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"Maybe just map out my spot in advance, then you won't have to look to know where I am. Only if you want, though."
"Of course I want." I sit behind Miller, spooning him while we're sitting up, kissing his neck.
All too soon, our time in the sand is over. I have to be back at the hotel. He's staying at a little mom and pop place nearby. I give him Luke and Vance's number, just in case he needs something. Then I go back to the hotel, telling myself I'm going to win this game for Mills and our parents, who couldn’t find tickets in time to make it out here.
After the bowl game, I'm going to help Josh move into his new apartment. We're going to find a way for him to come out to his dad before ESPN reveals that I'm gay. And we're going to live happily ever after.
Five
Josh
"AND THE FLASH FROM ALABAMA GETS ANOTHER IN THE END ZONE…”
The echoing boom of the announcer’s voice sets off another round of jumping and screaming as Ezra runs the ball into Ohio’s endzone. He does a bouncy little trot as the crowd roars, and then he’s jogging toward the sideline.
“I think it’s safe to say we have a blowout, with the Crimson Tide moving toward what may well be a historic high score..."
Ezra sits on the bench, looking over his shoulder to blow a big, dramatic kiss—which, of course, the camera captures.
"Someone special in the stands." The jumbotron screen zooms in on Ezra, and my stomach does a quick flip. I can tell by his posture that he's happy—and exhausted. Two of the coaches gather around him, and the camera pans to Ohio’s offense, jogging onto the field.
I can’t see Ez that well from eighteen rows up, but I’m pretty sure he’s guzzling from a sports bottle. He said they usually drink Gatorade, so I guess it’s that. Using my phone to zoom, I watch him wipe his face and then get up and stretch his hamstrings. Holy shit, that’s my man! He’s about to win this fucking game, and then he’s mine till springtime.
Bama does a good job holding Ohio. Pretty soon, Ezra and the offense are on the field again, and I’m locking my eyes on Ez while I think about our post-game dinner. We're supposed to meet Luke and Vance and their baby at a French restaurant. Then Ezra and I are going to a bed and breakfast by the ocean. His idea. He said he wanted to take me somewhere memorable.
I remember the DLSR camera in my backpack as he throws for another twelve yards. Almost the whole game has passed, and I forgot it till these final moments. I zoom in on him with my fancy lens, hoping to make up for lost time, but I realize I could do a lot more if I walked down a few rows. I grab my backpack and hurry down the stairs as Ezra and his crew position at the line of scrimmage.
I’m still moving down the cement steps when the center hikes the ball to Ezra. I keep moving as the running backs and receivers—including Marcel—fan out around him. Ez drops back into the pocket, aiming it at Marcel even though I don’t think Marcel is ready.
There’s a breath of hesitation as he notes that—I can see it in his arm. Then I notice someone from Ohio coming at Ez like a bullet. I freeze on the stairs, begging him via ESP to fucking move, but he keeps his cool. Fucking Ezra; keeping cool is one thing that he’s known for. He feints right, toward Marcel, and then launches the ball hard and fast at Tommy Bowman, who catches it with ease.
At the moment Bowman darts down the field, Ezra gets sacked by the Ohio player. The guy slides in sideways, kicking Ezra’s feet out from under him. I feel relieved at first that it wasn't a torso hit.
Ezra's down, he’s sprawled on his side. I keep galloping down the steps, wanting to get close enough for better pictures.
That's when everything shifts into slow motion. I hear whistles peeling, and I realize Ezra hasn’t gotten up yet. My feet falter, and my heart starts racing. He's not moving! My eyes fly from his body to the replay on the jumbotron screen, where I am absolutely fucking horrified to see the way his ankle bent.
Jesus, that’s why he isn’t moving!
I start running down the stairs as people rush onto the field. He’s still not up! Fuck! I get a gut-punch feeling: This is really real.
I'm almost to the lower railing when I hear him yelling. It's low and guttural, making sweat prickle my skin, making my legs feel weak, like when you’re trying to run in a dream but you can’t move.
