Then I pushed that thought all the way out of my head. He was just helping me dress.
When I looked at him, he was smiling. He was always smiling. He and his dimples. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I said.
We stepped out of the house, and I knew I was making a terrible mistake. Knowing myself, I would eventually attach meaning to this, and I would have to work very hard to erase it when the reality finally became clear.
His date had cancelled. He had a spare ticket. He was friendly and helpful. And couldn’t keep a straight face for more than five minutes. And he was confident in his sense of humor. That was all there was to it.
But keeping that in mind while Jason’s shoulder occasionally touched mine as we walked was more difficult than getting him to understand the basics of statistics.
CHAPTER FIVE
jason
The late-afternoon lightmade the field glow. Fresh-cut grass, white paint on the yard lines, helmets stacked near the benches. This was my church. Whistle in Coach’s mouth, ball in the quarterback’s hands, my cleats digging into turf.
We ran warm-ups until my lungs burned. Sprint out, turn, sprint back. Lateral shuffles, high knees. The rhythm settled into my muscles. Up, down, breathe, do it again. My body knew this pattern better than anything that I’d ever seen in a textbook.
“Alright, routes,” Coach shouted.
We jogged to the line of scrimmage. I tugged my gloves, flexed my fingers, and rolled my shoulders. The quarterback called the play, and the words slid into place in my head as clean as puzzle pieces.
I lined up wide, toes behind the line. Across from me, the corner stared at my hips, focused and sharp. I grinned at him. He didn’t grin back.
Bennet would hate this, I thought. Not the game itself but the chaos of it. Too many moving parts, not enough neat columns. He would try anyway. He would sit with his pencil and figure out how to count all of this.
The quarterback barked, and the ball snapped. My world narrowed to green and possibility. I exploded off the line, hips low, driving forward. The corner tried to jam me, fingers at my chest. I slapped his hand away, cut inside, then broke out, feet working like mad. Three hard strides, then I turned my route vertical.
Wind bit at my face, and my legs pumped. I felt the coverage shift and sensed the safety drifting toward me. Good. Take the bait. One more sharp plant of my foot, and then I bent my path toward the middle of the field.
The ball left the quarterback’s hand. I saw the spiral before I truly looked for it. It spun in the air, white laces, brown leather, carving its way through the cold blue sky.
For a second, the whole world slowed. The ball hung between sky and ground. I reached for it without thinking. Hands met leather, fingers closed, and the impact thudded through my chest. I tucked it tight and felt the corner slam into my side. My cleats dug in. I kept my balance, kept moving, kept shifting. One more shove and I broke free.
“Go, Jason,” someone shouted behind me.
Yard lines blurred under my feet. The end zone was just ahead, wide and welcoming. Adrenaline rushedthrough me, bright and clean. I crossed the line, let myself slow, then flipped the ball to the nearest teammate. Shouts and whoops followed.
“Beautiful,” the quarterback called. “You sold that post.”
I lifted a hand in answer, panting, sweat already cooling on my back. My chest rose and fell. My legs buzzed.
Bennet’s voice slid in out of nowhere, from the other night.Averages reveal trends. Standard deviations reveal consistency. Significance tests reveal whether any difference is meaningful or random.
I had stored his words somewhere in my brain. Now they floated up while I rolled my shoulders and jogged back to the huddle.
I saw him beside me for a heartbeat, in my mind, his small notebook in his hands instead of gloves, eyebrows pulled tight while he watched the play. I imagined him muttering about sample sizes while I ran. The image made my mouth twitch.
“Again,” Coach yelled.
We ran it in the other direction. This time, I drew coverage, opening space for the receiver. My route was a decoy, but I ran it like the ball was mine. That was the rule. Trust the pattern. Trust the guy throwing. Trust that your job matters even when no one sees it.
I cut, pushed, and sprinted. The corner grabbed my jersey for a second, then let go. I heard pads collide behind me as the slot caught the pass andturned upfield.
In my mind, for one ridiculous moment, Bennet sat in the stands with a stats sheet. Little circles around my routes, notes in the margins, and my name at the top. I laughed under my breath and swallowed it before anyone heard.
“Focus,” I muttered to myself.