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I can definitely agree with that. “True enough.”
“I think you just need to bang the angst right out of your system,” Gabe tells me philosophically.
I glance around again to make sure we’re not being overheard. “The thing is, I can’t. My dick won’t let me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m just not feeling it. No one’s living up to my fantasies lately. It’s a fucking problem.”
“It happens to me too.”
“It does?”
Gabe eyes me thoughtfully. “Yeah.”
“How long does it last?”
“I basically have to force myself to get back in the saddle. I override the situation by pretending whoever I’m with is my dream girl. Like I did on Saturday night. Which I now regret. Maybe that’s why beer was invented.”
I exhale something close to a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah, maybe I just haven’t been drinking enough.”
“Either that or you’re more of a romantic than you give yourself credit for. Maybe you’re getting tired of bed-hopping. Maybe you’ve fucked the thrill of meaningless one nights stands out of your system and now you’re looking for something more. Maybe you’re looking for The One.”
I don’t bother admitting I’ve had those exact thoughts myself. This is what I mean. I sometimes think Gabriel can read minds. “What if I don’t want to be looking for The One? What if The One doesn’t exist?”
“She fucking better.” He’s checking his bag for something. “Shit. I left my gloves out on the bench.”
“We can go out that way.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with waiting for the real thing, Elias.”
I shake my head a little and sigh more deeply than I have in a while. “I don’t know if that’s what I’m doing. I’m losing my fucking mind, that’s what I’m doing.”
He smiles sort of ruefully, like he gets it. “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
So we make our way outside to the benches. Coach is still talking to Noah and Mitch, no doubt either making their life a living hell or giving them a pep talk, or some combination of both.
Gabe finds his gloves and we start walking along the sideline toward the exit to the parking lot. “You want to hit the food trucks? Or head into town?”
“Food trucks works for me.” Most of the team are gone by now, either home or to the training center, where they have food for the players after every practice. It’s usually only the freshman and sophomores who eat there. The food is free but basic and two years of eating egg salad sandwiches is more than enough.
There’s also academic assistance for the players, if they need it, which some of the guys go to, to keep their grades up. Coach insists on it. The tutoring isn’t something I’ve needed to use very often. Gabe, not at all.
Someone’s walking this way and my gaze slides over her. She doesn’t look like a cheerleader or part of the team’s physiotherapy cohort.
She’s small and petite. She’s wearing baggy jean overalls with a white, tight-fitting long-sleeved t-shirt under it. Definitely not a cheerleader. Her hair is wavy, different shades of light brown and blond, pulled up. Long, curled strands that frame her face catch the late afternoon breeze. The sun-bleached ends of her curls are almost white-blond. Her overalls are speckled with paint. So are her white sneakers.
I’m weirdly mesmerized by the way she moves. It’s not quite a walk and not quite a skip. It’s like she’s happy about something. Excited to get to wherever she’s going.
As she gets closer, I can see her face more clearly.
She’s cute but also…gorgeous. Stunning. More than that. Angelic. She’s radiating this sweet, dazzling glow that’s quite literally lighting up the stadium.
Our eyes meet as she approaches us but then she sees Gabe and she smiles like he’s familiar to her.
He knows her? She’s happy to see him?
Why? How? In what way?
