She drops that compliment on me so casually, it almost doesn’t fully register. When it does, everything below my neck feels like it’s on fire. “What makes you think I’m the kind of man other men look up to?”
“You’re confident. Enough to laugh as loud as you want. Or work without your shirt on. And you’re strong. A natural leader. Everyone stopped what they were doing when we spoke in the loading bay last night because they place value on your actions.”
I can only stare straight ahead at the road because her words have caused an unexpected tide of emotions. Gratitude chief among them. “I…thanks, cutie. Thanks for saying that. But honestly…”
“What?”
It takes me a moment to locate an explanation. “Sometimes I’m just loud to distract everyone from the fact that I’m not, uh…” I cough into my fist. “Smart. Like you.”
Missy sits up a little straighter. “Who told you that?”
“No one has come right out and said you’re not smart. It has just always been implied. My parents pushed me towards football because of my size. When I tried to join the academic decathlon team, the other students laughed me right out of the room. I guess, after a while, that people could tell I’m missing a few brain cells and I’m just too stupid to see it.”
“They made an incorrect assumption based on a stereotype of football players, so maybe they were the ones missing a few brain cells.” She’s quiet for a moment. “They wouldn’t let me try out for decathlon because I was too smart. And half their age. So I started my own team and beat them solo.”
I bark a laugh. “If you’re trying to be relatable with this story, I’m sorry to inform you, you’re not quite pulling it off.”
“Sorry,” she says quickly, starting to face forward again in the passenger seat. “I shouldn’t have said any—”
“Hey.” I reach out with my right hand and cradle the side of her face, the softness of her skin almost making me groan. “That was a joke. You don’t have to watch what you say around me. I always want to hear exactly what’s on your mind. Don’t water anything down. I’d rather have honesty.”
She closes her eyes and exhales dreamily, as if she can’t fathom a reality where she’s honest all the time. “Do you really mean that?”
“Damn right I do.”
“I don’t mean to sound like a know-it-all.”
“But you do know it all. And you should be proud of that.”
The way she beams at me? I’m going to carry it for the rest of my life.
Five
Missy
I’ve never stood on the sidelines of a football game before.
Nor have I ever felt shorter or more fragile. Giant men in their pads jog past me on all sides, shouting in growly tones, slamming fists to their chests. Throwing themselves into one another in an apparent attempt to excite themselves and their teammates.
I thought I would be an objective observer, but I find myself…invested in Turk’s former team winning the upcoming game. Mostly because they come over and greet him so warmly, group after group of men in pads, slapping Turk on the shoulder and telling him they miss him on the field. In turn, Turk claims he doesn’t miss their “smelly-ass feet” in the locker room and everyone has a big laugh. I more or less hide behind his back during the first few meetings, but when there is a break in greetings, he turns and looks down at me over his shoulder.
“Are you going to stay back there the entire game, cutie?”
“I don’t want to interrupt your reunion,” I reassure him, curling my fingers in the back of his T-shirt and sidling closer to his warmth.
He reaches back and guides me around until I’m standing in front of him, my head tipped all the way back to keep eye contact. “Actually, I’d love to introduce you to them.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Look.” He plows a set of fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I need to tell them you’re my girlfriend.”
“Oh,” I say again, my heart kicking into a sprint at the thought of being called his girlfriend. “Why…why do you need to do that?” I ask, sounding breathless.
It takes him several seconds to complete a swallow. “I need them to believe I’m your boyfriend so they won’t try to…steal you.”
“Steal me?”
“Yeah. I know that sounds crazy, but my stomach is in fucking knots because I’m worried one of them will ask you out. Even if you said no to them, I think I would still get sick everywhere. Or start a brawl. Or both. Basically it just wouldn’t be pretty.”
“But why?” I search his earnest features and find myself wanting to trace them with my fingertips. “Do you feel responsible for me because you’re my host for the day?”
“Something like that,” he responds hoarsely.