I watched Connor get carted off the field on a stretcher through a television screen. The worry, the fear, the questions—they all rush right back in like it was yesterday. A twelve-year-old girl doesn’t get blunt truth answers in real time, she gets the sugar-coated ones only looked at through rose-colored glasses.
It wasn’t until my freshman year of college that Connor told me about the time in his life surrounding his injury. The copious hours spent on bedrest, multiple surgeries and missed college experiences he had to grieve. Two months into his freshman year of college and everything he’d worked for ended in the blink of an eye—he never played football again. Something he told me, in great length, he made peace with a long time ago, yet the thought still ushers in a cloud of concern when I think about it.
He pins that incorrigible smirk on me. “You worrying about me, Fish?”
I roll my eyes and he shoves my shoulder. Scoffing, I right myself on my feet and catch up to his stride. “More like worried for myself when you collapse and I have to carry you out of here”—I raise an accusatory brow—“because I don’t abandon friends in their time of need.” I shovehisshoulder this time.
“Hey! I promised an EMT and snacks.”
I purse my lips. “Mmmm. EMTsarehot. And I do love snacks.” Connor snickers.
We walk in the quiet for a couple minutes, taking in the landscape around us. The red dirt path unfurls ahead, sienna hued mesas dotted with desert foliage extending beyond in every direction. The terrain on either side of the trail is a paradoxical mix of bold green shrubs amidst towering trees and oversized boulders wedged between mounds of cacti.
Into the peaceful calm, Connor murmurs, “Gretchen Fisher is worrying about me.”
The sound of my full name on his lips, like he’s admiring something precious, sends a blush creeping over my cheeks. “Don’t let it get to your head, QB.”
“Too late.”
I stare at him, flat and unimpressed. The corner of his mouth hitches as he winks at me. “Don’t flirt with me either,” I say.
His grin widens, eyes mischievous. “I would never.”
We cometo a large clearing where a backroad for vehicles converges with the path. A wooden display board pinpoints our current location on the trail and prepares us for the final, and most grueling, leg up ahead.
The sun beats harder now, both of us glistening with sweat. The shade of a patch of mature trees nearby calls our name and we step aside for a breather. As Connor sets the pack down and retrieves a bottle of water, I remove my crop top, leaving me in my mid-thigh length biker shorts and sports bra. I wipe the sweat from my face with the bundled shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Connor looking me up and down.
“Eyes up here, QB,” I say as I hand him my shirt in exchange for the water bottle. The stubborn ass takes his sweet time, gaze raking over me, blazing a torturous path. A rush courses through me, a shot of scalding hot espresso direct to my bloodstream. “I said no flirting.”
Our hands make the swap as he says, “And you’re not playing fair.”
I give a devilish shrug—two can play this game—as I tip the bottle back. His gaze burns, competing with the Arizona sun to scorch me onsite.
And, with that, we need a subject change. “So, you gonna tell me how your conversation with Lauren went?”
His face sobers in a way most wouldn’t notice, but I do. The slightest twinge of anxiety creeps in. When I interrupted their conversation last night, it seemed as though they were getting along fine—notably opposite of Connor’s reservations from just a few hours prior.
He takes the bottle from me and bends low to put it and my shirt in the bag. Looking up at me from under the brim of hisbaseball hat, a playful glint twinkles over his face as the soberness disappears. “You ready for this?”
Taken aback by the shift, I cock my head. I’m tempted to smile but I hold it back just in case. “I don’t know, am I?”
He stands to his feet, settling the pack on his back. “She met someone.”
My jaw drops and I rein it in just as quickly. “And how do you feel about that?” The words pour out of me like honey dripping off a comb.
“I’m happy for her,” he says. “We talked through everything and, it turns out, we’ve ultimately ended up on the same page about…everything. I’m honestly so relieved. I’m not sure how much longer I would have put off talking to her if you hadn’t said the things you said yesterday. So, thank you.”
I wave off his thanks, still blindsided by the news that his ex is already with someone else. “Is that not weird for you, knowing she’s already dating another guy?”
Connor struts forward. I bring my hands to my hips, pulse racing. He stops just shy of his chest brushing mine and I lift my chin to hold his gaze. “I’m here flirting with someone else, so what do you think?”
I cross my arms, defying the sinful grin on his annoyingly perfect face. His eyes bounce to my cleavage and back. “I said no flirting,” I repeat, but there’s no real threat behind it.
“Oh, I heard you. I just don’t believe you.” He squeezes the tip of my nose, gives it a wiggle, and sidesteps me to get back on the trail.
“Alright, Fish.” He rubs his hands together. “Tell me what we have in store here.”
Stifling my smile, I answer, “Well, according to the world wide web, this last leg is supposed to be very intense.”
