Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
The second quarter doesn’t go much better, with none of my teammates crossing the end zone again. Coach gives us a pep talk at halftime—all the ways we’re better than this, wondering where our energy is, and setting a plan for the second half.
Football is the only thought in my head right now. The need to win. The need to prove myself. Who the fuck I’m proving myself to, I have no idea, but I taste the need on my tongue.
We make a decent first run when we finally get the ball in the third. The second we’re in a quick huddle for the next play, my QB looks my way.
“We’re going to you,” he tells me, signaling which play to run.
“I got it,” I say, bouncing on my toes, skin practically buzzing.
It doesn’t quite go as planned, me struggling to lose the motherfucker who’s right on my ass. But I fake left, go right, then sprint ahead of him, knowing his speed has nothing on mine. I’m not where I planned to be, where the play called for me to be, but that doesn’t matter. One flick of the QB’s gaze in my direction, and I know the ball is coming to me. I swear it’s like slow motion as it soars through the air, landing in my waiting arms.
Go, go, go.
I break through two defenders, my sole focus on getting into the end zone. I can feel it happening before it does, like my shoes are on fire because of my speed. The hit comes once I’m jumping over the line. Refs blow their whistles, throwing out a penalty, but we decline it. I fucking did it. Touchdown, baby. We’re winning this game, and I don’t care what I have to do to make it happen.
And we do, only by a field goal, but that’s all that fucking matters. Miami didn’t let up the whole second half, but we pulled out the W, and I played another great game. But as we celebrate in the locker room, my teammates loud and boisterous, my mind returns to Lucas.
It’s only been a couple of games since we started our new routine, but somehow, it’s already embedded into my life, something I look forward to—messaging with Lucas after the game. Even when he wasn’t bringing up football, those texts gave me something I needed, and after playing an integral part in winning today, the only person I want to talk to about that is him. Did he watch the game? He’s been watching for me. Because he wants to support me? To be able to talk to me about it? None of this is making any sense, and yet it feels so natural.
We take the bus to the private hangar where our plane waits for us, and as soon as we’re back in LA and I pull onto La Cienega, I know exactly where I’m going. It’s late enough that traffic isn’t terrible, which gives me less time to talk myself out of it. No idea why I’m going or what I’ll say when I get there, but that doesn’t stop me from driving his way, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
I’m so fucking tired of not letting myself feel good anymore, really good. Not just fucking random people or going to parties that aren’t my thing. That’s me in a way, but it’s also me searching for something. Who the fuck knows what. But it doesn’t bring me the calmness that spending time with Lucas does. Being with him is one of the few places I feel like I never have to pretend. I don’t have to pretend to be excited by football if I’m not, but I can love it too. I don’t have to eat a perfect diet, or talk about training and the off-season, or focus on new play concepts and the media. I can sit on a roof all night when I should be sleeping, or go on a hike when I should be in the gym. I can figure out what I really like outside of football.
My hands tremble as I get out of the car at Lucas’s. It makes me feel weak, which is fucking wild but the kind of thing that’s been drilled into me my whole life—not from my mom, but from everyone else. Men need to be strong, especially in sports, and especially me as an out, queer athlete. I’ve been determined to be myself from the start, but it’s rare that I let myself admit to being afraid. That feels like a failure.
It’s late, the middle of the night. Lucas should be in bed. I have no business coming over to his place this late, but that doesn’t stop me from standing outside the door, pushing the intercom button, and hoping he answers.