“Knew it.”
“Shut up.”
“Would if I could. I can’t.”
My face is warm and I hate everyone.
But when we head back out, I still look.
He’s still there.
Still watching.
Second half starts faster.
Messier.
The “accidental” tackles come late now. Shoulders harder. Their center back starts grabbing at my jersey every time I turn. The ref is either blind or philosophically committed to suffering.
By the sixtieth minute, my left hamstring is talking.
Not screaming.
Not failing.
Talking.
A warning line.
A little pull.
A reminder that bodies keep score no matter how badly you want them not to.
I ignore it.
Athletes are basically professionals at bargaining with our own flesh.
One more run.
One more cut.
One more sprint.
One more chance.
At sixty-eight, I beat their outside back to the corner and send a cross so clean it should’ve ended in a goal. At seventy-two, I track back forty yards and steal one right off their midfielder’s foot.
At seventy-six, I look up after a whistle and catch Tristan gripping the rail so hard I can see the tension in his forearms even from the field.
That should not feel as good as it does.
Drew is wrong.
He is so wrong.
I know what being watched with concern looks like.
I know what being wanted looks like too.
