Declan stares back at me with a disbelieving half-smirk, so I forge on.
“Let alone using my eyes to track the ball at the same time. It’s not happening.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll tell you a secret.” He throws the ball as high as it will go and lets it hit the top of his head on the way down. I flinch when it lands, but he doesn’t react in the slightest. It topples to the ground and bounces side to side like a fish out of water before settling.
“Wh— How did you—”
“This is a fake football,” he supplies, reaching to pick it up off the ground. “It’s made out of foam.” He squishes it, showcasing how easily it molds to his grip.
“Oh.” I blink twice. “And why do you, two-time state champion quarterback, have a fake football?”
He looks down, flipping the football-disguised piece of foam in his hands. One stray lock of brownish-blond hair flops over his forehead.
“Because I wanted to practice with you.”
“So…” My eyes narrow. “You only bought it to play with—”
“Yes,” he says with force. “With you specifically. So, you have to at least try to run a few yards and catch it now that I’ve confessed that.”
The admission does something I don’t want to name to my chest.
“Seems fair. Hurry up then.” I clap my hands together before breaking into a sprint. Mostly so he can’t see the blush creeping up on my cheeks at the thought of him going to the store and buying a foam football just to spend this mundane summer evening playing catch with me.
I have no gauge for how far five yards is so I sprint until Ihit a white line and then look over my shoulder. To no one’s surprise, by the time I turn around the ball is flying toward me faster than my eyes can communicate to my arms to respond.
Declan laughs when the foam football hits my face. It kisses my nose before bouncing off in a cartoonish arc. It’s too squishy to hurt, so I descend into self-pitying chuckles, coming to a stop and letting my arms hang limply at my sides in defeat. Meanwhile, Declan peels over at the waist in a fit of full-on cackles.
I stand there watching him with my lips pressed together in an ironic, self-evident display of pity, overstating how correct my previous objections to this idea were. I’d have the nerve to actually be annoyed if he didn’t look so cute laughing.
It’s like his face can’t take the weight of his joy, so it has no choice but to crumple beneath it. Lines bracket his mouth like parentheses, and a specific spot above his cheek is creased down with nowhere to go. After another second, he collects himself, pushing off his knees to stand up straight and walk over to me.
His face becomes my entire view, obscuring the damp blades of fake grass and the bright yellow field goal post.
“I told you! “I wouldn’t have been able to catch that ball if my life depended on it.”
“Are you okay?” he tries to say through leftover laughter, still filtering itself out of his body.
“Yes,” I reply, deadpan. “I am fine. But unfortunately for you, I don’t think I’ll be a good partner with whom to practice your throws. Just like I predicted.”
“With whom, huh?” he volleys, eyebrows rising in that challenging way that sends a tingle of awareness up my spine.
“Mm-hmm. With whom indeed.” I nod defiantly. “I thinkI’ll stick to reading my books. Sixteen-year-olds casually overthrowing kingdoms, etcetera.”
“Right. But can’t you do that and continue being my football partner?” At my stony look he adds, “Please?,” eyebrows tenting upward in a pitiful plea.
“I don’t think I’ll be much help training you to become a good quarterback if your practice buddy can’t catch any balls. Good or bad throw? Won’t matter. They’ll all land right here.” I point to the tip of my nose.
In a shocking display of affection, Declan grabs my wrist from my face and says, “No, come on. No football buddy would look half as cute as you did when it hit your face.”
My heart thuds double time as soon as the word cute escapes Declan’s wide mouth. We might have known each other since before we could string multiple sentences together, but it didn’t change the fact that Declan was turning into a boy who made me wonder what I looked like from his point of view.
He was no longer suffering from the awkward stage. He shed his thick, black-framed glasses and developed a throatiness to his voice that made my mind wander while he spoke. Long gone was the five-year-old boy I met on the strawberry farm who was too mousy to speak. Now, he led football teams. He carried himself with authority and ease. If my thoughts had unnoticeably drifted from normal, friend-like thoughts into territory like this, did his too? Did he consider how I had been changing?
Cute.
It wasn’t a fair word in this context. It had too many possible meanings and potential margins for error.
Cute, like little-sister cute? Pathetic, helpless cute? Or cute, like… the type he’d want to kiss-cute?
