Page 15 of Watching You
I watch her because she doesn’t know how to hide. Not really.
She folds herself into routines like armor, but I see the cracks.
The way her eyes flick to the exits. The way she flinches when someone gets too close. The way she looked at me, like she wanted to run and stay at the same time.
“Earth to Fischer!” I blink. The ball’s flying toward me. I catch it late, fingers fumbling.
Coach glares. “Focus, son. The season opener isn’t going to be a walk in the park.”
I nod, but I don’t mean it, because I’m already focused. Just not on football.
“Blue eighty—set!”
I drop back, my feet light, eyes scanning.
A receiver breaks free, and I release.
The perfect spiral lands in his hands as he turns and takes off toward the endzone.
Coach nods approvingly, and my teammates clap. It’s all background noise, because I’m thinking about how she smells. Like sweet vanilla and something sharp underneath. How her voice caught when she asked why I was watching.
I run the next play and call the cadence, command the field.
Every movement feels distant.
I’m supposed to be leading. Supposed to be locked in, but all I want is to see her again. To watch her count her steps. To hear her breath hitch when I get too close.
She’s not just in my head.
She’s under my skin.
And I don’t know how to play without her here.
It all came on so suddenly that if I’m anywhere she’s not, then I can’t concentrate, but I won’t do anything about it because I want her.
Practice ends with a whistle and a curse. Coach isn’t happy. I missed two reads, underthrew a pass, and spaced out during the huddle. I can hear my father chewing me out–Focus, Kane. Don’t be soft. Don’t be stupid. I’ve got to get my head in the game somehow before I blow everything I’ve worked for. Scholarship, captaincy, and reputation all earned but blood and sweat.
I chased pussy before. Hookups, distractions, easy wins.
Never has it come between me and football. Never until my little sunflower bloomed right under me—quiet, strange, perfect—and stole every ounce of focus I had.
I’m toweling off in the locker room when Rhett drops onto the bench beside me, helmet still in his lap, sweat streaking down his neck.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there, elbows on knees, watching me like he’s waiting for me to admit something.
“You were off today,” he says finally.
I grunt. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” He turns toward me. “You missed two reads, underthrew the slant, and spaced out during the huddle. That’s not you, man.”
I rub the towel over my face, hard. “Coach already gave me hell. I don’t need it from you either.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not Coach.” His voice is steady, low. “I’m your best friend. And I’m telling you—whatever’s going on in your head, you need to lock it down.”
I don’t respond.
He leans in, pulling his jersey over his head. “First game’s in two weeks. You’re the captain. You set the tone. If you’re off, we’re all off.”
