Page 58 of Near Miss

I wonder what he thinks when he sees that—all these accomplishments spelled out for anyone to see, whether there was a time his chest would swell with pride, and he’d realize he’s so much more than he gave himself credit for. Reliable and likeable, sure. But more gifted at something he might think is useless than most people could ever dream of being.

But a lot of the things that make up Beckett wouldn’t be found on a banner.

They’re found in the way his smile changes when he’s comfortable in his own skin, the way he makes everyone feel seen and at ease. How when he speaks to you, his eyes areonly on you—and he’s always listening. The fact that he brings the most fragrant flowers to a scent-free environment. Loves obscure parts of history and spends too much time talking about reformer Pilates. That he gives away smiles willingly and I don’t think he leaves much for himself.

The way he breathes with you when you can’t do it on your own.

“Hello.” Stella leans forward, crossing her arms on the ledge of the counter. “My sister is here to pick up a package from Beckett Davis.”

A woman blinks at her from behind the glass, and I think a blush creeps across her cheeks. “Greer?”

“Yes?” I raise a hand and try to smile at her, but I don’t think it’s a terribly friendly thing—that he told this random woman my name.

She turns, producing a brown bag with my name scrawled across it in black marker.

“He did leave you a present!” Stella looks smug, eyes glinting as I take it.

I ignore her, peering in hesitantly before reaching in.

Earmuffs.

Giant, fluffy white sherpa earmuffs with the team’s logo on either side, but just above, stitched in gold—the number nineteen.

Stella inhales, her fingers rolling down over my wrist.

I glance up at my sister, and everything about her is soft. The corners of her lips twitch, her nose wrinkles, and she blinks too quickly, like she’s trying not to cry.

A note, on the same brown paper as the bag, sticks to the band.

I heard earmuffs were more friendly than a jersey. In case it gets too loud in there—Beckett

I tug the paper off. My fingers brush the material—it feels soft—but I think I can feel Beckett’s pinky around mine, too.

I pull the earmuffs on, and everything around me dulls to a quiet, comforting, pleasant murmur.

I can’t really hear anything except that pinky promise.

Promise me you’ll only do what’s right for you.

Nine words strung together and said by a friend with a simple enough meaning. But I think I hear him say something else—that maybe he could help me take care of myself, too.

Beckett

Three successful long field goals, a few extra points, and a win later—and everyone likes me again.

Reliable Beckett Davis is back. I’ve already seen a headline saying so.

But it doesn’t really make me feel anything.

What does make me feel something is the text and accompanying photo from Greer on my phone.

Greer: Earmuffs > Jersey. Very friendly.

I didn’t feel particularly friendly towards her when I saw it after the game. And I still don’t, now that I’m at home, staring at it like it’s my own version ofThe Starry Night.

It’s not because of the number nineteen I can see stitched in gold along the shearling. It doesn’t really have anything to do with her wearing something that’s supposed to represent my team or me. I asked Brooke to add my number more as a joke.

It has to do with the way she’s looking at the camera. She’s not even smiling. Impossibly dark hair tumbling around hershoulders, the earmuffs even starker because of it. But one hand presses against her chest, and the sunlight hits her just so—high cheekbones that for once don’t look like they could cut a man, and full lips together but it’s not a hard line. She looks content.

---