“It comes with age. It’s like wisdom. And hemorrhoids.”

  “You have hemorrhoids?”

  “Not yet. But there’s still time. Besides, you don’t know if anything Meyerson said was true. It’s a rumor. Rumors are usually bullshit.”

  “There’s usually some truth to them too.”

  “So ask her what the truth is.”

  “How?” I chuckle incredulously. “Ask her if she’s fuckin’ guys for a shot at fame and money?”

  “Ask her if she’s seeing anybody. You haven’t yet, have you? You just assumed she wants to jump on your dick ‘cause you’re pretty.”

  “Her profile says she’s single.”

  “Oh, well, if it says it on Facebook,” he replies sarcastically.

  “Wait, you think I’m pretty?”

  He shoves his drawer closed, grabbing the white laundry basket off the bed. “Call her and quit whining about it like a fucking Gilmore Girl.”

  He leaves me alone in his room. He even closes the door to give me privacy from Meyerson and… Actually, just Meyerson.

  “Screw it,” I mutter.

  I bring up her contact in my phone. She has a picture in there now. I copied it from her Facebook. She’s at Ohio Stadium, home of the Buckeyes. That’s where she’s from – Columbus, Ohio. She’s dressed in red, white, and black. It was the only football pic I could find of her where she wasn’t wearing Beaver colors. That’s why it’s my favorite.

  The phone rings three times before she answers.

  “Hello.”

  She does that. She doesn’t answer her phone with ‘hey’ or ‘what’s up’, even when she knows who it is. It’s always ‘hello’ in this very formal way that’s not a question. It’s a statement full of confidence.

  “Hey,” I reply.

  She pauses. “Are you okay?”

  I sort of laugh/sigh like a weirdo, but she’s weird too! I don’t understand how it’s possible that I’ve said literally one word and she’s already reading me. “Uh, no. Not really.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m nervous.”

  “About the game tomorrow?”

  “You know it’s our Spring Game?”

  “I follow everyone,” she reminds me. “Why are you nervous?”

  “Can I say something fucked up?” I ask abruptly.

  “Sure.”

  “Are you gonna judge me?”

  “Maybe,” she admits. “But you need to say it anyway.”

  “I don’t want my parents to visit. Ever. Even for games. When they’re here, I feel like a kid. When I go home to them it’s fine, but when they come here it feels like shit. I hate it. I hate having them here.”

  “They wanted to come to the Spring Game?”

  “Yeah. We argued about it again tonight.”

  “Do you feel nervous about the game or do you feel guilty about shutting your mom out?”

  “I don’t know. I feel—” I stop, not sure what to say.

  There’s not always something to say, Butler Shay.

  “Yeah,” I answer simply. Because that’s all I know for sure – that she’s right. About something.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” she agrees.

  I don’t know what the hell we just agreed on, but I feel a little better.

  Actually, I feel a lot better. Even though nothing has been fixed. Nothing has changed.

  How, though? How does she do that?

  “What are you studying, Brooklyn?” I ask curiously.

  She laughs because she knows what I’m really asking.

  Is she a psych major?

  “Biophysics,” she answers.

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  “That’s okay. Me either. But I want to find out so that’s why I’m studying it. What about you? What are you majoring in?”

  “What do you think I’m majoring in?”

  “Business.”

  I blink, surprised. But I shouldn’t be. “Are you a witch? How’d you know that?”

  “Because I’m a witch,” she deadpans.

  “Come on.”

  Brooklyn giggles – that sweet sound she made when we first ran into each other in the bathroom.

  I love that sound.

  “Bleacher Report did a study,” she explains, “Business is the number four most common major chosen by college football players.”

  “Why’d you assume I chose number four? Why not number one?”

  “Number one was liberal arts. You’re not studying liberal arts. Number two was communications, basically media studies, and the way you shy away from interviews after practice tells me everything I need to know about that.”

