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My heart pumps a little faster every time he steps out on the field.
The offense starts off slow. Three and out. And then three and out again. Cam taps his fingers on his leg, his nervous energy spiraling outward. He, maybe more than any of us, understands the implications if this season doesn’t go well.
When Slater comes off the field for a second time without scoring, he takes his helmet off and plops down on the bench. A coach immediately sits next to him. Randy Nix drops down on his other side. They study the coach’s tablet together.
Slater looks relaxed. If he’s feeling the same tension as the rest of us, he’s hiding it well.
The defense recovers a fumble, and the offense is back on the field in their own territory. They gain yards quickly this time. Two short passes, two run plays and a longer pass, and they’re in the red zone.
Slater’s first pass into the end zone is too high. It sails through the fingertips of the intended receiver. His next pass is complete, but it’s a lateral pass and they don’t gain enough yards to score. The third play is a run play. Slater hands the ball off and the running back runs right through the defense like a battering ram.
Touchdown. The crowd roars, the players celebrate, and we all jump to our feet. Once they score, they can’t be stopped.
The brutality of the game is so much more intense in person. Even from a distance, I wince as players hurl into each other at top speeds. Slater takes some big hits. He ends up underneath guys that have at least fifty pounds on him. Every time, I hold my breath—and every time, he bounces back up, looking largely unaffected.
It’s incredibly stressful. I’m worried he’s going to get hurt. Or that he’s going to make a mistake. Or that he’s going to lose.
I know how much winning means to him.
Thankfully, there’s no need to worry. He’s magnificent. Three hundred seventy-three yards. Three touchdowns. No picks. He needed to have a good game, and he did. Now he just needs to keep it going next week.
I decline Celeste’s offer to celebrate with his family and then slip out before the players have even left the field. Kelsey ops to stay with Cam at the stadium, so I head back to the hotel alone.
When I get back to my room, I take a shower—I’m unreasonably sweaty for only being a spectator—and turn on the television. I flip channels for a while. When my stomach rumbles, I consider what to do for dinner. I’m in the middle of a debate between room service or the burrito place I saw down the street when I hear a quiet knock at the door.
I bound up, expecting Kelsey.
When I open the door, I don’t find my sister in the hallway. My heart stutters. Slater. He’s here.
“You’re here,” he says, his lips curved in an almost smile. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
He steps into the room, and I rapidly step back to let him in.
He looks delicious. His hair, which was cropped short the last time we were together, is shaggy. His face, while not sporting a beard, has a thin layer of stubble. I yearn to reach out and touch it, but fondling his face would be weird, especially since I haven’t spoken yet.
“I…uh…good game.” I sound like a moron.
“Why’d you come?” he repeats.
I nibble on my thumb. “Cam invited me.”
He shakes his head. “Okay, but why did you come?”
What does he expect me to say? Does he want me to confess that I wanted to see him? Or that I miss him? I don’t have a playbook for this, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing.
He steps closer, into my personal space, and I stifle the urge to fling myself into his arms. Seeing him again is harder than I expected it would be. “I wanted to see you play.” I want to understand the sport you love. “Who told you I came?”
“Celeste.” Of course. He’s lamented her inability to keep secrets.
“I didn’t want to be a distraction. I thought I could slip in and out without you knowing. I didn’t realize I’d be in a box with your family.” I pause. I want to beg him to wrap his arms around me, but my frustration—with him and myself—makes me reckless. “You didn’t have to come see me.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, causing it to look artfully windblown. “You didn’t want to see me?”
He seems hurt…or maybe disappointed. Whatever it is, I wish I could read his mind. Or that I could understand the swirl of emotions rising inside of me. “I don’t want to be a distraction.”
Being close enough to touch him is torture.
I’m being greedy. In my heart, I think I was hoping he would find me. I’m not sure how I expected I’d feel if I saw him, but I definitely didn’t expect this intense longing for more. I want sex and snuggles. I want to fall asleep and wake up next to him. I want a real relationship.
