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29
Taylor
I went to a local bar and grill to watch the game on Sunday afternoon. It was crowded with fans, and I was able to snag a stool at the bar with a good view of one of the televisions. I was excited to watch Brody on television, now that I had a new perspective. He wasn’t just a guy I was crushing on—he was a guy I had slept with.
But as the game against the Bears began, Brody wasn’t in the huddle. They were starting Andrew Stark at Tight End instead.
“About fucking time!” a drunk guy at the bar said. “Can’t keep waiting around for Carter to get his shit together!”
Against my better judgment, I turned to him and said, “Carter’s the best Tight End in the league.”
The man snorted derisively. “Two years ago, maybe. Now he’s washed up.”
“You’re wrong.”
He looked me up and down, then sneered. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
I sipped my beer and sullenly returned to the game. Dallas Lockett handed the ball off to the running back several times in a row, then targeted Stark on the next two plays. After that, they rotated him out and put Brody in. I resisted the urge to loudly clap.
Brody didn’t get the ball for several plays. But when Dallas did pass the ball to him, Brody snagged it out of the air deftly, stiff-armed the defender, and then dove for a first down. The next play was a screen, and Brody was out ahead of the receiver to make some blocks. But on the play after that, Brody ran a slant route up the middle of the field. Dallas’s pass was sloppy but Brody made up for it with an acrobatic catch.
For the rest of the drive, Brody’s talent was a sight to behold. It’s like he had been holding back all season, but was now cranking up his enthusiasm to eleven. He ducked and dodged and dove through the Bears defense, receiving the ball on seven out of nine plays on the drive, culminating in a fade route to the corner of the end zone for a touchdown.
The bar erupted in celebration. I sipped my beer and gave the hater a smug grin. He glanced at me, then begrudgingly clapped his hands for the score.
On the television, the broadcasters were discussing the drive. “Carter looks like an uncaged tiger out there. I’ve never seen him play with such ferocity.”
“Don’t know what’s gotten into him, Tony,” the other broadcaster said. “But whatever it is, it’s what the Stallions have been missing this season.”
I grinned to myself. Maybe I’m what has gotten into him.
The Stallions dominated the Bears for the rest of the game. Brody ended up with two hundred and four receiving yards, which the broadcasters made sure to mention was just ten yards short of the all-time record set by Shannon Sharpe in 2002. When they showed him on the sideline after the game, grinning and high-fiving with his teammates, I felt like I was sharing in their merriment.
I went home and texted Brody. He didn’t reply until eight o’clock.
Taylor: Congrats on the game today. You almost broke Shannon Sharpe’s record!
Brody: Damn, T-Foxy. Whipping out random football stats on me? You know how to get a fella all hot and bothered.
Taylor: Well, as we already established, I am your biggest fan. Plus they showed the stat on TV.
Brody: Sorry I took so long to respond. All the post-game nonsense we have to deal with. We just boarded the team plane. They said we land around midnight, so I could be at your place at one. That’s probably too late, right?
Taylor: UGH. Yeah, that’s too late. I have an early class tomorrow. I’ve had to scold my students for falling asleep in that class, so it would be embarrassing if I was the one nodding off during my own lecture.
Brody: Tomorrow night, then? I’ll bring takeout. We can eat it in bed.
Taylor: It’s a date :-)
The next morning, my classes seemed to drag on. I was so excited to see Brody that night that it was as if time itself had crawled to a stop. I swear, at one point I glanced at the clock and it had gone backwards.
I had office hours from noon to two, so I ate lunch behind my office desk. As much as I liked my office, there were no windows and it felt vaguely claustrophobic. I would have rather eaten my lunch outside in the sun, enjoying one of the last semi-warm days before winter really hit.
It was tempting. Nobody came to my office hours. At least, not at this point in the semester. I had been assured by several colleagues that when finals week drew near, I would have a nonstop stream of students outside my office asking for more time and for extra credit opportunities.
But even though the odds of a student coming by were slim to none, I ate my bologna sandwich in my office by myself and daydreamed about the warm sun that I was missing. Other professors passed by in the hallway. Dean Armbruster, cleaning his glasses on the sleeve of his shirt while mumbling about department funding. Professor Lamar McHolmes, who gave me a friendly little wave in passing but didn’t slow down. Beth Throckmorton and John Conningsworth strolled by, arm-in-arm and gazing at each other in the way that only new lovers did.
I was lost in thought when a knock came at my door. I quickly sat up straight and put on my professorial expression, but it wasn’t a student who appeared in the door. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man in jeans and a blue Stallions hoodie.
