Marcus nodded. “Cool.”
He didn’t push further, just steered the conversation toward the upcoming game. We talked coverages for a while—their nickel package, the way their linebackers liked to disguise blitzes—and I felt myself settle into the familiar rhythm of it. Football talk was safe. Football talk didn’t require me to examine why I kept glancing at my phone, wondering if Tanner had eaten anything.
“Coach noticed, by the way,” Marcus said, peeling the label off his bottle.
“Noticed what?”
“Practice last week. Before the trip.” He shrugged. “Said you looked like you finally got your head out of your ass. His words.”
I snorted. “High praise.”
“I’m serious.” Marcus leaned back. “You’ve been different the last few weeks. More present. Like you’re actually here instead of running through some checklist in your head.”
I didn’t know how to answer that. The truth was tangled up in things I couldn’t say—that somewhere between moving in with Tanner and falling asleep next to him, I’d stopped waiting for everything to fall apart.
“Just focused,” I said. “Four more games. Want to finish strong.”
“Yeah, well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” Marcus drained his beer. “Jenkins said you made a read in practice Wednesday that he didn’t even see coming.”
“Lucky guess.”
“Bullshit.” But he was grinning. “You’re playing like you’ve got something to prove. Or something to protect.”
The words landed heavier than he probably intended. I thought about Tanner on the couch, organizing notes, the way he’d waved me off so easily. The way he always made space for the parts of my life that didn’t include him, even when I could see what it cost him.
“You good?” Marcus asked. “You went somewhere.”
“Just thinking about the season.” I finished my beer. “It’s weird, knowing it’s almost over.”
“You’ve got grad school lined up. The Wilmington thing.”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s the problem?”
The problem was that I wanted both. The field and the person waiting at home. The brotherhood and the quiet nights on the couch. I wanted to not feel guilty for loving something that hurt him to watch.
“No problem,” I said. “Just processing.”
Marcus studied me for a long moment. “You know you can talk to me, right? About whatever.” He stopped, started again. “We’ve been playing together for four years. I’ve seen youthrough some shit. Whoever you’re seeing, whatever’s got you walking around like you actually like your life— I’m not going to make it weird.”
My throat tightened. “Who said I’m seeing someone?”
“Nobody had to say it.” He smiled, not unkindly. “You check your phone every five minutes. You turned down poker night three weeks in a row. And you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The stupid one. The one that says someone’s taking up space in your head and you don’t mind.”
I should have denied it. Should have deflected, done any of the things I’d been doing for months. But Marcus was looking at me with something that might have been understanding, and I was tired of carrying this alone.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Always is.”
“I can’t— Not yet. After the season, maybe. But right now?—”
“Hey.” He held up a hand. “I said you can talk to me. Didn’t say you have to. Whenever you’re ready. Or never. Your call.”
