Page 165 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Which—okay—she kind of does. Temporarily. For now. It’s not a big deal. Except it is.
We’re not discussing how she leaves her toothbrush beside mine as if it belongs there. We’re definitely not addressing the way my chest does a weird sinking-lifting sensation when she mutters my name before coffee, accusing me of finishing the oat milk as if I committed a war crime.
We’re not discussing how I’m becoming a man who notices which side of the bed she prefers.
The rookie lines up offside again. Coach shouts. I don’t flinch.
We run it again.
This time I bounce outside, dodge the corner, then cut inside on the second cone like I’m trying to outrun the fact that I miss her.
Which is pathetic.
I do footwork drills, cone to cone, pivoting on instincts that were once as reliable as gravity. They feel rusty now.
My mind’s not where it should be.
It’s in my damn kitchen, watching Olivia sitting on the kitchen island, eat peanut butter off a spoon in my hoodie with her socked feet on my counter like she owns it.
We run red-zone routes. I sweep around the edge on a fake and sprint into a short route, twist, and reach for the pass. Catch. Secure. Drop to the turf.
Coach blows the whistle. “Again.”
By the time we hit blocking drills, my arms are jelly and my thighs are on fire. Cam holds the pad while I slam into him again and again like I’m punishing myself for something I haven’t said out loud.
“Your form’s off,” Cam grunts.
“Your face is off.”
“Ah, there he is.” He smirks. “Welcome back to the field, Loverboy.”
Coach waves us off for water. “Crawford, you’re tight.”
“Not in a good way,” Cam adds.
“Appreciate that,” I mutter.
We walk toward the water station. I chug half a bottle in one go, my hands smudged with turf and sweat. My brain? Not tired. Just distracted. It’s too fucking full of Olivia. Her laugh. Her snark. The way she tilts her head when I say something absurd and pretends not to be amused.
She sent me a photo yesterday—Sarah passed out in a laundry basket like the most dramatic Victorian heiress to ever grace a plastic throne. Olivia captioned it:New throne. May need to extend the living room.
I laughed so hard I choked on my lunch.
Cam elbows me. “You know what your problem is?”
“Oh please, enlighten me.”
“You’re in love.”
I squint at him. I mean, I am and she knows it but we’re not ready to tell the world. So I say, “You’ve got heatstroke.”
“No, I’m observant. You’re playing like a man emotionally compromised by bath towels and reruns ofGilmore Girls.”
“It wasThe Big Bang Theory. And she made me watch one episode.”
“And you finished the whole season. Admit it.”
“I will physically end this conversation.”
