“God, Riley. Please, tell me you’re sleeping together. I need to know what he’s like below the belt!”
“Ray!” I cut him off before he can keep going.
“Okay, I get it, it’s private.”
“It’s nonexistent. He and I are friends, more or less.”
“Well, at least tell me if you’re friends with benefits.”
I look at him sideways.
He puts a hand on his forehead and crosses his legs blatantly. “You’re a lost cause, Riley.”
The game begins and luckily Ray leaves me alone, too busy watching the most minute details out on the field; every tackle, every time someone gets pantsed.
I have to be honest, I’m not following the game at all. The only thing I’m able to keep my eye on is number 11. When he moves, when he stops, when he dries his sweat with his shirt, when he spits, when he breathes. His tensed muscles, the mud on his thighs, his messed-up hair, covered in sweat. His body, tense and ready to pounce on the ball at his first opportunity.
I can’t believe what I’m looking at, what is going through my mind and what I feel. Through my entire body.
Fire, adrenaline…desire.
Thank God, the first half ends and I am able to go back to breathing normally. I don’t think I’ve exhaled for the last 45 minutes and I don’t know if it’s possible to survive being underwater for this long.
“Wow,” Ray interrupts my train of thought. “Honey, tell me the reason you’re not sleeping with him is because he’s gay. Give me at least this little dash of hope.”
“I don’t think he’s gay,” I tell him apologetically.
Not in the farthest regions of my mind.
The players slowly make their way off the field, giving each other slaps on the back or the arse. Ian goes into the changing rooms, his back to me, and I can’t help feeling disappointed that he didn’t look this way even once.
After half time in which Ray and I go down to the concession stands to grab another beer, the players come back onto the field.
I sit back down and take a few more sips of my beer as my eyes watch the players going this way and that on the field, throwing themselves down, showing off, scoring and cheering, and internally, the image makes me smile – even though being here makes me nervous, I can’t deny how it makes me feel.
About fifteen minutes into the second half, Ian charges down the right-hand side of the field with the ball under his arm, running towards the goal. He doesn’t notice the pair of giants about two metres behind him, ready to tackle.
I stand up, spilling my beer all over Ray the moment they grab him and throw him to the ground. I hold back a scream, putting my hands in front of my mouth as more players pile up on top of him, maybe all of the other players, I don’t know. I can’t distinguish anything anymore, it’s all a mass of solid color.
Ray stands up too and wraps me under his arm and squeezes me tenderly to give me courage. After a few minutes of pandemonium, the players start to peel off one by one, but Ian is still laid out on the ground.
My heart is lodged in my throat and my anxiety tries to choke me. I feel like my legs can’t hold me up.
Ian isn’t moving.
His teammates all gather around him. The paramedics come out too, kneeling down next to him. Then, slowly, he starts to get up and I let out a sigh so heavy that Ray pulls me in even closer.
Ian looks around, dazed. The minute I see him scanning the crowd, I understand what it is he’s looking for. And when his eyes meet mine, I realise I won’t be able to let him go.
Because he’s inside of me. He always has been.
He’smyplayer.
“Just a friend, huh?” Ray says in my ear, but I ignore him.
I can’t give him an explanation when I don’t even know what to tell my own heart, which has reassembled itself as if by magic.
The pieces fit together perfectly with no help. Of course, there are fault lines, and it may never go back to how it used to be, but it’s whole.
And it’s beating again, for him.
I pace, torn between the urge to run away from what scares me and sprinting down to the field and throwing myself in his arms.
“I know it’s hard, honey,” Ray says sweetly, dragging me away from my thoughts. “It’s difficult to trust someone, to trust what you’re feeling and to let yourself go. It’s hard to understand and even harder to accept. It’s damn hard letting yourself fall into the emptiness. And you can say what you want, tell me the same lies you tell yourself, but Riley, your heart isn’t capable of lying. Your heart’s wearing a number 11 jersey, and it’s already rooting for him.”
