Page 30 of The Longshot

I rub my eyes before I reach for my phone—my fingers moving faster than my mind when I open up Instagram and type in “Crawfield Football Club.”

Searching for Gary’s team feels far less daunting and way more comforting than his social media page itself. Here, I can revoke an accidental double-tap without anyone noticing.

The page has a substantial number of followers—over 90k—accompanied by a verified logo after the username.

As I scroll, I can see that the page is filled with a mixture of content—highlight reels, season stats, and player spotlights. Just as I’m about to click away, questioning what exactly I’m even looking for, that stupid face reminds me of just that.

Player of the week: Number 13—Gary Wilkinson.

Before I can rationalize it, I click on the post, swiping through a series of photos of Gary in the heat of a play until finally, I reach the very last one.

This time, Gary’s no longer on the field. He’s walking out of what appears to be the changing room—shirtless, with a towel slung over his shoulder as he flashes a cheesy grin at the camera.

With his left hand, he’s visibly trying to slick back his hair, yet doing a terrible job as it messily rests at the top of his forehead while his other hand points directly into the camera.

It’s so hard to focus on his smile when my eyes demand that I stare down at the glistening skin of his chest and the way his biceps flex without him even trying. Not to mention, there’s something downright cynical about how he towers over the photographer in the photo. It reminds me of the feeling anytime he stands by my side.

He’s so fit that it’s annoying, and it’s not just me who feels that way. Rather than locking my phone and cleansing my mind of that picture, I hide in the comments, where hundreds of others virtually agree.

As I scroll mindlessly, the comments vary. Some are just explicit use of emojis to convey how hot and bothered they are from the pictures. Others have no problem saying exactly what’s on their mind:

I have to laugh. Unhinged comments might very well be my favorite part of social media. As I continue to scroll, reading through them all aimlessly, my thumb halts in place when I see a comment from an unsuspecting verified source.

Of course, Gary Wilkinson is the type to comment on a picture of himself. Why am I not surprised?

I roll my eyes, yet lose the plot as I click on his profile—stalking his page with caution. Hell, I don’t even select a single image. All I can do is scroll.

Gary is a chronic over-sharer. He’s got over 250 posts that date back to over five years ago.

Is it bad that I’ve scrolled all the way to the bottom?

I punish myself by locking my phone, tossing it across the room, sinking further into my pillow, and pulling the duvet over my head.

With a firm breath out, I force my eyes shut, yet when I finally start to drift asleep, all I can think of is the torturous way I heard him say my name for the very first time.

“Chelsie.”

“Chelsie!”

I wake up to the same sound as when I fell asleep, only this time, it’s not Gary; it’s Ruby pounding on my bedroom door as I stare at the clock.

1 PM.

“Chelsie?” Her fist continues to make contact. “Are you awake?”

I rub along my face, sitting up. “Yeah…” I croak, stretching my arms out to either side. “I’m awake.”

My voice is less than convincing as a yawn escapes my mouth—all the while, she twists the doorknob and steps inside.

“Chelsie.” She frowns, watching as I fall back into bed, nestling between the sheets. “You can’t keep going to bed so late. You’re sleeping all day and up all night.” She guides her way over to take a seat at the end of my mattress. “Why can’t you sleep, Chels? What’s keeping you awake?”

I rub my forehead. In no way, shape, or form am I about to admit that last night, the cause of my insomnia was none other than Gary Wilkinson. Though I’m sure if I showed Ruby a photo of him, she’d more than understand. She might not play for that team, but she gets it—anyone would.

I sit up again, this time placing my hand on top of hers. “Just restlessness, Ruby.” I try to ease the look of concern in her eyes. “That’s all. I promise.”

She nods, though a part of me can’t help but dwell on the fact that I know she knows there’s more behind my words.

There always is.

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