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Do you like football?

Bryce falls in step at my shoulder.

He’s warm and clean scented,

like rain and fresh-cut apples.

“Playing or watching?”

Dumb thing to say! Of

course he didn’t mean

playing. Tick-tick-tick.

You like to play football?

He sounds really pleased.

Actually, I meant watching.

There’s a game tomorrow?

“I … uh … love football.”

It’s a slight exaggeration.

Aunt Cora loves football,

so I tolerate it. Hours of it.

Bryce grins. Want to go with me?

He’s asking me to the game?

Like a “sit next to him in the stands,

knee touching knee” kind of date?

Tick-tick. Stay cool. “Sure.”

Suddenly I’m acutely aware

of his body, pressed up against

mine. It feels proprietary. I like it.

Cool. I’ll see you at lunch.

Before he turns away, he leans

into me, and his lips brush

the pulse just below my ear.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-TICK!

I THINK