We cycled through plays. Every catch, every cut, every fake tugged on my muscles and filled me with that glow that only came from a perfect rep. The world shrank to the crunch of my cleats, the clack of shoulder pads, and the sound of my own breath in my ears.
And still, between snaps, fragments of the other night slipped in.
The way Bennet clutched the armrest when the monster on screen jumped out. His hand had brushed mine in the popcorn bucket, then darted away like that single second had burned him. The way he tried to hide it when he laughed, lips pressed together, eyes bright behind the glasses.
Then to earlier, in my room, when I changed. I had turned my back to him without thinking while I stepped out of my sweatpants. Locker room habit. Bodies were just bodies in that space. Except I had felt his gaze, hot and careful on my shoulders, then dropping lower. Nothing physical actually touched me, but the attention itself had weight. My skin had prickled. I had wanted to turn around and catch him in the act, see what his face looked like when he forgot to be composed.
“Jason. You awake or what?” The quarterback snapped his fingers near my helmet.
I jolted. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Try not to float away, man. We need your hands here.”
“Got them right here,” I said, wiggling my fingers.
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted. We broke the huddle again.
This time, we practiced a timing route near the sideline. I sprinted, counted my steps, then cut at the invisible spot where the ball should appear. As my foot planted, the ball arrived, right on cue. I snatched it inches from the turf and dragged my toes inside the painted line.
Whistle. Coach’s shout of approval. Teammates crowding me with slaps on the helmet.
That feeling right there was what I lived for. The world acknowledged that I was good at something. I could see it in the eyes of everyone on this field. They trusted me with the ball. They trusted me with the game.
Bennet’s neat handwriting flashed through my mind.
Practice rolled on as the sun slid lower. Shadows stretched long over the grass. I ran until my legs trembled, then ran a little more. Sweat dampened my shirt, cooled in the breeze. I tasted salt on my lips. My lungs burned. I loved it.
Every time I paused long enough for my thoughts to wander, that quiet reality waited for me.
If I wanted this, the lights, the noise, the trust, and the feeling of crossing the line with the ball in my hands. If I wanted any of it to last, I had to sit at that library table and stare at numbers until my skull hurt. I had to watch Bennet explain variance and samples and all those other words that sounded like another language. I had to listen and not just joke my way through it.
The idea of passing Stats felt impossible. The idea of not walking onto this field felt worse.
So I ran my next route harder. I exploded off the line, out past the defender, right under the arc of the ball. And when I caught it, fingers closing around leather with that familiar satisfying thud, I let myself picture Bennet in the bleachers for a fraction of a second.
My chest kicked.
I tucked the ball and ran to the end of the practice.
Heat radiated off my body as I filed into the locker room and carried a towel to the shower. I tossed it over the door and let the hot water wash the sweat off my skin for a long moment, knots loosening in my muscles, lungs filling with air and steam.
I leaned forward, arms folding on the large, white tiles, head resting on my forearms, and water pelting my back. It wasn’t exactly surprising that Bennet floated around my mind in most spare moments. He was a fixed point of this semester, yes, but he was also a mystery. There was something unique about him. Beneath the cold, expressionless exterior, I could see aspark of interest, a glimmer of curiosity, and a good serving of something not so innocent.
He thought he could hide it well.
I saw through it like it was written on his forehead. I saw how nervous he got about seeing a movie together. I saw him glancing at the rainbow guitar strap. I saw him bite his lip after the lesson was over, and his gaze swept over my naked torso.
Not that I didn’t know what I was doing. It was almost like a compulsive behavior to test the limits. I pushed hard on the field and off the field. I searched for the lines I couldn’t cross. And Bennet had failed so hard that it was adorable. He didn’t even comment on it until the end, so he wasn’t exactly displeased.
I straightened and soaped up my body, muscles still burning from exertion. My hands rubbed the sore spots, and my heartbeat flooded my ears, drowning the terrible singing from the shower next to mine.
When I was squeaky clean, I turned off the flow of water and wiped myself dry, tying the towel around my waist. I strolled back to my locker in the mess of activity.
I dressed in a pair of comfortable sweatpants and a plain, dark brown sweater, put on my jacket, and carried my duffel out of the locker room. I had a date with a textbook in Professor Colby’s empty lecture room. Bennet had special access.
He waited for me in the lecture hall when I entered. It was a small one with an office attached to the side. An empty desk, a whiteboard, and other propswere placed on the far side of the room, and three rows of desks and chairs faced it.
Bennet sat behind Colby’s desk like he belonged there. I could see him there as easily as I could see him heading NASA someday. Hell, he was smart enough to just pick a path and follow it. Not like me, with a single talent under my belt and nearly zero chance to succeed at anything else.