Page 30 of Saving Barrette

We stare at one another again and the emotion surfaces, my words on the tip of my tongue. I want to tell him I love him. His arm gives way and he settles his weight on me, all of it, every hard line. I’ve never felt like this before, so alive it bursts through me in a shock wave, residing deep in my bones, aching for more. But I knew what I was keeping him from. Practice. Obligations. A life without me in it.

So I let go, pull away and smile. “You should go.”

He nods and inhales a rushed breath. Pushing back, his hand moves to the back of his neck, fighting the urge to return to the bed. And then he frowns. “You’re making it hard to leave.”

I snort and then start giggling when I notice the bulge in his jeans. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Picking up the pillow that fell off the bed earlier, he tosses it at my face just before he picks up his backpack on the floor. Unzipping it, he pulls out a mason jar that’s glowing purple and gold. I stare at it. “What’s that?”

He sets it on my nightstand. “It’s your own starry night.”

I’m constantly searching for stars in the sky, and in Washington, in the fall, it’s damn near impossible. He made me my own. Sitting up, I gasp and reach for it, twisting it in my hands. Taped to the side is a quote.

I smile. Asa looks nervous, biting his lip. “You like it?”

I nod. “I love it. How’d you do this?”

He shrugs a shoulder, shifting his weight to one foot and burying his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Glitter and a glow stick.”

“Crafty.” I stand up on my bed and lunge myself at him. “Thank you. I love it so much.”

And I love you.

I’m still naked, and he sighs, wrapping his arms around me. “Great. Now I’m hard again.”

I laugh and slide my legs to the floor, effectively rubbing myself down his erection.

He tosses he head back, groaning. “Goddamn it.” And then he’s kissing me again, laying me on the bed and grinding himself into me.

“Asa?”

“Yeah?” he grunts, attacking my neck and shoulder with heated kisses.

“You’re gonna be late.”

He sighs, shaking his head but pushes himself away. With a frown, he covers me with my blankets. “Stay there.” He leans in and kisses my lips, just once. “Don’t move and I’ll be back in a few days.”

I laugh. “I’m not staying in bed for two days.” It wouldn’t be the first time.

He grumbles something, but I don’t hear what before he slips out the door.

I can’t stop the smile that surfaces. Sleep hangs over me as I stare at the glittery mason jar on my nightstand. I can’t believe he made that for me. If I hadn’t already been in love with Asa, I would have fallen completely this morning. Even in my relaxed state, a rush of fear pricks my skin when I think about the torment on his face as he made love to me. I say make love because it didn’t feel like sex or fucking—there was love present in every touch we made. Years of waiting had led to that, and I knew, deep down, I was filling a void I didn’t understand. One I might never understand.

Since I was old enough to pick a football up, I’ve loved it. I wanted to be at the center of it all. I didn’t want to be the running back and the tight end, or even a lineman. Let’s face it, I’m not built to be a lineman. What I am is the guy in control. When I call “hut,” everyone moves. I’m where it’s at. The play doesn’t start until I give the okay.

“Ready?” Terrell is watching me, waiting for an answer. We’re halfway through the fourth quarter and he knows I am; he’s just checking. I nod and we move to the line of scrimmage.

Am I ready? Probably not. I’m not ready to call the play. My mind is obsessing, contemplating, going over and over what yesterday meant. Was it too much for her? Should I have stopped it? Should I have told her I loved her?

I wait for the snap. My heart pounds rapidly in anticipation, my mind working to strategize and see the play before it happens. I clap my hands, the ball snaps, and I spot Roman midfield, but he’s tied up with a defender. I fake to the left and then spin around to the right and throw across field to Dem. He doesn’t gain any ground. He’s tackled at the ten-yard line.

I have two options at this point. I can run the play myself or throw the ball. I run the ball myself, stiff arm a guy and then lay myself out for the touchdown. Coach hates it when I do this, afraid I’ll get hurt, but when I see an opening, I take it.

We win the game against the Bears 38-7. I surprised myself with big numbers there too when I threw for over 290 yards and rushing thirty-two times for 178 yards despite the wind and rain. It was relentless, and the ball kept slipping out of my hands. The field was a swamp after the game.

It’s a big win for us. Part of me isn’t feeling it. Since it’s a home game, we’re looking to get rowdy and party, but my mind isn’t on the game, or the win. It’s on her. It’s on the girl I can’t shake. With the way my schedule has been, I haven’t been able to see her since the other night when we had sex. I have no idea what her feelings are, how she’s feeling, and it fucking kills me.

The guys find a party at a nearby frat house that serves us just fine with an endless supply of beer. I don’t drink much. And though I don’t want to be at a party, I want to be with Barrette, I welcome the distraction for a couple of hours. I texted her, but she hasn’t answered yet.

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