Page 39 of Beautifully Conflicted

“You rub the fingers of your right hand together if the route is going to take you deep, and you do nothing if you’re running a slant or a shorter route. I know which is coming by looking at your hand.”

Bennet holds that hand in front of his face, marveling at it like it’s some sort of foreign object. It’s only when Coach barks at us to get back to the line that he finally moves.

His hand is utterly still before the snap, so I figure we’re doing a repeat of the play we just ran. Only instead of slowing up Bennet keeps charging toward the end zone, so I’m a few feet behind him, and pretty stunned, when the ball drops into his hand.

He actually listened to me?

Bennet tosses the ball to one of the assistant coaches and starts jogging back to the huddle, slowing his pace when he gets to me and stopping us both when he rests his hand on my arm. “How did you pick up on that?”

“I pay attention.”

“Lots of people pay attention. They don’t play me the way you do.”

“Nobody plays you like I do, because nobody studies you like I do.”

The helmet partially obscures my view, but I’d swear Bennet’s eyes pop wide before he bobs his head methodically up and down, processing. After several false starts, he asks, “You study all your opponents like that?”

I don’t respond. I can’t, not after what happened on that run. Besides, I’m sure he can figure it out without any other embarrassing admissions from me.

“You could’ve kept that to yourself. Made me look like I was losing my touch.”

“We’re on the same team.”

“We’re still rivals.”

“Are we?” I ask, hoping he picks up on the fact I’m trying to be genuine and not a cocky dick. The curt way Bennet shakes his head makes me think he hears the latter though.

“Let’s get back.” Bennet jerks his head toward the rest of our teammates, who are gathering at the line of scrimmage to run another play. Once again, his hand is still as Nate goes through the snap count, and when the play begins, I’m in the dark as to what’s coming.

I have no choice but to react instead of anticipate, which makes him infinitely harder to play since he’s so fast. Not that I can’t keep up—I do that quite well—but when he stops and doubles back it takes me a few steps to change my momentum, leaving me out of position for the shorter pass. He catches it effortlessly, and all I can do is watch since I’m not allowed to tackle him.

The offense whoops, justifiably considering they completed two passes in a row, and the sense that they’ve found a rhythm makes the energy on the field ramp up a notch. Even among the defense, because deep down we all want them to succeed.

Scoring with him may not be in my future, but a championship could be, and on the off chance someone else studied his game the way I did, he’ll be harder to cover when he isn’t broadcasting the route he’s running. Plus, I’ll get better myself if I don’t have an advantage in our matchups.

Still, it’s a little bittersweet to see him make a catch, not only because I like to beat him, but because he gets so angry when I do it. The dark glare he gives me in those moments is both an incentive to stop him and inspiration for my fantasies, and I’m going to miss it.

Bennet

The numbers swirl together on the page, something that rarely happens to me since I happen to be a whiz with numbers, yet I can’t seem to make it stop. And it’s all because of Damien, who I seem to have swapped roles with.

I’m losing my mind.

That’s the only explanation for my behavior. Some long dormant concussion symptoms have resurfaced, or maybe sleeping with my phone next to my head has altered my brainwaves. Hell, I wouldn’t even be surprised if I have one of those parasites that eat your brain.

The only thing I know is thatsomethinghas happened because it’s definitely not working right. After all, what else could make me do a total one-eighty after getting my wish—a quiet Damien—only for me to take his silence as an opportunity to talk his ear off.

And what does he say during those little chats between plays? Nothing to piss me off, surprisingly. No, he clues me in to his secret weapon. The tell he’s used to beat me for years. Myown hand, and the signals I’ve apparently been broadcasting to the world.

He didn’t have to tell me that, and I’m still not sure why he did. Yeah, he mentioned thewe’re on the same team nowthing, but I’m not sure that’s it. Not entirely. I can’t help wondering if the real reasonhas something to do with what he said on that run—the loving him thing—and questioning whether he thinks he can change the way I feel about him by helping me on the field.

I’ve tried not to acknowledge it, but there’s no denying the guy has a crush on me, and he wants me to reciprocate. But that’s a dangerous ask.

If I let myself think of Damien in that way, it could happen. I’m already attracted to him physically, and if I want to avoid the hiccups being gay could bring for my career, I can’t act on it. I have to stay firm.

For myself.

For my NFL dream.

---