Holding Onto Forever

“Whoa, on target and everything,” he says with a smile so wide that his eyes appear to be twinkling. “Sorry about that, sometimes the ball just gets away from me.”

“You’re the quarterback. It’s your job to make sure the ball hits your mark each and every time. The ball should never get away from you. You should command it to do your work for you.”

He smiles and pushes his hand through his hair. There’s a bit of laughter coming from him as well, which in turn makes me smile, but I try to hide it. I know football, better than most, thanks to Noah.

“I’ve just been schooled by a reporter,” he says, shaking his head.

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I’m a broadcast journalism major at Northwestern, but football is my life.”

His smile gets wider. “Let me get this straight, not only do you understand the game, but you can throw a wicked spiral?”

I shrug as if it’s no big deal.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” The thought that Kyle Zimmerman is impressed with me sends my heartbeat into a tailspin. He places his hand over his heart and bows. I could easily say I’m following right behind him with his dark hair and five o’clock shadow. I haven’t dated much since I moved to Evanston. In fact, dating in high school rarely happened either. Most of the guys always thought that Noah and I had a thing, and while there was a time in my life that I wanted us to be, we’re nothing more than best friends or at least we were.

“Have dinner with me after the game? Win or lose, you and I go out and enjoy each other’s company.”

“We barely know each other.”

Kyle steps closer. He smells like man mixed with sweat. “I’m Kyle,” he says.

“I’m Peyton.” His much larger hand engulfs mine, covering it completely.

“Peyton as in Manning?”

“As in Powell-James, but if you’re asking if my father was a Peyton Manning fan, the answer is yes.” He wasn’t exactly, but when Elle and I were born, Peyton Manning was one of the best quarterbacks in the league and his brother Eli was a rookie. I think for my father, being saddled with twin girls, he wanted to do something to compensate for being the only man in the house. I never asked my mom why she allowed our father to name us after the Mannings… probably because I know it still hurts her sometimes to talk about him. Even though she loves my dad Harrison, I know she misses my father, Mason.

“I like it,” he says, winking. “I gotta go to work.” He motions toward the field with his head and that’s when I make the mistake of looking. His teammates are standing there, gawking at us, with a few of them trying to hide their laughter behind their hands. If they had their jerseys on, I’d make a note of who they were so I could be sure to mention any screw-ups they had during the game. Luckily for them, I’m not a Bears fan and I don’t have their roster memorized.

I try not to watch as Kyle runs back toward the rest of the team, and when he looks at me over his shoulder, I can feel my cheeks turning red. Of course, it could be because the wind is blowing and it’s cold despite the sun being out or it’s because I like that he’s taken an interest in me.

And I really like that he’s taken an interest in me.

While Kyle’s car is small, he’s leaning toward me, listening to everything I have to say. We haven’t even left the parking lot yet, and his hand has moved closer and every few seconds I can feel his finger brush against my knuckles.

“I’m kicking myself for not throwing the ball at you until today.”

I want to roast him for admitting that he was trying to hit me, but I let it go. “Today was your only opportunity. I was on an assignment. This was my first Bears game.”

“And we lost.”

I shrug and keep my eyes on him as he inches us forward.

“What are you in the mood for?” he asks as he brings his car to a stop to let traffic go by, turning his head left, then right and when he looks at me, he winks.

“Someplace quiet, where we can talk.”

Kyle smiles before pulling out onto the road. I barely recognize the sound of a truck horn blaring and tires screeching before I look out my window and see the word MAC heading straight toward me. As the grill of the truck smashes into my side of the car, I raise my hand to protect my face from the flying glass and I wonder if this was what my father did all those years ago when he met the eighteen-wheeler that took his life.