“And yet,” I said.
“And yet.”
Something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.
He walked to his car.
I stood in the parking lot and watched him pull out and then stood there a moment longer in the cold, hands in my pockets, the facility dark behind me.
Tomorrow morning practice. Tomorrow afternoon a restaurant with Nathan Cross who had saidwe could golike it was a simple thing, like it was just a fact he was reporting.
We could go.
I got in my car.
I drove home not thinking about the game this week or Knox or Dylan or the reporters or any of it. Just the parking lot and the corner-of-the-mouth thing andwe could gositting in my chest like something that had found the right place to be.
For the first time in a long time I went home without performing anything for anyone.
It felt strange.
It felt good.
19
"So," I said to my reflection. "How was your day?"
My reflection stared back.
"Right," I said. "We were at the same practice. Okay."
I tried again.
"So." I pointed at my reflection. "Us. You and me. What are we—"
My reflection had the decency to look horrified.
"I like you," I said.
That was—okay. That was a thing a person could say. Simple. Direct. Nathan would appreciate direct. Nathan was a direct person.
"I like you," I said again, trying it out. "I think about you a lot. The thumb thing you did. On my jaw. I think about that a lot."
I closed my eyes.
"Do not say the thumb thing," I told myself.
I opened them.
"What are we doing?" I tried. "Like, what is this? Are you my boyfriend? Can I call you my boyfriend? Are you too old to be called a boyfriend, is there another word, should I ask—"
I stopped.
"Do not ask if he's too old to be called a boyfriend," I said. “He’s not even old.”
I thought about it for a second.
"What do you want from me?" I tried.
