Page 20 of Futbolista
“That time isall the time.”
“Exactly what I’d expect from a math major,” he teases, his hand going close to my laptop, waiting for me to give him a nod so he can take a look at what I’ve written so far. “Still looking for a specific solution. For someone to tell you that you’re right.”
“Instead of what, then?”
“Instead of ‘This matters. What I think matters.’ Discussion matters.”
I groan, slouching in my chair. “Okay, but I’d rather be a math major any day over doing this. A day full of calculus, differential equations, linear algebra? Will always take that over being a Philosophy major.”
“My parents would probably agree with you.”
“I—hold up.” My hand goes up, covering the screen. “¿De veras? You’re majoring in Philosophy?”
“Yep. This is my life. This and English, double major.”
Well fuck. “I, uh … sorry about saying your major’s shit.”
He lets out a laugh as he pushes my hand away, keeping his on top of mine when they hit the table. “It’s cool. I’ve never once in my life said anything nice about math, so we’ll call it even. But, getting back to this paper currently making your life hell?”
I only let out another groan as my head thuds onto the table, nodding into the wood or whatever fake wood it’s made out of. I can hear Vale chuckle as he pets the back of my hand and then gently scratches it before admitting, “For some reason, I could’ve assumed talking about being trapped in caves, cannibalism, the justice system, and the death penalty would be the last way you’d want to spend a weekend.”
“I don’t even know how to pronounce it,” I whine, my head now resting on the table, my eyes looking up at Vale. “Spunky-an, Spell-seen—”
“Speluncean. The Case of the Speluncean Explorers.”
“That. Like—ugh. It makes me mad, actually. Between this law that leaves no room for exceptions, and this no-balls judge who wants to stay neutral about it, and a bunch of guys put in a shitty situation who are forced to eat one of their own, and almost every judge at least agreeing they don’t deserve to die, I just … when I think about it, I get frustrated. And then trying to make words come out that sound like a reasonable argument for, I don’t know, them not having been executed, or writing about everything that maybe we don’t know about what happened just sounds like yelling.”
“Well, take some deep breaths. This paper isn’t going anywhere. At least, not for twelve hours and some.ThenI’ll be worrying about you if you’re still here.” Vale looks at his phone, checking the time. “You want to take a walk? Before I saw you,I was thinking a breather sounded nice. And you could use a breather, it looks like.”
“Wait, you were on your way to some fresh air, saw me, and thought, he looks too defeated to just leave him?”
“I know, right? Try reasoning that one,” he says with a smirk.
“Simple,” I tell him back, wasting no time standing up and packing everything into my backpack. “You like me.”
And here comes that burgundy in his cheeks again. Something about it is really satisfying, knowing I make him blush like that. “I guess I must, huh? Probably the glasses. Somehow they make you look even cuter. Even with how stressed you were giving.”
The transition from cool AC to warm, moist air is one of my least favorite experiences. I gladly take Vale’s drink when he hands it to me, trying my best not to down the rest of it in seconds. But after how much I’m taking, I’m going to have to treat him to boba one day to make up for drinking all his tea.
“Make sure we don’t stay out here all night, all right?” I tell him, bumping my side into his. “Half an hour and then I’m back to figuring out this essay.”
“Half an hour,” Vale repeats before bumping me back, looking at my bare arms when he goes back to giving us a foot of space.
We walk past a few buildings, heading for Ocean Drive. And when we get to the road, Vale looks left, then right, and then starts power walking across, making me catch up to him because I was busy ripping apart the plastic-wrap top of his cup trying to get some ice. After that, there’s only a small strip of sand separating us from the water.
“Weren’t you going back to studying after this?” he asks, watching me take off my shirt and lay it down on the beach. His words, acting like I should know better or something, are giving me a very different energy than what his eyes are doing, staringreal shamelessly at my chest and stomach, appreciating the abs and V lines that have been coming in after—between my last high school season in the spring and going right into training and this season—almost three-quarters of a year of nonstop football.
“I’ll go back to my place to finish that essay. Don’t have to wear clothes there.”
“Valid,” he says back, his hands going to the bottom of his own shirt and pulling it up over his head. And, got to say, confirmed: he’s got a nice body.
Our shirts go side by side to make one large square of fabric over the sand, and the two of us sit close together, bodies pressing into each other. My hands go back, getting sandy but holding me up so I can lean back. And I don’t say anything when Vale takes that as an opportunity to move the littlest bit farther into my side. Nothing worth bringing up. It keeps him from getting sand on his butt, and it feels nice.
“You’re from Corpus, right?” he asks.
“Yep. My whole life’s basically been here.”
“You like living on the water?”
