His cravings.
Such deep, great cravings that when I saw her walking away last night, I realized something.
I realized that the pain I’d been feeling, the hurt that wouldn’t stop pressing into my body ever since that night in LA was want.
It was the result of my newly born cravings. Something that I’d never had before.
Something that made me call out her name, howl it out like a wounded, desperate animal but she didn’t stop.
She kept running, filling me with such panic, such terror…
And I know now that I never would’ve been able to leave. I never would’ve been able to board that plane and leave her behind.
Because all my life I’ve only ever wanted one thing – soccer – but she made me want something else.
In the time she was with me, she taught me to want something other than a trophy, a goal or a game. She taught me to crave something more than cold and lonely perfection.
Something warm and cozy and sweet. Something wild and savage and provocative.
Her.
I crave her.
I crave her laughs, her voice, her challenges and dares. I crave how she breaks the rules, how she scales the fence to come see me. I crave seeing her drowning in my leather jacket and sitting on the back of my Ducati.
I crave taking her to the Lover’s Lane that she’d talk about, but never got the chance to go. I crave teaching her all those moves I had made a list of: Elastico, Maradona, Forward Pull, V-Pull.
I crave her notes. Her letters.
All the thingssheinspires in me.
I crave them so much, sofuckingmuch that my heart won’t stop thundering.
It hasn’t stopped ever since that night in the snow when she told me that it was alive, and I have to tell her all of this.
I have to tell her that I want her, I crave her but I don’t know how to keep her. How to not fuck this up because this is the first time I want something.
Something other than soccer, and I’m fucking panicking.
I’m quaking in my boots.
But I’m willing to believe in myself.
Like she believes in me.
That’s what she told me, right?
She told me that she believes in me and ifshecan believe in me, then I can learn to believe in myself too.
I can learn tobelievethat I can be whoever I want to be.
I always thought that if I accepted my flaws and forgave myself for my mistakes, if I didn’t beat myself up or shame myself for screwing up, I wouldn’t be my father’s son. Or if I focused on something else even for a second, I wouldn’t be my mother’s son.
I wouldn’t be The Blond Arrow.
But maybe there’s another way.
Her way. My way.
