Page 128 of Let It Be Me

I give him a cheeky smile, making the tears spill down my face. “I thought you just wanted to be friends.”

“I want all of it.” He raises his gaze to the sky beyond my head, the golden light of the fireworks exploding in his dark eyes, and then he looks at me. “I wish for you, Ruby. Forever.”

FIFTY-ONE

lorenzo

The noiseof the crowded stadium is so thunderous I feel it under my ribs. Our opposing team’s home crowd is impressive; I’ll give them that. But all that cheering hasn’t been enough to earn them the lead. And if I get my way, it won’t give them the win either.

It’s game nine and my first game back for the season. If we win this one, we clinch a berth in the conference championship. I thought I’d be back by week seven, but those two extra weeks were worth it, because I’ve been on fire every time I take the field. I thank the universe every day for Dr. Halpert, for my trainers, for my patience, and for the girl who got me here. She’s somewhere in this crowd, wearing my jersey, which makes me feel like the luckiest dude on earth. But no time to think about that now.

It’s the last play of the game and we’re up by five points, but the other team has the momentum. They’ve been driving the ball down the field, wearing us down and threatening to score. We’re exhausted, banged up, and smeared with mud from this morning’s rain. And if they get a touchdown, there won’t be time left on the clock for us to retake the ball and win back the lead. Somebody has to make a play to stop them. Might as well be me.

We’re almost at the goal line as I line up in the middle of our defensive formation. I’m looking right into the opposing quarterback’s eyes. I see how much he wants this win—how much he thinks he’s about to get it.

Fuck him.

He gets the offense set and starts barking the signals. A man goes in motion, and our defense adjusts their alignment. Time slows down, and I know I have to act on my instincts to make something happen. The ball is snapped and I feel the play flowing to my left. I see the left guard pulling, and I’m able to split the down block from the tackle as I see the quarterback hand the ball off to the running back. I rip through and hit the running back at a full sprint, putting my shoulder into his chest. My helmet is right under his chin as his feet lift off the grass. I hear the air go out of him as I drive him into the ground and time runs off the clock.

The play is dead. We win.

I push myself off the running back and whoop as my teammates come together. Our shouts and cheers feel like the only sounds in the stadium, most of the crowd now silent.

Except, of course, for the section where Ruby sits alongside my family. I can’t hear her, but I know she’s out there, high-fiving Anthony and cheering louder for me than anyone. Like she always has.

By the time we exit the field, she’s made her way through the quickly emptying stadium to the seats next to the tunnel. She’s flushed and grinning, her face painted with my number on both cheeks. She’s never looked more beautiful in anything than she does in my bright red jersey. Anthony stands behind her, his smile pure happiness, and I know he’s as proud of me today as I am of myself. Behind me, someone excitedly tells me I better play like this again next week, and I pretend not to hear him. I’m not gonna go there yet. I want another win, I wantthe conference championship, I want the NFL contract and the perfect life and all the other dreams I’ve been working for. Ruby blows me a kiss as I go by. But I have what I really need. I always did.

FIFTY-TWO

ruby

As soon asLorenzo is out of sight, I dash for my car, still buzzing with the adrenaline of the game. The drive is two hours, and as soon as I get home, I slide in front of my laptop. Even though my midterm writing assignment for my food analysis class has been done for a week, I’m eager for one final read-through before I hit Submit. I promised myself I’d do things differently senior year—no procrastinating, no getting distracted by shiny new objects, and no second-guessing my decisions. Which means I’ve committed the rest of my time in college to working toward a job as a research chef, and I’m not giving myself the option to change my mind. Not until I’ve graduated and had a chance to work in the field for a couple of years. Giving myself no other options has slowly gone from terrifying to comforting.

With a few edits made and the assignment submitted, I grab the pan of lasagna from my kitchen and head for Lorenzo’s. He’s already home, standing shirtless in his kitchen in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants. I look him up and down. Definitely no underwear beneath those pants.

“Gina’s gonna kill you if you don’t eat your own body weight in pasta tonight,” I say as he tears chunks of meat from arotisserie chicken—only white meat, of course. We’re expected at Reeve’s house tonight and we’re expected to show up with appetites.

“I can do both.” He looks me over and smiles. “Still in your war paint, huh? You’re not gonna wash that off before dinner?”

“No, and no plans to take off this jersey either.” So maybe the way I wear my Rossi jersey with matching ribbons in my hair and paint number fifty-two on my cheeks has some high-school-cheerleader energy to it. I don’t care. I’ve waited so long to let the world know he’s mine.

“It’s never looked better.” He gets a hungry look in his eyes as I reach up to kiss him.

“Hey, no chicken grease on the jersey.” I push his hands away and maneuver myself so I’m standing behind him. “This thing’s gonna be worth six figures someday.”

“I don’t need my hands to make you come.” He looks over his shoulder and winks.

My body throbs in response to this threat. I run my hands up the muscles of his back, leaving a few kisses along his spine. I swear I can feel the heat of exertion from the game still pulsing under his skin.

“Promise?”

By the timewe get to the big old house Cash, Reeve, and Cam share, it’s been transformed from unmistakable college-dude bachelor pad into something that feels like a home. The warm smells of garlic, roasted meats, and simmering sauce are detectable from the front door, and there’s actual matching dinnerware and a white tablecloth covering the row of card tables cobbled together to make one long dining table. A groupof football moms plus a stray dad or two bustle in the kitchen, Gina leading the charge as she pulls pans out of the oven I’ve never once seen used; arranges giant foil pans of meat, pasta, and vegetables on the counter; and stirs something bubbling on the stove.

Lorenzo asked that we at least pretend this dinner has nothing to do with his return to the field, but when we walk in, Reeve announces the entrance like he’s a sportscaster, and there are claps and hoots and a general ruckus that make Lorenzo’s cheeks flush adorably. But his smile is real.

Anthony’s at work in the kitchen, preparing some kind of soup, but he flicks off the burner and takes Lorenzo in a hug, pounding his back with a fist before letting him go. “Total fucking stud,” he says, one hand still on Lorenzo’s shoulder.

Lorenzo’s Aunt Teresa gives her son a playful slap on the arm. “Must you, Anthony?”

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