Malcolm is a powerhouse on the field when he needs to be. Just last summer, he outran half the team for a forty-yard touchdown just to prove to them they weren’t trying hard enough—or to show off.
Only he knows.
But it was fun to see the kids grovel at his feet like he was God when they realized how athletic he still is. It was odd to watch him strip off his work boots and socks like he was unwinding after a hard day. Malcolm stood in the center of the field, grounding himself with bare feet on the turf, sizing up the competition. The kids never stood a chance.
I size up his competition this time, noting the older players right off. One of them is Coach Foust, who is a fossil in human form. I don’t think I’ve seen someone so old attempt to crouch down to the starting position. It’s very possible I heard his hips pop all the way from here. Another coach, Coach Taylor, weighsabout three hundred pounds and towers over everyone. His breathing is so labored he looks like he could collapse at any moment. Yet, he makes it onto the field and into the starting position as well.
Malcolm takes his position on the far left of the line, closest to me. My eyes widen when he glances over, giving me a wink. This kind of thing would usually send me crawling on my hands and knees to a man—tight pants accentuating curves, arms flexing as they grip the turf, then adding in a wink just for me… But the stress of watching Malcolm take the position of tight end, one he rarely plays, sends the nausea from earlier crawling back up my throat, leaving the taste of acid in my mouth.
“Red Team, are you ready?” The defense nods at the referee’s question. “Blue Team?” he asks us, the offense. They nod, settling into their starting positions with fervor.
“Red and blue team?” I ask Daniels, recalling that they’re allowed to come up with their own names. Daniels gives me a shrug likewhat’re ya gonna do?“That’s…original.”
The snap happens. The ball is pitched back to Coach Stent from South. Malcolm blocks, allowing Stent to cover almost thirty yards in the first play. Devon, Ethan, and Travis yelp in celebration from the sidelines in their makeshift coaching attire. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and glare at Malcolm’s backside as they huddle up around Daniels. Knowing Malcolm, he’s being humble and letting Daniels call the shots for the game, staying in his lane as a player and not letting the duty of coach bleed over into his role as a teammate. He’s always been skilled at keeping things separate, whether it’s his work and home life balance, or simply maintaining a neutral position for the sake of peace.
Another play happens, and I bite my thumbnail the entire time. Coach Taylor goes down like a tree, needing extra hands to help him limp off the field. Our team scores a touchdown inthe first few minutes of the quarter, and the crowd goes wild. They’re riding the high when they race to the sidelines, and the defensive line swaps out.
Malcolm sits on the bench next to me, his dampened hair shining in the sun like gold. He pants slightly and gazes up at me with a cocky grin. “See, it’s going to be fine.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to believe that until the final second on the clock ticks off. These kids are ruthless, and I wouldn’t put it past them to try to pummel the strongest coach on that field.
“Are you mad?” He squirts his water bottle in his face and wipes the wetness with his palm. It feels obscene almost, like it should be happening behind closed doors, him stretching and raking his hands fully through his hair and shaking it out. I feel myself staring—no, gawking. Gah, what is so irresistible about this man now? Has he always been this attractive? Stupid question, Kate. Yes, he has. But why am I feeling attracted to his attractiveness all of a sudden?
I blame the slew of poor dates recently, getting dolled up in hopes of a connection, only to be left sitting on my couch at the end of the night, alone, with the pit of yearning deepening more and more. It’s almost a bottomless pit at this point. That and the tubs of ice cream that come with the couch sitting.
Maybe that’s what’s wrong.
Not the ice cream, but that I’m so ready to find someone that my hormonal instincts are drawn to the closest option I have, which is absolutely absurd and pathetic. If I let myself yearn over something I can’t have, then who’s to say I will keep my standards when I go on the next date when we get back?
The first half of the game goes by quicker than Coach Foust’s ankles being swept from underneath him. It was a sneaky move on our part, but the trick juke made Foust collide with the turf with a force you only see in the movies. The crowd gasped, the teams stopped, and Foust screamed like a toddler—like Emma’stwins when they weren’t allowed to eat a second cupcake at Henry’s birthday. He bounced back up quickly but tumbled again, giving in to the pain and benching himself.
Steven is delighted when I help wheel Foust into the tent during halftime, going full doctor mode while Emma questions his understanding of the safety briefing and if he had signed a waiver.
Clouds have started to cover the sky, making it more humid than hot but less scorching overall. I wince as I rub sunscreen on my neck and arms, cooling the sting of my darkened skin.
“Hold still,” Steven instructs Foust as he whimpers and flinches away from Steven’s touch. A double sprain is all he has, but you’d think he just received a terminal diagnosis based on the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Heading back out!” I call over my shoulder as I head back to the field. The second half starts in a few minutes, and I didn’t get a chance to check if Malcolm was feeling alright before they barreled off the field.
I make it to my post as the Red Team makes their way out, Eric bringing up the rear with their head coach for the game. He spots me and jogs over, my entire body going rigid in response, like he’s a bear and all I know to do is get into the fetal position.
Before I can get to the ground, he’s at my feet, winded and sweating. “Man, your guys are good!” he exclaims. “Johnson is fast for his size.”
“He’s worked really hard to get to this point. You won’t be disappointed when he’s with you next term.” I keep my eyes on the field to avoid Eric’s heavy gaze.
“For sure, for sure. And that Malcolm…” His words stall when my head whips to him, and Eric’s lip twitch up in a devilish grin. “He’s—”
“He’s what?” I snip, my thumb tingling at my side with the urge to be gnawed on. Clearing my throat, I adjust my tone to a more well-mannered one. “He’s what?”
“A strong athlete…” Eric pauses to evaluate my face, infuriating me more. I force it into a line, a nonchalant, I-couldn’t-care-less-what-you-have-to-say-about-my-best-friend line. “Is there something going on with you two?” His eyes light up with gleeful anticipation.
“There’s nothing going on with us,” I groan, throwing my head back, the overcast sky still bright enough to temporarily blind me.
“Alright, alright.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Just asking.”
Pressing my palm into the center of my head, I blink the sun out of my eyes and look at him. “It’s fine. It’s just…” My words linger in the air, like my thoughts, itching to get out in the open. Eric waits expectantly. “I don’t know what’s going on with Malcolm. He’s wonderful and my best friend. I would honestly die if I lost him, which is why I am currently trying to decide how to tell him we need better boundaries. Ya know, friend boundaries. Lately, things have gotten out of hand, like so out of hand I don’t even know how to go back to normal. I think about him all the time and wonder if he’s thinking about me. I wake up missing him. And I’m not sure when these feelings started, really.” I throw my arms out, my voice picking up at the relief of getting everything out. “I started dating again, about a month ago, right?” Eric’s face doesn’t change as he continues to listen. “I’d sworn off men for a while, didn’t want to deal with their nonsense. I mean, who does, right? But then Benny and Ellie got engaged and started planning their wedding, and everything was perfect. Except for me. I was lonely, I guess. I’m no spring chicken anymore—
“Kate, you’re only thir—”
