We stay out there for a couple of hours, hiking and finding lookout points, Lucas taking photos, and me watching him do it like it’s this foreign subject I’ve never learned about but am suddenly fascinated by. He’s both serious and silly, one minute sarcastic, the next saying something profound or talking to flowers or ladybugs.
It feels like no time has passed at all, and then we’re in my car and I’m making the drive back to West Hollywood. I don’t park, instead pulling up in front of the building. I feel his eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anything, and then he’s unlocking his seat belt.
“I’m not sure if I should thank you for getting me out of the house or if I’m annoyed.”
“You had fun.”
“I thought I was supposed to be the one showing you how to have fun?” he questions.
He is, and I’m still working through how to feel about that. “Looks like I’m better at it than you,” I tease.
“Or maybe you get lucky once in a while. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go inside to eat chocolate cake and smoke ten cigarettes to counter the healthy activity of the day.”
I roll my eyes. “You should stop smoking.”
“But then what would you have to give me shit about?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can think of other things.”
Lucas laughs as he opens the door. “Goodbye, Hunter.”
“Goodbye, Lucas.”
I watch him until he disappears inside his building…and maybe I sit there a little longer afterward.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lucas
The next Sunday,I find myself doing the last thing I should be doing—or hell, even wanting to do—I watch football. The Pulse are in Denver, and as much as I don’t want to care, I’m curious how Hunter will play.
We haven’t seen each other since Tuesday, but we’ve been texting nearly every day. Sometimes he’ll send a random message first, other times it’s me, and then we…continue. I’m tired of second-guessing what we’re doing and why, tired of berating myself for it daily, so now I’m ignoring any questions and guilt and doing my best to pretend those things don’t exist.
The first carry of the game is a handoff to Hunter, who works his way around multiple defenders, then barrels through a few of them, before getting tackled, but having picked up fifteen yards. I sit up straighter, my gaze firmly on the screen. That was a good play, a good way to start the game.
The next play, their quarterback fakes a pass, but again hands off to Hunter for a gain of twelve. This is the best start he’s had this season. I don’t want to get my hopes up that things are about to take a turn for the better based on him playing well for two plays, but my pulse is beating faster, my stomach anxious aboutfootball—something that neverhappens unless it’s dread from when my dad used to make me play when I was little.
The third play is a bust and they lose two yards, but then they’re at the line, the center snapping the ball to their QB, and Hunter shoots down the side of the field like a rocket. He’s one of those running backs who’s not only super fucking fast, but he’s also incredibly strong, so he’s good at passing plays as well as fighting his way through the defense for a running play.
As soon as the ball leaves their QB’s hand, I know he’s aiming for Hunter, and Hunter turns at just the right time. There’s no one by him—he’s too fast—and the pass is perfect, falling straight into his arms. A second later, he’s gunning for the end zone. He’s almost there when a defensive player from Denver comes out of nowhere, but Hunter seems to feel it before he sees it. My dad has always talked about Hunter’s senses when it comes to the game, and while I hate to agree with my dad on anything, he’s right about this. Hunter spins around the guy, then dives over the line, rolling, then jumping to his feet. He throws the football to the ground, then lifts his arms, flexing his muscles before transitioning into a dance. It’s fucking ridiculous, ridiculous and stupid, but then I’m on my feet too, arms in the air, heart in my throat, and being ridiculous and stupid myself.
But fuck, I know how much he needed this. I feel the weight on him, threatening to pull him under, every time I see him or talk to him. Hunter is drowning without the game being to him what it’s always been, without excelling, and as much as I hate the game, I don’t hate him, and I want him to have that.
Once they’re done celebrating their touchdown on the first run of the game, the Pulse kicker comes out, nailing the extra point too. 7–0. Let’s do this!
*
Me: 123 rushing yards. Always gotta be an overachiever.
It’s a risk sending a football text to Hunter because that’s mostly something we try to avoid. Still, I’m proud of him, want him toknowI’m proud of him. He’s got to be flying high right now.
Hunter: You watched my game!
Me: That’s what you got out of what I said?
Hunter: Well, I know I’m good, so that doesn’t come as a surprise. You watching me play, though…
Me: I take it back. I’ll never watch again. I didn’t realize Cocky Hunter had returned.
