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“Mmm.” I laugh, and lick his lower lip one more time. “Tastes like chocolate.”
“Sounds like crickets…” He side eyes them.
“Too much Alabama for you?” I laugh—really more a giggle, and he laughs at my laugh.
“I don’t know. Why can’t we just use fake worms?” he asks.
“Well, we could, but for the fish around my Dad’s dock, crickets work best. We could also get into the hammock down there by the lake shore. Nobody would notice since there’s so many trees.”
His eyes round out, and I snicker.
Despite Carl and Mom being cool with us, Ezra is still worried about his mom. The other day, I tried to broach the topic with him, but he quickly changed the subject.
“I’m just joshin’.” I wink, and we walk across the lawn together, so close that our arms brush a few times.
“Six months,” I say as a storm cloud drifts over the sun, making all the pine tree shadows in our path disappear. “In six months, we move to wherever you pick, and we can have our own place. I can. I know you might be in the dorms.”
He gives me a sidelong smile, which looks somehow both wistful and apprehensive.
“I’ll pick somewhere in-state,” he says quickly.
“No, c’mon. I told you this already. Pick the best place. If I have to move there and just work for six months till I’m an in-state resident, so what? Anything that’s good for you is good for me. What’s good for the gander is good for the other gander.”
He makes a thoughtful duck face.
“I heard my dad say you’d be a fool to go off anywhere but Tuscaloosa.”
Ezra arches his brows as we get to the dock. “Yeah. He might be right. They’re gonna lose Brandon Winters come spring, and then it’s just that sophomore guy, Kip Hollis.”
“Plus their scout was telling you that, wasn’t he? Telling you they’ve got a vacancy? I know you said they say that shit to everyone, but I don’t think so. They want you to start.”
He snorts softly. “I don’t know about that.”
It’s so funny and ironic how modest Ez turns out to be—after how things started with us. All the arrogance and bullshit from him was nothing but an act to get under my skin. He’s not lacking confidence, but he’s a realist. Doesn’t ever strut or brag about his football talent. He’s said a few times to me that it could be gone in a second. One wrong hit, one broken ankle or torn shoulder, and it’s over.
“I’m talking to them again after the championship game,” he says.
“Really?”
He nods, and I get a cricket out for him and bait his hook up.
“Auburn wants to talk tomorrow,” he says.
“Shit. They’re in a race to get you.”
He flashes me a quick grin. “Maybe.”
But there’s no question about it. Everybody’s clamoring for Ezra. He won’t let us watch ESPN at home—he says it makes him nervous—but I’ve sneaked some time with my phone app, and his name’s everywhere. They’re calling him the best QB in high school this year. I’m not surprised. My guy’s that fucking good.
As we fish, he asks me questions about both Auburn and Alabama, pretending he thinks I’m some big expert because I’m from this state, even though it’s obvious he wants to know which one I like best.
“I feel like they have a different vibe,” I say. “But not that different.”
We both end up laughing at how I have no opinion really.
“Whichever one ends up with that QB Ezra Masters? That’s the one to go to.”
We fish for about twenty minutes with no bites, and then all the extended fam on my dad’s side start to roll up.
“Let’s go talk for a minute and then get going,” I tell Ezra. “I don’t feel like all the social stuff, and I know you don’t.”
He gives me a funny, fake smile. “I love being social.”
“You’re a faker,” I say. “And a good one.”
“Like you’re not.” He snorts.
“I don’t go out as much as you do. Bren and all them know I’m introverted. Gotta protect my peace, bruh.”
“Not from everybody.” He gives me a smug smile, and it gets me right in the chest. I realize it’s the first time he’s seemed sure of how much I love being with him.
“Never from you.”
We shoot the shit with my aunt and cousins for a minute in the driveway and then say “bye” to Dad, who’s stepped outside to help Aunt Shirley haul a cooler.
On the way home, Ezra holds my hand and pulls our joined hands into his lap, folding them against his hip.
“You look sleepy.” I smile.
“All that sugar.”
I chortle at his health concerns, and he tells me that sugar kills. He’s smirking as he says it, though.
We watch some of a game show with Mom and Carl and hit the hay early—with Ez wrapped around me as the big spoon. Right before we fall asleep, he rolls away from me for just a second, doing something with his phone.
