“That makes sense. I didn’t even think about that. I guess because I didn’t know you then, I don’t think of you that way.”
“It’s refreshing,” I say honestly.
“I need to know if I’m contributing to a problem, though. Not just to be courteous to the people in your life that are clearly worried about you, but also because I wouldn’t want to compromise your safety or stability.” He’s speaking in a measured, careful tone, weighing each word as he says them.
“You’re like a sexy Southern Boy Scout.”
“I was an Eagle Scout.”
“Of course you were.”
He chuckles. “Thank you for sharing all that with me, though. I imagine it can’t be easy. I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to be honest with me.”
“Have I scared you off yet?”
“I’m not any more scared than I was before.”
“Well at least there’s that.” There’s a long moment of silence where I wonder if Luc has fallen asleep. “Luc?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re thinking about it, right?”
“Yeah, beautiful. I’m thinking about it. I’m always thinking about it.”
THIRTEEN
LUC
“Alright boys! Shut ‘em down!” Coach claps and breaks the huddle, sending us out on the field. I settle into my spot just outside the line, scanning the offense.
We’re up by five and there’s only a couple of minutes left in the game. The ball is on our forty-yard line, and if Miami gets in the end zone, they’ll be able to turn the score in their favor with little-to-no room on the clock for miracle plays to pull off the win.
But they have to get through us first.
Miami’s quarterback shouts and the line shifts. I know this look. I’ve spent hours reviewing game footage. He shifts to his right, a slot receiver stacked inside. Rocke is tracking him. Good. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he uses this play to bolt straight downfield, looking for a quick strike.
The ball snaps. AJ Leon bursts through their line like a bulldozer, blowing their protection apart. On the edge, Dez Carter bends around the tackle, hell-bent on a sack. The quarterback senses the pressure, but he’s calm. He sees hiswindow–a receiver sprinting open down the seam. But I see him, too, and I’m already moving before the ball leaves his hand. It cuts through the air, a perfect, smooth spiral.
I dart towards the receiver, ready to drive into him the moment the ball touches his hands, but I get there just a fraction of a second before he does. Diverting my attention at the last moment, I break across and step right in front of him. Leather smacks into my chest and I lock my arms around the ball just as the receiver crashes into my back. I stumble but maintain my footing and take off the other way, towards their end zone.
Ten yards fly by under my feet. Then fifteen. The sideline opens up, and the crowd detonates, a wall of noise so loud it rattles my helmet from here.
Two of Miami’s players drag me down near the thirty-yard line. I hit the turf, ball cradled tight, a smile behind my facemask.
I stand, eyes wide at the madness around me, bracing as a wall of white and gold comes rushing towards me. AJ knocks his helmet into mine and screams like an absolute maniac. Dez whoops, and Treyden Rocke is slamming his fists against his chest pads, yelling, “That’s right, baybee! That’s right!”
As we head back to the sideline, Monty rips my helmet off and kisses the side of my head before taking the field. “Dinner’s on me, Martín!”
I pick up my helmet, more aware than ever of the cameras following me as my teammates and Coach congratulate me on a great play. One gets rather close, and I wonder if Jesse is watching. I shift my eyes to the camera briefly, as if I could see him there, then look away, smiling to myself.
We end up winning 46-34 after Monty makes a clean drive to the end zone, and our kicker puts up the extra point.
Tonight is not a night where I’m able to keep my head down. Coach Harrick actually shrugs when I’m immediately pulled to the side for a post-game interview, after being forced to endure a quick ride on my teammate’s shoulders. I keep my statement quick and to the point, and then I’m thankfully torn away from the cameras by an overexcited defensive tackle who mutters, “I got you,” under his breath as he manhandles me.
Once we’re in the tunnel, I smile at AJ gratefully. “Thank you,” I say sincerely.
“Anytime, my man. I know you hate that shit,” he says, locking his arm around my shoulders. The moment we step into the locker room, everyone starts clapping and cheering. A ball hits me hard in the chest, and I almost don’t react in time to catch it.
