Page 131 of Sweat

“Fuck!” I roll over, trying to stand, but I only get as high as my knees before I’m crumpling over, clutching my side, and digging my forehead into the grass.

I hear a whistle blow, and I hear my name in Rowan’s voice.

“Tommy!” He’s at my side in seconds, on his knees with his palm on my back. “Tommy, you good?”

“The little cretin elbowed my fucking kidney,” I groan into damp blades of grass.

Gripping my arm, Rowan pulls me to my feet, and I shake the pain off best I can. The ref is in my ear, telling me I’m due a penalty kick.

A penalty kick?I had a clear path before I went down. I was going to ditch the cretin, call for the ball, and win this fucking game for us while the goalie was looking the opposite way. I had it all mapped out in my head. Now I have to risk it going head to head with the final boss?By myself?!

Rowan has worked with me a lot on offense, but it’s still a weak point. Rowan is way better at tricking goalies and faking directions.

“You got this, baby,” Rowan pumps me up.

I got this.

The field clears for the showdown. Me versus the goalie. He stares me down like it’ll rattle me, but it’s nothing compared to Rowan’s smolder. I count my strides backward. I steady myself. I swipe my wrist across my sweaty brow, and I plot my strategy.

It happens in a whirlwind. My heart lodges in my lungs, holding my breath hostage, and I kick the ball as hard as I can toward the right corner, and—

Net.

I fall back to my knees, gasping in a long breath that I then expel through an incredulous laugh. My head throbs with how loudly the stadium cheers, and I hear my teammates’ voices doing the same. They’re on me, shaking me, slapping my back, and calling me the G.O.A.T.

Someone helps me up. I don’t know who, but Rowan’s corralling us to finish the match. There’s only a minute left, plus two for overage. Ohio is exhausted and demoralized while we’re riding high. My side doesn’t even hurt anymore. 2-1 feels so much sweeter than it ever has before, and when the time runs out, that’s where the final score sits.

The field is mayhem. Our bench clears, everyone celebrating. Confetti falls from the rafters like it’s the Super Bowl. I’m looking up at it all with as much wonder in my eyes as if it were snowfall in Sac Town.

I yelp as something like a punching bag smacks into my side, landing me back on my ass, flat on my back.

“You did it!”

I blink, and it’s Rowan on top of me, caging me on his hands and knees, staring into my eyes the way he does before asking me to fuck him. The adrenaline, the elation, the atmosphere, and Rowan’s fucking eyes. It all accumulates in my shorts, and I’m actually getting hard right now, in the center of the field surrounded by everyone.

“You did it!” Rowan repeats before colliding his mouth onto mine, latching our lips and kissing me like I’m food and he’s starving. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough to steal the air from my lungs.

Standing on his knees, Rowan looks like an angel with gunmetal eyes as multi-color confetti sprinkles his head and shoulders. “You did it.”

I sit up, snatching the back of his neck and touching our foreheads together the way he did before the match began. “We did it,” I tell him.“Wedid it.”

Throughout the draft process, Rowan kept the details of his convos between him and the clubs interested in him on the down-low. He didn’t want to talk about it with me, and as far as I know, he never even talked about them with Matt. Rowan isn’t a superstitious athlete, but everyone has their quirks. I assumed he didn’t want to jinx anything.

The nagging, insecure voice inside my head is worried Rowan’s tight lips mean he’s fixing to go far away. Miami or New York maybe. Someplace far away from Sacramento and everyone in it. Wouldn’t blame him. He’s felt like he’s had nothing here for so long that I imagine he’s dreamt up a million fantasies about being some place else and starting fresh. But, starting fresh usually means startingsingle.

ESPN taps into a camera mounted over Matt and Xia’s living room TV, because they know Rowan will be drafted. It’s only a matter of when, and by which club. We all hang on bated breath, watching the draft coverage live. I’m beside Rowan, gripping his hand, almost as anxious as he is right now.

Last night, Rowan got in his head. Started talking nonsense, saying he won’t get drafted by anyone on account of him being gay. Supposedly, there were some trolls in online forums saying cruel shit about my Row after our College Cup win, but they can fuck themselves. If people want to talk shit, they can do it to our faces so I can pummel them to the ground.

But I’ve also seen some supportive chatter about how special Rowan’s draft will be because he’s gay, like he’s a true trailblazer. With all that comes a heck of lot more pressure, though.

There’s so much sitting on Rowan’s shoulders, he’s vibrating with nerves beside me, but when the MLS commissioner steps up to the podium and announces that the San Jose Earthquakes are using their first round pick on Rowan Hughes of Sacramento State, I’ve never seen my boyfriend so fucking happy.

Grin reaching his ears, he leaps up from the sofa like he won the lottery. He lets go of my hand so he can swing his arms around me and hug me like we’re both winners.

San Jose.

It’s far, but it’s notfarfar. It’s not on the other side of the country. It’s a two-hour drive. That’s nothing. He can visit me all the time, or I can drive to him. We can make this work. Can’t we?

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