Page 59 of Near Miss

She looks beautiful.

I knew where she was sitting, and I tried not to look—but I did each time I stepped onto the field, even though she was lost somewhere in the blur of white and gold. I debated getting her seats right at the field, but then I would have been able to see her and that’s probably not what Darren meant when he asked me if I had my visualization down.

It was an easy lie, slipping off my tongue while I pretended to be the me of last season. Said I’d been practicing all week. Old Beckett Davis, sure. He’d have visualized until all he could see were the uprights.

This me, though, she’s all over me and under my skin and I can’t really see anything but her. I thought maybe it would go away after we slept together, but I think she’s probably in my veins now and even if I bled myself dry—she’d be all that was left.

She’s there right now, just under my chest. It’s her hands on me and her nails digging into my shoulders.

My calf twitches and it’s not the overexertion of the muscle.

It’s her fingers painting down my back, moving me like a puppet on a string.

I swallow and drop back against my couch.

Beckett: Glad you liked them. Hope they helped.

Greer: It made everything very comfortable. Thank you.

My chest swells at that—the idea that anything I’ve ever done might have helped her out just a little.

Greer: My sister’s taken it upon herself to learn everything she can about football in general, and she tells me it was great kicking. So, good job, you.

You.

Me. Real.

Beckett: Thanks for spending your Sunday watching a bunch of men chase a ball around a field.

Greer: I usually spend it reading about fictional men with wings.

Beckett: How do you usually spend your Sunday nights?

Greer: Same as above.

My visualization kicks in pretty easily—I can picture her on her couch. Low lighting of her living room. A candle flickering. Hear the faint flip of a page while she reads. Her lips moving ever so slightly as her eyes track the words.

My thumbs start moving because it’s her lips I feel against my ear, her hair brushing my skin.

Beckett: If you’re worried about strain from your eyes bugging out when you get to the particularly sexy parts, you could come over.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

They reappear.

I start to type an apology—to tell her it was a joke, that I’m tired.

And I am tired—but her hand makes a fist, and she pulls taut on the strings of me she holds in her fingers when she answers.

Greer: Text me your address.

“No earmuffs?” I grin, resting my head against the doorframe.

Greer gives me a flat look, crossing her arms over her chest. The hood of her black sweater bunches around her neck, and her left leg shifts, like she’s considering tapping her foot. “Are they required for admission?”

I shake my head and push off the doorframe, tipping my chin towards the kitchen just beyond the open door. “Nah. Surprised you came, though.”

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