans, but I couldn’t make myself move. My throat burned as I slipped out before he could spot me, and I immediately put my cell phone to my ear, like I was deep in conversation. I had to put on the mask, convince him, before he could see the way those words—the ones I wasn’t supposed to hear—shattered something I didn’t have the words for yet.
Every once in a while, when I think Tyson is doing something that would put us in a different category—other than friends—that conversation comes roaring back.
It’s just the thing to sober me up in the back of the car, even though Tyson’s hands are still holding mine.
Four
Tyson
“Thisisafuckingjoke.” The words fall out of my mouth, catching Coach and my teammates off guard.
“Bishop, I wish it was. We have no kicker. Our starter, back up, and free agent signing from two weeks ago are all injured. Out for the long haul.” He must see my face because I definitely saw our third string kicker working out this morning, prepping for the game. “Jones had a non-contact injury during prep today. Looks like it’s his Achilles tendon.”
Wow. This is some bad luck. I don’t know of any team who has lost three kickers in four weeks.
“Now, I wish we could just go for two after each score, but this defense is the best in the league. They’ve not allowed a two-point conversion in almost a season and a half.” Coach stands, looking around like he’s trying to collect his thoughts.
“Is this time for one of my famous ideas? It’s bonkers... but it’s better than nothing.” Zack Andersen, long-snapper, and the only man I know who owns a 50% pink wardrobe, addresses the team.
Tapping his foot, Coach replies, “At this point, I'm open to even what you’ve got, Andersen.”
Zack stands, his floppy blonde hair bouncing, and he rubs his hands together. “Hear me out. Odds are, someone here knows how to kick a field goal, or might be athletic enough to give us some type of a shot.”
When everyone keeps staring, Zack fills the silence. “Let’s do a call out for anyone who thinks they could make a field goal and see what happens.”
“And then what? Sign them for the game?” Tripp, our star wide receiver, asks. Zack shrugs and everyone looks at Coach. The fact that he hasn’t said anything makes me think he’s considering it. “Can we even do that?” Tripp presses.
Coach takes a long breath, looking up at the ceiling before huffing it out. “Technically, yes. But you’re right, this is bonkers.” Coach’s eyes roll when he uses the same term from Zack. “We’d have to get the brass to approve it and have all the paperwork dotted and signed ninety minutes before the game starts. Plus, then you shell out the rookie minimum, which is about eight hundred thousand fucking dollars.” He presses his forehead with his fingers.
