“I’m scared because I’ve already lost someone to this sport,” I continued. “Because I know exactly how bad it can get, and the thought of watching it happen to you makes me want to scream. But, Seth—” I loosened my grip, let my hands slide down to rest on his chest. “I’ve never once thought you were throwing your life away. I hate the danger, not the decision. I hate that football hurts people, not that you love playing it.”
“You mean that?”
“I watch your games. Every single one.” The admission came easier than it should have. Something had shifted between us the night of my freak-out, and I hadn’t been able to stop myself from watching since. It was like I needed to know what shape he’d be in when he came home. “Sound off because I can’t handle the commentary, but I watch. I track your stats. I know your completion percentage, your yards after catch, and how many times you’ve been targeted in the red zone this season. I know you’re good, Seth. I know you love it. And I know you’re smart enough to walk away before it destroys you.”
His hands came up to cover mine, where they rested on his chest. “My family thinks I’m too stupid to understand the risks.”
“Your family is wrong.”
“They think I’m wasting my potential.”
“You’re not. You’re building something. The athletic training, the sports medicine focus… You’re going to help people. You’re going to take everything you’ve learned from playing and use it to keep other athletes safe.” I shifted closer, standing between his knees now. “That’s not a waste. That’s the whole point.”
“We’re both fucked up about football, aren’t we?” Seth’s voice was rough. “Your family was destroyed by it. Mine rejects me for playing it. Neither of us has uncomplicated feelings about any of this.”
“No.” I let out a shaky breath. “But maybe that’s why this works. We both understand what we’re dealing with.”
Seth’s breath caught. His hands tightened on mine.
“I’ve never had anyone believe in what I’m doing,” he said. “Not like this. Not without conditions or caveats or ‘but have you considered.’”
“Then everyone in your life has been an idiot.”
He laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm. “God, Tanner. You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Because when you say things like that, I want to—” He stopped. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up. “I’ve been trying so hard to give you space. To not push. To let you set the pace because I know you’re scared, and I don’t want to make it worse.”
My heart was pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. “What if I’m tired of space?”
“Are you?”
I thought about the past three weeks. The careful distance we’d maintained even while tangled together on the couch. The way we’d touch constantly and then pretend it meant nothing. The ache in my chest every time he walked out the door for practice, the relief that flooded through me every time he came home safe.
“I’m tired of pretending,” I said. “I’m tired of falling asleep on the couch with you and waking up wanting you and acting like I don’t. I’m tired of being scared of something that’s already happening.”
“What’s already happening?”
"This." My fingers curled into his shirt, feeling his heartbeat racing under my palms. "Us. Whatever this is. It's been building since Auburn, maybe longer, and I've been too scared to look at it directly."
“And now?”
“Now I’m looking.” I met his eyes. “I don’t know what that means yet. I don’t know what I want this to be, or what I’m ready for. But I know I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel something.”
Seth was quiet for a moment. His hand found mine, threading our fingers together loosely.
“I’m not asking you to have it all figured out,” he said. “I don’t have it figured out either.”
“What do you have?”
“I know I care about you. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time.” His thumb traced across my knuckles. “I know that when I come home hurt, you’re the only person I want to see. I know that falling asleep with you is the best part of my week, even when we’re pretending it doesn’t mean anything.”
My chest ached. “Seth?—”
"I'm not asking for promises. I'm not asking for labels or commitments or any of that." He squeezed my hand. "I just need to know we're in this together. That I'm not the only one feeling it." “What does that look like?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it looks like this—talking about it. Being honest when things feel like too much. Not running away when it gets scary.”