  I smile. “You watch my interviews?”

  “I watch for your interviews, but they rarely happen.”

  “I’m shy.”

  “That is definitely bullshit,” she laughs.

  “What was number three on the list?”

  “General studies. It’s what people declare when they can’t decide what major to declare, or for student athletes, it’s what you declare when you’re at college for the athletics, not the education. That’s not you. You’re getting your degree in three. You’re focused and driven.”

  “How’d you know that? I never told you that.”

  “In one of like three interviews you’ve done, you said that was your goal. You mentioned summer school and your heavy work load on top of training. You sounded stressed.”

  “I might be,” I admit reluctantly.

  “It’s okay to be stressed. It doesn’t make you weak to feel the strain.”

  “It feels weak.”

  “It’s not,” she assures me.

  It’s quiet on the line between us. I think that’s my fault because I don’t know what to say. She does that to me a lot. She says things that make sense, things I want to hear, but once I hear them I can’t handle them. Or maybe I just don’t know how to handle them. It feels good, though. It’s what I was hoping for when I called her.

  “You should go to sleep,” she tells me softly.

  “You should come down and see me.”

  “I want to.”

  My stomach churns. My palms sweat, itch. I can smell her scent over the stale air of the apartment.

  “You won’t, though.”

  “I can’t,” she corrects.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s… it’s not a good time.”

  “Come down tomorrow.”

  “That’s even worse,” she laughs. “OSU’s Spring Game is tomorrow too.”

  “Skip it.”

  “No.”

  “Come to mine. Watch me play.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  She’s softer this time, but her answer is still, “No.”

  Why does that gentle blow hurt like a roundhouse kick to the face?

  “Come on,” I prod recklessly. “It’ll be worth it. We have so many more five-stars for you to choose from.”

  Why do I react to the hurt like a son of a bitch?

  Brooklyn is quiet. She’s silent for so long, I worry she’s hung up.

  And then I’m kind of hoping she hung up.

  “Get some sleep, Butler,” she tells me, her voice rigid. The softness has worn off. “You don’t want to be sloppy tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sky is bright blue, a weak spring sun dangling precariously in the sky. In its light you feel warm, but in the shadows it’s freezing. Summer is coming but not soon enough. I can’t wait to feel the burn of heat on my skin, not this sad, soft shit we get all winter and spring. Give me a ninety-degree day with twenty-percent humidity. Give me heat stroke. That’s how I know I’m getting it done out here – my body starts to shut down.

  “Eustis, you hear me?” Coach Epps barks.

  Eustis nods, his hands hanging from the collar of his jersey. He’s wearing red – a warning to everyone that we DO NOT TACKLE. This game is an exhibition. There’s no reason to risk injuring our biggest asset. “Yeah, Coach. I hear you. Nothing fancy. Don’t be cute.”

  “That goes for everyone else, too. If you get wild out there you’re going to rile each other up and the tackles will get real. I don’t want that. Got it?”

  We nod in agreement.

  Don’t kick the shit out of each other.

  “Now have fun!” Coach shouts excitedly. “That’s what this is about. You’ve worked hard. It’s a beautiful day. Go enjoy it!

  As we walk to the field, I check the stands. They’re pretty sparse, but that’s normal. This isn’t a real game. There’s no opposing team, no opposing fans. Just our diehards and people looking for something to do on a Saturday afternoon. I tell myself I’m not looking for anyone in particular, but that’s a lie. I’m looking for Brooklyn. I don’t see her anywhere.

  Not a surprise.

  When the teams were picked for the Spring Game, it mixed the pot. The coaches ran a mock-draft to build Mighty Oregon and The Fighting Ducks. Eustis landed with Mighty Oregon and a fair amount of second-string talent. I was hoping to be with him, but I’m on The Fighting Ducks with Weiss, Meyerson, and our backup quarterback. He’s good but he’s green. He’ll get there, though. Hopefully soon because this is Eustis’ last year and we need a big man to fill his shoes.

