Page 32 of Tumbling the Cornerback

"Better living through healthy choices," he sing-songed, mimicking an after-school PSA that had been popular about ten or twelve years ago. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with ice before glancing back at me. "You're looking at me weird."

"I can't help my face."

"Ha. You know you're hot. That's like ninety percent of the reason the whole social media thing went bananas when you got linked to Queering Sports. We had to jump on that."

"We all have our strengths," I agreed, nodding solemnly. Lucas snorted, handing me my water and heading for the living room. I followed, taking up a perch on the overstuffed ottoman. He set up on one end of the sofa, tucking his legs beneath him and grabbing his laptop from the coffee table. "Right to work, huh?" I teased.

"The next fundraiser is in early August. That's barely six weeks away. Between now and then, you've got preseason starting, I have training four days a week, classes to teach, volunteering with the nonprofit..." He trailed off, suddenly very interested in whatever was on his computer screen.

I seized the opportunity, scooting close on the narrow sofa. "What's going on?"

He hesitated for a long moment before sighing gustily. "Just had a lot on my mind lately. My Titi—auntie—she's always on me to go back to school since, in her words, I wasted my potential by going into pro cheer instead of becoming a dancer like my cousin. She and Mom, they were prima ballerinas in Cuba, back when they were younger."

"Holy shit, that's awesome." I smiled down him before his words sank in. "Wait, your aunt is making you feel like shit because you didn't go into ballet? Dude, you have two freaking degrees! You’re working for a nonprofit, teaching, and doing professional cheer! What’s disappointing about any of that?"

“Ask my mom and Tia,” he muttered, lips crimped in an annoyed frown. “They don’t care that I busted my ass through school for my degrees, that I got scholarships and grants and worked until I was hallucinating from lack of sleep to pay for it. They don’t care that I have literal articles published under my name in professional publications. They’re just mad that I threw away the family legacy and didn’t make my name in dance like they were denied doing.”

“Even though you didn’t want to be a ballet dancer?” I asked quietly, fingers itching to card through his hair, offer him some physical comfort as he sank into his funk.

"I don't think they'd have cared much what kind of dance, so long as it was dance," he admitted, sinking in on himself. "Don't get me wrong—I seriously thought about it. I auditioned for some big companies when I was younger. Ballet, jazz, hip hop... " He shrugged, catching his lower lip between two fingers and pinching it worriedly as he stared at the cold, empty fireplace across from us. "I loved it, but it didn't love me, you know? Cheer and tumbling, though?" He let go of his lip and let out a low whistle. "That was love at first handspring."

His expression somehow both proud and uncertain, Lucas darted a glance up at me. "I figured out I was good at tumbling and cheer. Then I learned how to be great at it. But Lynda and Mom, they held on to hope I'd get accepted to one of the big companies or even go to school for a dance major and teach ballet or something, but..." He spread his hands. "Here I am."

"Not such a bad place to be, is it?" I asked gently.

He shrugged again, those fingers moving back to worry at his lip in a nervous tell. "Maybe. I don't know. I didn't expect to still live with my sister at this point in my life." He pointed to one of the pictures on the mantel. Pride of place in the center, it showed a dark-haired woman with the same wide eyes and pointed chin as Lucas standing beside a tall, grinning man with an open face and a riot of sandy curls. They held a tiny baby between them, wrapped in one of those white hospital baby blankets and looking pissed as hell, little Winston Churchill face squished up and a silent shout caught for all time on film.

"I moved in when she was pregnant with Bas. Allegedly, to help out since it was a rough time for Renata and Del's job was super demanding." He scooted a bit closer to me, our knees barely touching now.

Still, I felt the point of contact like a brand. My hands itched to be on his skin, but my mind knew now was not the time. Still, it simmered there beneath the surface, my fascination with Lucas. Everything about him drew me to him, so much more intensely than when I first saw him a few years before. It wasn't merely a crush with a dash of lust, I realized, watching him reflect on that photo. It was turning into something more. Something tiny and fragile but hopeful. Possible.

Lucas shook himself, the tremor small and fine, before turning to face me, resting on one hip. The move shifted him away a little, but he caught one of the escaped locks of my hair between thumb and forefinger, giving it a gentle tug and slow twirl. "Del died when Bas was a few weeks old. Undiagnosed heart problem," he added, voice soft and a shade rough. "Renata found him on the bathroom floor one morning. I... I'm never gonna forget that scream."

"Jesus..." I reached for him, cupping his chin in my palm. The very faint rasp of a day's growth tickled as he turned into my touch, exhaling roughly.

"I moved in to get out of the house. I was in my junior year at UT, just starting out with pro tryouts. Things were just insane at home. Mom and Lynda were furious I was throwing it all away, and Dad was just trying to stay out of it, so Renata suggested I come stay with them. Del was cool with it—totally big brother vibes, you know? Anyway. When he died, I stayed with Renata. Mom and Lynda backed off, but I guess my statute of limitations is coming up. Bas is starting pre-K in the fall, so there's no reason for me to stick around and help out, according to them."

I moved closer, guiding his head to my shoulder. Sighing, Lucas melted against me, his arms slipping around my neck in a loose hold. "This is nice," he whispered against me. "I'm so tired, Cooper."

"Rest a bit then," I offered. "We've got some time."

"Not nap-tired," he protested, shifting disconsolately. "Just tired of a million things happening at once. Working my ass off, barely scraping by on my own, the changes to the project, Jameson—" He stopped talking so fast I heard his teeth click together. "Just tired," he finished quietly.

"Jameson?" I shifted, bumping him a little with my shoulder so he'd sit up. "Jameson Creel? The former Copperhead?"

Lucas chuckled, but it sounded weak. "Something like that. Hey, no offense, but it's late, and I know we both have full days tomorrow. Can we sort out some of this stuff before we have the meeting and maybe get some rest?"

I raised a brow. "Why, Mr. Ortiz, are you inviting me to sleep over? I didn't even pack my jammies!"

His snort was closer to humored than not. "Nope, I actually need sleep tonight, mister, so no slumber parties."

"Not yet anyway."

Giving me a considering, heated look, Lucas cocked his head. "Not yet."

Everything was pretty straightforward. Lucas came up with a series of social media posts for me to make, and Liesel approved. He'd also gone over some talking points they'd worked on for me to slip into interviews where I could. He saved the doozy for last, though. "And here's something that's going to give us both hives," he sighed. "Liesel wants you to do another interview with Byrne. This one just about Queering Sports. She said she cleared it with Caitlin and Phil, but I'd double check if I were you."

"Don't trust Liesel?" I asked mildly, looking up from where I'd been making notes in my phone. "Why not?"

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