Page 29 of Beautifully Devoted

“And he ruined it.” A few of our teammates hesitatingly hold their palms up while Cruz and I shake our heads “When is that test? I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

“Think of it as learning a new language,” I say.

“The playbook is like learning a new language. This is—"

“Torture,” Bennet interrupts.

“Nails on a chalkboard,” Cruz agrees.

“Get used to it,” I tell Cruz. “Your boyfriend will have to take anatomy for med school, so you can’t escape it.”

“My boyfriend won’t shout encouragement in ancient Latin.”

“You must not be doing anything to warrant encouragement then.” I give him a sly wink, just to bait him, and get shoved in the shoulder in return.

Coach calls us off the field for a water break, and as I trot to the sideline, I can’t keep the smile off my face.

I love these summer practices. We’re still working, so it’s not easy, but the atmosphere is playful. Or it will be until we get into the swing of things. Once the season officially begins, it’ll be different–brutal in its intensity–but we’ve got about five weeks until that point, so right now, it’s all about building stamina, learning the playbook, and coming together as a team.

That’s my favorite part of football, bonding with the guys. Yeah, game strategy is interesting, and what I’m learning about health and training can help me be a better physical therapist after I graduate. But it’s the interaction with these guys, joking with each other, pushing each other to get better, that keeps me coming back each year. That, and Jagger wants us to play together as long as possible.

The clock is winding down on that one.

If I really wanted to, I could push myself to have a shot at the NFL. Still, I’m a realist. I know the odds of making it aren’t in my favor, and I’m content to enjoy what time I have left on the field rather than stress about how to extend that time beyond college. Besides, if I chase the NFL, there’s a hundred percent chance Jagger and I end up in different places, and while I’ve been low key preparing myself for that anyway, it’s not my first choice. Or his, based on the conversation we had in his room last week.

Thank God. Life would be pretty bland without him.

Water dribbles down my chin as I fight off the urge to laugh at my best friend, who’s trying to convince Bennet to get his gluteus maximus over to the fifty-yard line so they can race to the end zone, settling a long-standing dispute over who’s faster.

Since practice is nearly done, Coach indulges their antics, breaking out a stopwatch and taking up a spot in the end zone with our Offensive Coordinator so they can clock the finish. When the Defensive Coordinator whistles for them to start I cheer right along with everyone else, though none of us root for anyone in particular since they’re both our teammates.

Bennet takes an early lead—he’s a bit bigger and all power, so those first few strides propel him forward at a faster clip. But Jagger’s lean frame makes him lighter on his feet, and he quickly closes the distance.

They’re neck and neck for close to twenty yards, when Bennet’s few extra pounds—even though they’re all muscle—start to slow him down. Still, Jagger doesn’t effortlessly pull away. I can tell by the way he kicks his ankles up, like he’s trying to spring forward with every step, that he’s digging deep. I’m sure that’s partly due to the fact that he’s already tired after a few hours of practice, but it’s just as valid to say Bennet’s making him work for every inch.

When they cross into the end zone Jagger’s in front by roughly half a foot, which translates into point three seconds on the stopwatch.

From my spot on the thirty-yard line, I watch as they slap each other on the back in an exhausted side hug, then lace their fingers behind their heads as they try to catch their breath. From half a field away, I can see the sliver of skin that peeks out from under his jersey as his chest heaves with exertion, and even though I’ve seen that before, it’s hard to pull my eyes away this time.

If I was still concerned that there was a deadline on the amount of time we had together, the need to watch him could be explained. Filling my mind with images and memories would be a natural response when you know separation is imminent. But since we both agreed last week that wherever life takes one of us the other will follow, I don’t have a good reason for why I can’t pull my eyes away.

Grabbing a water bottle off the ground, I start to head toward them, pausing when I feel pinpricks along my back that make me shiver despite the heat of the afternoon sun.

I spin around, curious if one of my teammates is flapping their arms or waving a towel, something that might explain a sudden draft, but there’s no one behind me. It’s as I’m ready to shrug off the sensation that my eyes drift to the stands, and I see a figure tucked along the back wall, partially obscured by shadow.

His presence alone explains the weird feeling I’ve had since practice started. These sessions are supposed to be closed to the public. With it being summer, the campus is mostly empty, so I’m not even sure the security guards are around to enforce the no entry rule. Yet something about the stranger makes it seem like he’s not just a curious onlooker.

The man’s gaze is focused on the end zone, where the rest of the team is congregating, which you’d expect since that’s where all the commotion is. But it’s the way he’s focused on my teammates… So intently that he hasn’t moved in the time I’ve been watching him. And that makes me uncomfortable.

He’s too far away for me to make out his features, but something seems familiar. His posture maybe?

I suppose it could be a scout. I didn’t think they came to practices, only games, since I’m not sure attending practices is allowed. Admittedly, I haven’t paid much attention to the process, but if it’s anything like getting recruited for college ball, there are rules about when and how you can talk to potential recruits. I assume the same is true for NFL scouts looking for prospects. Maybe this guy figures he’ll get a head start but doesn’t want to get in trouble for it. That would explain why he’s lurking in the shadows.

I don’t get time to dwell on his motives since Jagger pounces on me from behind, snatching the water bottle from my hand as I stumble.

“Did you see that? I’m now the reigning champ of the fifty-yard dash.” Water dribbles down his chin when he can’t rid himself of a proud grin before squirting more into his mouth.

I bite back a snort. “Impressive. Although, I’m not sure why you went for fifty when every measure of speed in the NFL is based on forty.”

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