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My painting is going viral.
11
The afternoon sun throws long shadows across the football field. I’m so in my element I might as well have been born out of this green grass and this blue September sky. These chalked lines and this singular concentration that can only be found here, inside the pocket. Everything about my life has led me to this place. This play. This season. It will define my entire future and I’m here for it.
But the future suddenly feels sparked with so much more than just football, the championship, the draft, the career, the success. All the things that have hung over my head for as long as I can remember. All the things I’ve been living for, breathing for, planning for and working toward. Now is my moment to realize them. What I wasn’t expecting was for all those things to take on a completely different shape since the second I saw her.
They’re all for her.
Somehow, the little freshman nymphette with the sparked eyes and the shy smile has taken over my entire outlook. She fucking owns it, just like that. I don’t know how she swanned into my life, batted her sweeping eyelashes at me once and managed to hook herself deep into my beating heart.
It’s like she’s watching me from my peripheral vision, a soft, dizzying distraction in this world of aggression and competition.
I make the pass and the ball soars, the spiral cutting a decisive path through the air. It lands securely in Gabriel’s arms as he sprints toward the end zone, using a perfect pass to finish a perfect play.
Jake jogs over to me. “Play like that on Saturday and you’ll be able to name your price, Chief. You’re on fire, man.”
He’s not wrong. Fire doesn’t even begin to describe what’s happening to me. My new obsession is forging in my blood, fine-tuning my focus into something that feels almost supernatural.
I want to win for her.
“Damn, O’Shea,” West chimes in. “That art class really must be inspiring you.”
Gabriel lobs the ball in my direction as he makes his way back this way.
Reflexively, I catch it. “Careful, Hawkins, my aim is exceptionally good.”
“He’s just expanding his playbook, boys,” Jake jokes. “Some of us use words, some use art, and some, like West, use tacos.”
“Hey,” West protests, “never underestimate the seductive power of a good taco.”
Coach’s whistle blows, signaling the end of practice, and I feel the weight of his gaze even before he dismisses the others and calls me over. His arms are crossed over his chest and he contemplates me as I walk up to him, pulling off my helmet. I’m at least a head taller than he is but the guy has a staunchness to him I’m very familiar with. I don’t want to piss off my coach and I wish I didn’t have to.
He takes his time, waiting until the others wander off toward the locker room. “I’ve been informed you’ve added another class to your schedule. A freshman art class. What the hell for, O’Shea? You’ve got more important things to be concentrating on right now.”
“I’m only auditing the class, Coach.” I’ve already planned how this conversation might go. I’ve prepared my reply. “I thought, since it’s my last chance, I’d take the opportunity to broaden my horizons. My grandmother once told me I had a painter’s soul. I wasn’t sure what she meant by that at the time, so I wanted to see if it was true.” It sounds cheesy as fuck, and borderline disrespectful. So I add, “She was my mother’s mother. She used to visit every summer so she could get to know me since she lived in Oregon. We’d spend two whole weeks doing paint by numbers. It was our thing.” It happens to be true, even if it’s not the reason I’m taking the art class.
He glowers up at me, not mentioning Zara, even though he’s bound to know she’s in the class, like he’s afraid that stating that fact out loud might somehow confirm his worst suspicions. “It’s in your best interests to drop the class, Elias. Immediately.”
“It’s purely for self-enrichment and academic exploration, sir. I’ll only go when it doesn’t interfere with my football schedule.”
More glaring. But his tone is laced with fatherly advice under his steely delivery. “You’re smart, Elias. And you’re on the cusp of greatness. My suggestion to you, as NFL scouts watch your every move between now and January, when we both know you’ll be invited to the Combine if you continue to play like you’re playing, is to keep your eye on the ball. Whatever game you’re playing, you need to rethink your strategy and pronto.”
“I’m not playing any other game besides football, Coach.” It’s true. I have no intention of playing games with Zara Fox. I’m a hundred percent serious about getting her to fall in love with me. But I’m not about to tell that to her father. Not yet, at least.
“I think we also both know that scouts are rarely interested in players whose coaches have issues with them,” he tells me. “My feedback plays into their decisions, as you’re well-aware. If any information comes across as negative, then more often than not those players are removed from the value boards. Am I making myself clear enough?”
“Crystal, Coach.”
It’s a threat, obviously, but there’s a silent plea behind it. He needs me. This team has chemistry and I’m the driver, the play-maker, the commander who brings it all together. We both know that. There’s no way in hell this team has a shot at the playoffs if I’m not here to guide us. “Good. Then I don’t want to hear any more about the art class. If you’ve got that much time on your hands you can schedule an extra session with the training team.”
I don’t confirm or deny. Okay, so I won’t go to the class. But I still have access to the studio. Which is directly across the hall from Zara’s. Which is where I’m headed directly after practice.
