My brain manages to contemplate all those thoughts in one held breath. Finally, I exhale, realizing he’s still gripping my wrist and awaiting a response. So, of course, I go with a tight, sardonic “Sure” before breaking into a sprint again. I clap my hands like an overeager penguin while I wait for him to throw the ball.
His face softens with a satisfied smile. “Atta girl,” he says in a low voice. He launches the ball at me again, and this time I catch it, but my eyes are squeezed shut, so I topple over, falling onto my butt and then rolling over my shoulder as if the misty turf had a downward tilt. It was perfectly level.
Finally, I open my eyes to see Declan’s shoes.
“First of all,” he starts, crouching down to get in my line of sight, “you should be proud of yourself.”
I croak out a scoff that comes out louder than intended.
“And why’s that?”
“Look down.” He gestures at me with a nod.
I look down to find the football safely held in my arms despite the backward shoulder roll I survived.
“You protected the ball at all costs. Which is pretty much the number one rule. I think you might be better at this than you think.” He says it like a proud coach.
“Huh. Well, would you look at that. Now, help me up please. I think I’ve done my job.”
Declan stretches his hand toward me to grab, so I do. But instead of using it to pull myself up, I tug down with all my strength.
“Oof, what are you—” He chuckles, allowing me to drag him down to the turf beside me. Emphasis on “allow,” because I know he could have resisted my weak pull if he wanted to. I, however, am realizing I’m not capable of the same when it comes to him.
He faux tumbles, careful to avoid hitting me with his sprawling limbs, and then settles onto the bright green turf next to me, leaning back on his elbows. Declan always looks like he’s been lounging somewhere for hours before you’ve happened upon him, even if he just arrived in the position a second ago.
“What was number two?” I fish.
“Hmm?” He breathes through his nose, tilting his head at me.
“You said ‘first of all,’ and then never told me what was second of all.”
“Oh. Right.” He nods and looks up at the sky. “Forgive me for forgetting my next point. A little birdie took my kind offer for help and dragged me down with her.”
A laugh escapes me, chest feeling warm at the easy camaraderie I’ve always shared with him. He runs a hand through his hair, gaze fixing on the empty bleachers. I wonder if he’s imagining them filled.
“Come on, what was it?” I nudge my elbow into his side.
“Okay, fine. I was going to leave off on my compliment, but if you wanna force my hand, you force my hand.”
I’m staring at his frame, shoulders wider than they were a year before, hair longer, still waiting for his response. He stills and looks back at me. But then his eyes seem to drift to something slightly above my head. I’m confused until he reaches out to smooth down my hair. It must have looked like a bird’s nest from all my tumbling.
“I was going to say,” he starts, voice gravelly as his hand slows on its path down my head. I feel his fingers on the crown of my head all the way down to my toes. “You looked like a baby bird getting shoved out of the nest for the first timetrying to catch that ball.” He delivers the words slowly, tone drier than the desert, so it takes me a moment to process the words.
“Oh my gosh!” I squeak, pushing his hand off my head in exasperation as I realize I’ve been caught in a bit. “And here I was waiting for the next compliment.”
He laughs with his head down, the perfect display of a delighted boy who has pulled off his joke.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum. “But let’s consider if this is the insult you think it is. Birds must be pushed out of the nest at some point to fly, and plus, they can be cute.” I clamp my lips shut. I’ve accidentally referred to myself as cute in the most roundabout way possible. “What bird species are we talking here? Duck?” I ask in an attempt to clear his memory of it.
“You? A duck?” he muses, looking me up and down like he’s considering the thought. “Nah. Not a duck.”
“Okay. Not a duck girl. Noted. How about a flamingo?”
“Oh, definitely not a flamingo.”
“Why not a flamingo? They’re sophisticated. And pink.”
“Have you seen a flamingo’s face up close?” he retorts, looking taken aback.