  Togiai squats across the line, defending Eustis. He looks big as a house. I’m grateful he’s not allowed to come at me full steam.

  For the first three plays, I’m in the backfield. Passes go to wide receivers to gain over forty yards, bringing us close to the red zone. That’s when we tighten up. We start to push for a break in the line and a shot at a touchdown.

  The ball snaps. Jacobs wobbles the catch, stabilizes, and hands it off to me as I rush past him toward the line. There’s a gap, a sliver of daylight, and if I can get there be—

  My legs tangle in someone’s arms.

  I go down, body curled tightly around the ball.

  As Togiai helps me up, I check my field position.

  “You got a down,” Togiai confirms, following my eyes.

  “Hell yeah, I did.”

  He swats me hard on the ass as I run back to the line.

  I take the next hand off, gaining another six yards before they sweep my legs out from under me. I feel frustrated because this isn’t my strength. That’s the other RB, Hires. Mechad is a fucking wrecking ball. He can tear through the line like a knife through butter, but he’s on the other team. Our coach is trying to use me like I’m him, but I’m not. I’m built for speed and finesse, not punching through walls.

  Finally, he realizes what he’s doing to me and changes the plan. The play comes through to run me on the outside behind the wide receiver - Meyerson. I make it past the line of scrimmage as Meyerson runs blocking for me. I bolt down the sideline, overtaking Meyerson and the coverage because I am hands down one of the fastest guys on the team.

  I’m at the thirty. The twenty. Ten.

  Touchdown.

  The Fighting Ducks are on the board.

  ***

  The Fighting Ducks have lost the game.

  We kept it close, but you can’t argue with the impact a great quarterback has on a team. Eustis is a leader any man would fall behind, and that’s what his team did. He made them look like rock stars with precision passing. He got them fired up and that energy propelled them into the win.

  I bump his fist at the end of the game, my helmet dangling from my free hand. “Good game, man. That cross body throw was something else.”

  “Thanks, Shay.” He’s breathing heavily, squinting into the sun. “Did you see her?”

  “See who?”

  “Your girl. Brooklyn.”

  My heart flips hard. “Seriously? Where?”

  “Student section in the shade.”

  I casually turn to the stands behind me, searching for her.

  She stands out like a sore thumb.

  “She wore a Beaver sweatshirt,” I chuckle.

  “And no one wanted to sit by her. Weird.”

  “How’d you know it was her? You’ve never met her.”

  “No, but I’ve seen you crying over her profile picture a thousand times.”

  I scowl. “I don’t cry over it.”

  “And she’s here alone wearing OSU gear. Who else would she be?”

  “I can’t believe she came.”

  He nods to the section. “You better hurry and get over there before she leaves.”

  I jog eagerly to the sidelines, coming to a stop at the cement wall between us. I’m more breathless from that short run than I have been all day.

  “You came,” I breathe, my heart racing in my chest.

  I’m relieved when she smiles. “I’ll never live down the shame.”

  “You wore OSU colors, so you’re not a complete disgrace.”

  “I ditched my own school’s game to watch you Ducks jerk yourselves off for two hours,” she reminds me. “It’s shameful.”

  Her voice is different. It sounds thinner on the phone, watered down, but here in person she’s in full stereo. Digital fuckin’ Dolby. My chest bangs recklessly, shoving my body toward her. I collide with the stone wall between us, my hands on the warm, rough surface just inches from hers.

  “You look good,” I tell her. “Better than I remember.”

  “You’re talented. Better than I expected.”

  “It’s a compliment but it feels insulting.”

  “Does it.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She looks at me for a long time, inhaling slowly. “Me too.”

  “Shay!” Coach Curry shouts. He jabs his finger toward the tunnels. “Let’s go!”

  “Yeah!” I turn to Brooklyn, drinking her in one more time. “Are you sticking around?”

