Page 55 of Near Miss

“I mean that. I’m not trying to date you. Don’t get me wrong, if you wanted to throw the occasional business meeting my way”—she gives me a flat look—“I wouldn’t complain. I’d be pretty fucking thrilled, actually. But I don’t want to stop being friends.”

I don’t tell her that the idea of her suddenly disappearing from my life—this person who sees me and doesn’t really care about anything other than what I have to say, what I’m actually thinking, who makes all those expectations I wear around feel like nothing—seems like a pretty bleak fate.

I’d probably drop to my knees and beg her to keep hanging out with me if it came to it.

But it turns out I don’t have to tell her. She cocks her head, tapping the lid of the coffee cup against her lips, hiding a quiet smile. “Would it help you sleep better at night? Staying friends with the one person in the city who doesn’t hate you?”

“It would.” I nod.

I don’t bother telling her that last night was the first night I’ve slept through since preseason ended. That the weight of everyone else’s expectations didn’t feel so heavy because I felt enough for her.

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes again like it’s this big inconvenience, but they look bright. “We can be friends. But I have to tell you, friends don’t bother friends at their place of work.”

She turns and starts walking down the hallway without waiting for me.

“You could bother me at mine,” I offer, giving her a sideways smile when I catch up to her. I like my legs when I’m around her. I don’t mind relying on them, because I know they’ll always get me to her. “First game of the season is on Sunday. It’d be nice to have a friendly face in the crowd. I could get you tickets, if you wanted. You could bring your friends. Or your dad and sister. Whatever.”

Greer stops when she reaches the lobby. Her nose wrinkles and she chews on the inside of her cheek. “I’m sure your tickets are all accounted for.”

“No.” I say it a bit too quickly, and I try to give a noncommittal jerk of my chin. I don’t want anyone else there. I’ve actively avoided the conversation with my parents, with Nathaniel and Sarah. But I like the idea of her there. “Unless you’re working?”

“I’m not,” she answers softly, and her voice cracks a bit. “I don’t—I don’t go to things like that. The noise is ... unpredictable.”

I swallow. Scrubbing my jaw, I start to shake my head. I fucking hate that—the fact that there’s this thing that hurts her and gives her pause about living her life. And I hate that I was selfish and stupid enough to forget it. “I wasn’t thinking. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Forget it. I’m serious.” I toss her a grin. “We can still be friends.”

She starts to shake her head. “No—no, it’s okay. Uhm. Let me ask if Stella wants to go. I make no promises, but I’ll think about it.”

“Only if you’re sure. You can come, decide you hate the picture of me hanging in the concourse, and leave before you get toticketing. You can leave whenever you want and I won’t be hurt.” I lower my voice. “Promise me you’ll only do what’s right for you?”

It’s a stupid gesture, and I’m not sure why I do it, but I hold up my pinky finger. Her head pulls back a tiny bit, she blinks, and it’s probably a trick of the light—but her eyes gloss over, the amber flecks come alive, and her smile splits my chest open when she raises her finger up to meet mine.

Coach Taylor hired a motivational speaker for our first team meeting of the regular season, and she’s staring at me a bit too intently for my liking.

And I don’t think it’s because she liked the stupid Beckett Davis grin I gave her when I sat down.

She’s been making thinly veiled references to there being no singular factor that goes into winning or losing—that it doesn’t come down to the successes or mistakes of one person.

The wordsyou win as a team, you lose as a team, actually came out of her mouth.

It didn’t feel like that when you were, in fact, the person they all put their faith in to win for them. I’d smashed every other record in my way—what was a 67-yard field goal to win the first championship in franchise history for the only Canadian team?

I turned my hat forward at that point, crossed my arms and sunk down in my chair.

I would have waited there—silently—doing the exact opposite of what used to be expected of me. There was a not-so-distant past where I would have been socializing with everyone. The team’s publicist would have had me down there shaking thespeaker’s hand, being Beckett Davis friendly. My teammates were—are—my friends. There isn’t a single person I don’t get along with in this room, people who I would have argued that, in another life, I was close with.

If it was last year, I would have spent a lot of my offseason hanging out with them. I only gave a cursory wave to Nowak, the team’s punter who I spent the majority of my time with, and reliable, likable Beckett Davis would have said was one of his best friend’s, and tipped my chin to Pat, who I definitely should have gone to say hello to, seeing as he just got here and didn’t know anyone but me, before I slunk down in my chair.

I’m still there, eyes on my phone like I’m having some sort of life-altering conversation, when really I’m wondering if Greer liked her coffee and debating the merits of only leaving my house for practice the closer and closer it gets to the game.

The people of the internet might have been onto something when they suggested I see a sports psychologist.

But there’s a knock on the table, and my eyes cut to the side.

“Beck. Hey, man.” Evan tips his chin before running a hand through close-shaven black hair.

Evan Chase, wide receiver and another best friend of reliable, likeable Beckett Davis.

The grin slips into place. “Evan. How are you?”

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