20
George
Saturday afternoon at Bayfront Stadium is loud as hell. Sixty thousand fans are on their feet, the roar vibrating up through the concrete under my boots. Vince Holloway just hauled in a forty-yard bomb and spiked the ball in the end zone like the field belongs to him. The sun beats down hard. Bay wind cuts through the stands, carrying the smell of grilled onions, beer, and too many bodies packed tight.
We sit fifteen rows up from the fifty, courtesy of Vince. We’re close enough to actually see the routes break and the blocks set instead of just watching helmets crash. Lance is right beside me, Adrian on his other side, then Trevor and Becca anchoring the row. All of us in the jerseys Adrian shipped out last month, blue and silver San Francisco Tritons kits withHollowayacross the back and number seventeen stamped beneath it in bold lettering. Adrian’s been pacing his energy since the opening kickoff two hours back, keeping it tight.
The Tritons hold a 21–7 lead over the Portland Timberwolves, and Vince is making it look easy. His cuts are crisp and decisive, and on that last play he hauled in a catch driven clean between two defenders who may as well have been standing still.
Lance can’t stay in his seat. Every big play, he grabs my left arm, fingers digging in without thinking. The splint came off days ago, but I still feel the old injury when he gets too excited. I don’t pull away.
I notice every single touch now.
He calls out plays like I need the commentary. I listen anyway. When Portland finally scores, he groans and tips his head all the way back. The line of his throat catches the sunlight. I force my eyes back to the field.
In the fourth, with the Tritons up big, the jumbotron sweeps our section and locks onto our row. The crowd around us starts pointing and laughing. Down on the sideline, Vince glances up, and I watch his face fight a grin and lose. The camera zooms on Adrian, who waves like a maniac with both hands. Trevor grabs the side of his head and holds him there like he’s showing him off to Vince on the field. Becca smacks Trevor’s arm. Adrian laughs and tries to squirm free. The shot catches all five of us before it moves on.
“We’re on TV,” Lance says, smug. “I looked good, right?”
“You looked fine.”
“Fine?” He turns, grinning wide. “Come on, give me something better.”
I meet his eyes. “Looked real pretty up there, Lance Bradford.”
His grin slips for a second, then he drags it back into place. “Thanks, G.”
The Tritons close it out 42-28. When the final whistle blows, Lance launches himself at me. I catch him around the waist and lift him off the ground, right hand flat against his back. He laughs into my neck, arms tight around me.
“Holloway’s a fucking star!” he laughs.
I set him down easy and he slides to his feet. We’re still too close. Awareness hits him and he steps back, face flushed red.
“Sorry,” Lance says, voice lower now. “I keep doing that.”
“Don’t apologize.”
He swallows. “I’ll try to keep my hands to myself.”
“I said don’t.”
The words come out harsh, urgent. Lance’s eyes flick down to my mouth for a split second, then back up. He looks like he wants to say something else, something heavier, but he bites it back. Instead he just stares at me, the air between us suddenly thick and charged. Neither of us moves.
Trevor starts herding everyone toward the aisle, yelling something about beating the rush to the locker room. The moment breaks, but the heat in Lance’s eyes stays with me all the way down the concrete steps.
The next morning, we leave Pacific Heights. Vince and Adrian walk us out to the truck while Trevor and Becca load their bags into the Uber that will take them to the Embarcadero BART station.
Adrian pulls Lance into a quick hug. “Thanks for coming up.”
Lance returns the hug and claps him hard on the shoulder. “Appreciate you letting us crash, man. And for everything else this weekend…” He smirks. “You and Vince really went all out on us. And congrats on the win, Holloway.”
Adrian pulls back with a wicked grin. “What can I say? We like spoiling our favorite idiots.”
Lance’s laugh fades into something warmer. He nods. “Yeah…thank you.”
Adrian’s grin softens. “Anytime. Door’s always open for you two. Don’t be strangers.”
Vince walks with me around to the driver’s side. I glance over and see Lance laughing at something Adrian says, throwing his head back.
