Page 4 of Tangled with the Tight End

“So when people ask him what he does for a living, he says ‘I’m a tight end’?”

Patrick chuckles. “Yes. And up until today, I never found that odd in the least.”

“Well, that’s on you,” I say.

Cass has her hand on her forehead. “I should have brought more snacks.”

“More snacks are always good,” I say. “But I’ll leave room for dinner.”

“A tight end,” Patrick says, regaining composure and looking a lot like my ninth grade math teacher used to when I struggled with an equation.

To be fair, I don’t use any of those equations now, so I think I was right in questioning their usefulness. But that’s beside the point. Patrick, my self-appointed football teacher, is talking about Declan and his oddly-named job.

“... mainly blocks other players so he can create gaps where the other players can run or pass the ball. But he also functions as a receiver.”

“Of the ball?” I ask.

“Yes. Of the ball. He can catch the ball and make a touchdown.”

“That’s where the ball goes over the line at the end by those posts?”

“Exactly,” Patrick says, beaming.

I don’t really understand what he said except that Declan blocks something and sometimes catches the ball.

“When do they use their feet?” I ask Patrick.

“Their feet?”

“For football.”

Again, the whole row of our friends laughs like I told a joke.

“It’s called football, but the only foot that ever touches the ball is the kicker.”

I just shake my head and sit back on the bleachers. That piece of information alone tells me I will never understand this game. The sun is warm on my face and the men are sort of cute in their tights, so I watch them throwing the ball, not kicking it, and running all over the place.

After a while, a whole group of kids shows up, and the players stop practicing so they can show the kids how to throw or kick. There’s a lot of kicking then. More than in the practice. Seems extra since those kids won’t really kick much if they get into the real football. I hate to break the disappointing news to them. If they want their foot on a ball, this is not the place.

Practice eventually ends. A lot of reporters show up, sticking their microphones in front of the players’ faces and interviewing them. Some of the reporters even interview the kids.

After all that, Declan jogs over to the bleachers. His helmet is off, his hair is sweaty, but in a way that doesn’t look gross at all. How does someone manage to sweat and look attractive? It’s a phenomenon. When I sweat, I look like I nearly drowned—and not in a good way.

“Thanks for coming out,” Declan says, tucking his helmet under his arm and pinning it there with his elbow.

“Thanks for having us,” I say.

Declan looks me straight in the eyes. It’s disarming. Certain people are like really beautiful artwork. They have this quality that makes them seem almost super-human. Declan is one of those people.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Declan asks me.

Did I enjoy myself? I didn’t not enjoy myself.

“It was interesting,” I say.

“We loved it,” Cass says, practically talking over me. “Thanks so much.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty rare that they open a practice,” Declan says. “Only during training camp and on the day we bring the kids out. Family day.”