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I couldn’t help myself from snapping away when I saw the dimples on Dallas’s cheeks. The pure joy in the glint of his eyes and the hook of a smile on his mouth. It’s like his stress melts away when he steps on a football field.
It’s where he comes alive.
“This one is great,” he finally says. “Jett was telling me his fourteen-year-old brother could beat me in a fight, and I agreed with him.”
“Is his brother also six-foot-two? If not, I’d put my money on you.”
“He’s close, believe it or not. And two hundred and fifteen pounds. He’d break me like a stick. If the NFL didn’t have such strict draft eligibility rules, I’d be begging Shawn to throw every penny at him so he could join our defensive line when he graduates high school.” Dallas chuckles, and his knee knocks against mine. “These pictures are incredible, Maven. I like that you don’t only get the action shot, but what comes after it, too.”
“That’s what I love about sports photography.” I scoot closer to the counter and lean forward, invading his space. “There’s a story. We get a beginning, a middle, and an end. Like this one.” I click on an image of Dallas. It’s taken from the side, just as he’s kicked a field goal. I zoomed in, close enough where you can see his eyes tracking the ball. The way he sticks the tip of his tongue out of his mouth in concentration, and the bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. “If I showed this to anyone, they’d be able to tell exactly what’s happening.”
“They’d know I just kicked a sixty-one-yard field goal and got out of running laps with the rest of the team after our scrimmage. Guess I haven’t lost my touch.”
“Cocky, I see.” I turn to look at him. We’re so close, I can feel the heat on his arms from hours spent outside. I can smell his shampoo and the lingering traces of the spices he used to cook dinner. “I’m glad you like them.”
“They’re fantastic. You should be proud of yourself. I don’t see any under composition or exposure images.”
I laugh. “Close. I’m excited to shoot an actual game. That’ll be my chance to see how much I’ve learned.”
“Tons, I bet. How did June do today when y’all got home from the stadium?”
“She was great. We’re past the crying phase when you leave, I think. We went to the park, and after her nap, we spent the rest of the time before you got home on the couch watchingFrozen.”
Dallas groans. “Sorry. I should’ve warned you that’s her favorite movie. She watches it every day, and singing along is required.”
“I figured that out on Thursday after watching it for the fourth day in a row.”
“If you want the television to mysteriously stop working for an afternoon so you can get a break from the singing snowman, let me know. I’ll unplug it before I leave tomorrow.”
“No way.” I prop my feet up on the foot rest of his stool and lean an inch closer to him. “We had a blast, and I already can’t wait to watch it again.”
“Famous last words. I’ll come back in two months and see if you’re still saying that.”
“In two months, we’ll be deep into the season. Are you ready to get back into the swing of things? You strike me as a guy who likes routine.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Everything in the apartment is organized. Bins for toys are labeled. You have a color-coded calendar on the wall by therefrigerator, and over the past few seasons, I’ve noticed your pregame warm up is always exactly the same,” I say.
“Keeping an eye on me, Maven?” he teases, and the dimple on his right cheek pops, sharp enough to cut glass.
“I guess I am. You’re so busy taking care of a tiny human, and it makes me wonder who’s taking care of you.”
Dallas pauses, and he fills the silence with a long sip from his beer. “I do like routine,” he says, and his voice is lower than before. Rough and ragged, and pulled from deep in his chest. “I like it a lot more now that I’m responsible for another human.”
“Is that your biggest fear? Responsibility and being the one in charge?”
“No. I love responsibility—it’s why I like being captain so much. I’m afraid of failure, though. I’m constantly worried about having someone else rely on me, and I’m afraid if one little thing shifts out of balance, everything else will be ruined.” He lifts his chin, and our eyes meet. “What’s your biggest fear?”
“We’re getting deep, aren’t we?”
“We could go back to talking about singing snowmen. I know every lyric to every song, and it’s much lighter than this adult bullshit.”
“How often do you talk about this adult bullshit, though?”
“Never,” he says.
“That’s what I thought. Maybe it’s good to get it out.” I consider his question for a minute before answering. “I’m afraid I’ll never be good enough. That I missed out on the opportunity to be the best version of myself, and everything else is just going to be second best. I’m still trying to figure out who the hell I am. For so long, my entire world was a singular thing—soccer. I lived it. I breathed it. Everything revolved aroundthat. Now that that thing has been taken from me, I’m having an identity crisis. And, within that crisis, there’s this constant fear that no matter what I do, I’ll never be as good as the old Maven.”
