I want to say, “None of that mattered.” I want to say, “I deleted the apps.” I want to say, “You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted like this.” But the words stick.
They clog.
Instead I just stare at his shoes, soaked from the run, and wish I knew how to not fuck this up.
The third thought comes with a punch of pure dread, and it’s so strong I almost blurt it out loud: the team.
Two guys on the same roster.
After the shooting, after Caleb.
With the media still camped out on our practice facility and the locker room held together with duct tape, caffeine, and trauma bonding, what happens if this gets out?
What happens to the new guy, the eternal sub, the one everyone just barely tolerates on a good day?
What happens to Darius, the anchor, the captain in all but name, if they find out he dumped his “forever girlfriend” for a benchwarmer who can’t even stay on the same line two weeks running?
I picture O’Doul’s face, the twitch in Raz’s jaw, the raw violence of a locker room when it smells blood.
I picture Coach Vasquez, the only woman I know who can reduce a grown man to rubble with a single look, and imagine her doing the math, realizing she’s got a PR nightmare brewing before the end of the season.
I picture my phone lighting up with a thousand notifications, none of them from the person I want.
That’s the killer. I’d still do it anyway.
But all I manage is, “This is a terrible idea.”
He barks out a laugh, but it’s not mean. “Yeah. I know.”
We stand there, the two of us, the city waking up behind us, the gulls doing their screaming toddler impression above our heads.
My hands want to do something, punch a wall, pull at my own hair, maybe reach out and take his. Instead, I jam them in my pockets, because that’s where my feelings go when I don’t know what else to do.
“Let’s walk,” I say, and it comes out too fast, but he nods and falls in beside me.
The path hugs the bay, slick with old rain, the benches empty except for the one where a homeless guy is using a plastic bag as a pillow.
Darius’s stride matches mine, down to the microsecond. We walk like that for a minute, not touching, but the space between us is a live wire, crackling with every second of silence.
I want to ask him what changed. I want to ask why now, why here, why me. I want to ask if he’s scared.
But the truth is I already know the answer, because it’s the same for me. It’s always been the same for me.
The air smells like salt and diesel.
The cold snaps at my face and makes my teeth ache. The sun is up now, really up, painting everything in a sterile, uncompromising blue.
I glance sideways. His face is set, eyes fixed on the horizon, but the corner of his mouth twitches every time I look too long.
“You ever think we’re just…” I trail off, no idea how to finish.
He waits. “Fucked up?”
“Yeah,” I say, and the word tastes like relief. “That.”
He shrugs. “Everybody’s fucked up. Some people just have better cover stories.”
He says it like a joke, but I want to take it apart, see how it works. I want to ask him what his cover story was, before this. I want to ask him if he’s happy, if this is what he wanted, if he ever doubted it for a second.
