“Why don’t I get to enjoy the same show?” He pulled the sweats on.
“Because I’m a selfish asshole, remember?” I teased.
“No, you’re not. You always say that, but you’re not.”
I rolled my eyes. I knew who I was. I pulled on a pair of black sweats and tilted my head toward the door.
We went downstairs. Anson was insistent on eating better, so we cooked chicken breasts and seared veggies on my indoor grill. It was cloudy and foggy outside, so we ate in the living room. I even turned on ESPN for him because I was the fucking sweetest. We ate, and he yelled at the TV and told me which teams needed to lose so Atlanta could keep their position in the league. If I hadn’t already known, it would have been clear how much he loved the game. He rambled on about stats and highlights and blah, blah, blah, things that went in one ear and out the other, but hearing him talk about football, watching him light up, made me smile.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. You’re a dork. Come on.” We took our plates back to the kitchen, and I grabbed a T-shirt from the laundry room. Anson got one out of his bag as I went to the garage and dug out the motherfucking football I purchased just for his visit. I was a fucking mess for this guy. “Teach me to play.”
“Really?” The smile he gave me made me tremble, and it felt like he was somehow lighting me up with his happiness. He was fucking bursting at the seams with energy.
“I said so, didn’t I? There’s a privacy fence in the back. It’s tall enough that no one will see.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he replied.
“I’ll go get our shoes.”
I jogged upstairs and grabbed them along with socks, and a few minutes later, we were in the backyard, the cool San Francisco wind nipping at our skin as he said, “Go over there,” and motioned for me to stand a few feet away.
We started with catch, just tossing the football back and forth. Every one of Anson’s throws was perfect. “My mom said my dad loved football, but he didn’t have the natural talent I do. It’s hard… I was so young when he passed. I have memories, little fragments of things, but not fully fledged ones. The older I get, the more they fade. I wish he were here…that he could see me.”
“He’d be proud,” I replied. “No matter what.” There was no way I could know that, but I wanted Anson to believe his dad wouldn’t care if he was gay, that he would love him regardless.
He threw the ball. “Are you psychic now?” The words were said playfully, but I could tell he appreciated what I said.
“Maybe I am.” I tossed it back, and then he was running at me. Turning, I ran, admittedly not fast, because, well, no matter how fast I tried to run, I knew Anson could catch me. He was a tight end for the Atlanta Lightning, for Christ’s sake. I had no chance of outrunning him, but I also wanted to be caught. It would be fun to get caught, and it didn’t take him long to do so.
Anson carefully tackled me. “Cheater,” I teased.
“Nope. Just better than you.” He stood, and I missed the weight immediately. He held out his hand, and I let him help me up. We continued our one-on-one football game, this time really trying to score.
It wasn’t long before the familiar San Francisco rain began to trickle down on us, not heavy, just a light, steady drizzle. We didn’t stop, though. We kept playing, and I ended up on the ground more often than he did, but Anson did let me catch him a few times. It was both hot that he was so athletic and a little embarrassing that he had to go so easy on me.
Eventually, we were soaking wet and muddy, and I could see how serious he was about football, even now, during this playful game with me.
The next time he tackled me, he looked down at me with wet hair and raindrops clinging to his eyelashes, and I knew there was nowhere else I’d rather be. The thought was scary as hell, and I wanted to bury it, pretend it wasn’t real, but it was.
“You win,” I said. He looked around as if to make sure we were alone, then kissed me like he’d been doing it for years. I tugged him down so he lay on me. We kissed and rolled around on the wet grass, each trying to get on top, then melting into the ground when we were on the bottom.
“I think we need another shower.” He held my wrists and looked down at me with a fucking smile that was so big, so real, it was contagious. I couldn’t help but smile back.