  “In Eugene?” she laughs. “Not likely.”

  “Come to dinner with me. Wear that terrible fucking shirt and make everyone uncomfortable for an hour.”

  She laughs, looking away for a second. Down the field toward the tunnel where they’re waiting for me.

  “Alright,” she finally agrees. “I can do dinner.”

  I slap my hands on the wall triumphantly. “Yes. Give me one hour. I’ll meet you at Gianni’s.”

  “You don’t have a car.”

  “One hour!” I call, running away down the field.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I didn’t tell Brooklyn that the team is eating dinner with us.

  Not the entire team. Ten guys. Twelve maybe. Fifteen, tops.

  I don’t tell them that she’s coming either, or that she’s coming in OSU colors, and there’s probably a problem in there somewhere, but I can’t see past her and her legs and that smile.

  I’m fucked forever by her smile.

  Brooklyn is waiting outside the restaurant when Eustis and I pull up. She flashes in his headlights and my heart literally stops. I knew she was coming but I can’t actually believe she’s here. She’s been nothing but texts on my phone and a memory I couldn’t shake for most of a month now. Seeing her live and in the soft, supple flesh is a reality I’m not sure I’m ready to handle.

  Brooklyn hasn’t spotted us yet. She’s waiting patiently, her eyes scanning the parking lot. Maybe it’s my ego talking, but she looks eager. Hopeful.

  Eustis kills the engine. “She’s pretty,” he comments.

  “I know.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take her to dinner somewhere else? Somewhere away from the team? You can take my car.”

  “I already told her to come here. It’d look weird if I took her somewhere else now. Like I’m trying to hide her or something.”

  “Or protect her.”

  “They’ll be fine.”

  Eustis chuckles like he’s not so sure anyone from the team is going to mind their manners breaking bread with a Beaver, but he doesn’t say shit.

  He’s right, though. They’ll haze her. Hard.

  “I wanna see if she can handle it,” I admit quietly.

  “You’re testing her?”

  “I guess.”

  “Why?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully.

  “Do you think she’ll be mad?”

  “You think she’ll realize what you’re doing?”

  “Yeah. She’ll definitely know.”

  “Then yeah. She’ll definitely be mad.”

  Brooklyn grins when she sees me coming, her arms crossed over her chest against the chill filling the air. The sun is going down. The world is that pink/gray color it gets when night is on its way. She looks good in that light. In the in-between of today and tomorrow.

  “I think half your team is already in there,” she tells me.

  “Is that why you’re covering up your shirt?”

  “I’m cold. Not ashamed.”

  I pull my hoodie up over my head, handing it to her. “It’ll be too big but it’s warm.”

  She smiles gratefully. “Thanks.”

  My stomach flips when she quickly smells it before it goes on over her head.

  Eustis offers her his hand.

  I completely forgot he was there.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says with a smile. “I’m Jake.”

  “Brooklyn. Hi. Good game today.”

  “Thanks. It was fun.”

  It wasn’t fun. He hated it. He can’t stand being treated like precious cargo but that’s being a quarterback. Half the time, you’re look-but-don’t-touch.

  Eustis gracefully untangles himself from us to go inside. To Brooklyn, it looks like he can’t wait to eat with his team. To me, it looks like he doesn’t want to be here when she finds out we’re also eating with the team.

  He’s right. She’s gonna be mad.

  “This is really soft,” she comments, tugging at the hem of my hoodie. It hangs off her body like a sack, but she looks amazing because it’s mine and it’s touching her body in all the places I wish I could.

  “It looks good on you. Yellow is your color.”

  She giggles. “Like hell it is.”

  “I need a picture of this.”

  I pull out my phone, swiping for the camera.

  Her jaw drops, her eyes going wide. “No!”

  “It’s happening.”

  “Butler, I said no!” she shouts. But she’s smiling. She’s laughing as her hands reach for mine, desperate to get my phone from me.