This is one of those moments where I feel an intimacy with him that doesn’t fully make sense to me, to the point that I wonder if I’m imagining it simply because it’s what I dream of.
“Seriously, what were you thinking about while you were crocheting? Or what do you think about?”
“I don’t have a regular topic that I think about when crocheting. Sometimes it’s just breathing deep and focusing on where I am. Tonight, I guess I was thinking about my future.”
He leans back against the pillows, covering them with his scent, and I already know I’ll be shamelessly hugging them all night.
“What about your future? Like after football?”
“Probably. Or at least in the offseason. During the season everything is so regimented, there’s not much wiggle room for daily life to change.”
“Truth. So, what does that look like for you? Your future?” He puts his hands behind his head, getting even more comfortable.
“I don’t know exactly. It’s more snippets or vibes than anything else. Mostly. One thing I really want is a sprawling home out in the country with lots of natural light.”
“Windows filled with plant babies,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” I slide down against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “And then I want to cultivate acres of gardens. Vegetable gardens, flower gardens, trees—especially fruit trees. I want to surround myself with peace. Nature. That’s what I want for my future. An unhurried life. Getting up in the morning and cooking breakfast, sipping tea by the big windows, and enjoying the simple things. Hopefully, with someone I love by my side. I’d sacrifice so many things in my dream to have love. But in a perfect fantasy, they’d be in that dream with me. Maybe even a couple of kids too.”
I look over at Hardy and find his eyes closed as he breathes deeply.
That future must be nice and peaceful if it lulled him off to sleep.
It’d probably be far too slow for him. Still, I don’t let the fantasy evaporate. It can be my sweet secret that I only get to have in my dreams.
I look at Hardy sleeping peacefully and face an unsettling urge to lean down and kiss his head. But I can’t do that. He’s not mine. Not the way I want him to be. So, I climb out of bed, grab my notebook, and work on more angsty, longing poetry to soothe my restless heart.
CHAPTER NINE
HARDY
Regular Season Week 14
There’snothing like the rush of a close game.
Easy wins are nice every so often. We all need that boost, but nothing feels better than knowing you earned it. When the pressure is on and the team works together like a well-oiled machine to make it happen.
We’re down by two thanks to a forty-seven-fucking-yard field goal by the other team. Respect because it was a great play and a great kick, but also fuck them. They’re not winning this game. We haven’t lost one game on our turf this season, and that’s not changing today.
This is where it’s time to come in and do my fucking job. Get open. Make the catch. Move the ball up the field. And if I have the chance, take it all the way home.
We set up for one of our newer plays, and I’m ready for some action.
Unfortunately, as I take off running, the other team is down for some action too. I’m double-teamed right away. It’s not uncommon, especially toward the end of the game. Everyoneknows Mark and I are good friends. We have a shorthand and an intrinsic trust on the field that goes deeper than it does for most teammates. It’s what makes us shine.
But it’s hard to shine when I have two guys up my ass, doing anything they can to take me down.
Again, fuck that. It’s a good thing I’m better than them.
My skin prickles with awareness, and I know in an instant, Mark’s going to pass to me. It’s risky, because we have someone else open, but two guys are rushing him. If I can trip up the two on me, we have a chance at this thing.
The ball flies, and I balance running, avoiding being crushed into the ground, and watching the ball.
I watch as it drops down, adjusting my position on the field. I jump up for it, and while the guy just behind me jumps too, trying to knock it away from me, all he does is lose his balance as the ball soars to me.
I catch it one-handed against my shoulder, and as my feet touch the ground, I instantly swerve, dodging the tackle of the other guy, and haul ass the last eight yards or so to the end zone.
Touchdown, me.
