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“We’re ready. But Coach gave me some shit about my new interest in art.”
Our eyes meet. Yikes. My dad knows Elias came to my class.
I wonder if I should ask him to leave. I really don’t want Elias to get kicked off the football team because of me. “What did you say?”
Despite the danger, we seem to have a silent agreement that we’re somehow going with this…whatever this is. I don’t think either one of us can resist how good it feels just to spend time together and to explore this sparked promise that’s gaining momentum. “I sort of agreed not to go the class anymore. But I’ve got my studio, even though I’m only auditing the class.”
“Have you even been inside your studio yet?”
To this he smiles. Not a full smile, just a playful half-smile that touches his eyes. Butterflies erupt inside my stomach. God. “No,” he says. “I like this one better.”
I nod toward the notebook he’s holding. “What’s that?”
“My playbook. I have to live, sleep and breathe this thing before Saturday. I can’t make any mistakes.”
“Sounds like you hardly ever do.”
“I do, believe me.”
“Have you always played football?”
“Yeah. For as long as I can remember. In fact one of my first memories is catching the toy football my dad threw to me. I was three, maybe. My dad was a football player when he was younger. He’s basically a lifelong fanatic. My first love was baseball though. I played both when I was a kid, through junior high. But then when I became the starting quarterback as a freshman in high school, my dad wanted me to focus exclusively on football.”
“Sounds like we’ve both spent a lot of our lives making sure our dads were happy.”
It’s a few seconds before he answers. “Maybe it’s time for us both to make sure we’re making ourselves happy too.”
“Maybe it is.” I make a point of not being completely starstruck by how freaking gorgeous he is in the fading light as the sun starts to set outside the window. The sky is lit with shades of red and orange, like it’s doing its best to highlight his magnificence.
I can admit that Elias O’Shea and I somehow seem to click. Nothing about this is awkward or weird. The small silences feel comfortable. He’s easy to be with and I find myself enjoying his company. Which is sort of a new feeling for me. I never really made friends all that easily, not in high school at least.
But something about his presence feels like—and I don’t want to use this word lightly because it feels too soon and too strong but it’s the feeling that comes to mind: Elias O’Shea feels like home. Except that I don’t know how he could. I hardly know him.
Then again, I’ve been hearing about his stardom and tactical prowess for three solid years. “I actually know a lot more about you than you’d think,” I admit, trying to keep this light as I squeeze some blue onto my palette and dab some onto my painting.
He’s doing that thing again where he watches me like I’m the most compelling person he’s ever met. “Yeah?”
“I never thought I was paying close attention when the football coaches hung out at my house, talking about the plays and the players non-stop. But I guess I picked up more than I thought.”
“Like what?”
“I know that your passing style is unique. You sometimes lob the ball instead of throwing it. You’re creative. You take risks that pay off and it’s hard to predict what moves you’re going to make.”
“You were listening.” Like this pleases him. “My passing style is unique because I’ve played so much baseball, at least that’s what the analysts say. And the critics. I’ve been told I sometimes throw the ball almost like I’m throwing a baseball. That’s why I can nail the shorter passes just as well as the longer ones. You’re right that it’s hard for the other team to predict what I’m going to do. So we design our plays with that in mind. We mix it up.”
“Do you love playing football?”
He thinks about this for a few seconds, as though he wasn’t expecting the question. “Yeah. I guess so. It’s been so much a part of my life for so long, it’s hard to think about doing anything else. My brain must be shaped like a football at this point.”
I steal a glance at him, resisting the urge to gaze at his outrageous hotness sort of dreamily before returning to my painting.
“I got you a box for Saturday,” he tells me.
This information causes me to look up, and I smear the blue further than I meant to. “Oh. I don’t usually—”
“I need you there.”
I pause, meeting his eyes levelly. “Why would you need me there?”
