Page 55 of I Would Stay Forever
I stopped a few feet away, trying to appear chill despite the fact I was practically vibrating out of my skin. I was still in my volleyball shorts and a loose hoodie, hair pulled up in a messy bun that had definitely stopped being cute after practice.
“Hey,” I said. Without responding verbally, he tossed the football to me. I caught it instinctively, though I immediately noted how strange it felt in my hands. I’d played rugby a few times in P.E. when I was a kid, which was the closest I’d ever come to playing American Football, but I’d never taken to it.
“You ever thrown one of those?” Dean asked.
I looked down at it like it was a live grenade. “I’m from London, Dean. We played the real kind of football—the one with our feet.”
When I looked up again, his eyes were glinting and I got the distinct sense I’d walked right into his trap, even though I wasn’t sure what that trap could be.
“So you’re saying you’ve never held a real football before?”
“I told you, this isn’t ‘real’ football.” I tucked the football under my arm so I could make air quotes around real. “But if you’re asking if I’ve ever held one of these, no I haven’t.”
Dean laughed, the sound low and easy, and suddenly I felt a rush of pride for making him do that—for being the reason he sounded so unguarded, so real.
“Alright, British girl. Let me teach you a thing or two.”
“I already know the important parts.” I tossed the ball back to him, throwing it the completely wrong way—holding each pointy end and throwing underhand. Dean snorted but he managed to catch it all the same. “You run around and tackle each other until someone scores.”
“Wow, you’ve got it. You should be our new game announcer.” He walked up to me, holding the ball out for me to grab it again. “Here. We’ll do a quick warm-up. You throw, I catch.”
“I don’t recall saying I wanted to play.”
He wiggled the ball at me. “Humor me.”
With a dramatic sigh, I took it and tried to mimic how I’d seen players hold it—fingers on the laces, elbow bent. I wound up and tossed it. The ball spun sideways and hit the ground several feet short of him. My earlier throw had been leagues better and it wasn’t even how it was supposed to be done.
Dean didn’t even try to catch it—just burst out laughing again. “Okay, okay. That was… not the worst first try I’ve seen.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Seriously,” he said, jogging to retrieve it. “There was this kid in freshman year who threw it backward. At least you’re better than that.”
When he came back to me with the ball, I grabbed it from his hands and turned to run.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he called.
“Scoring a goal!”
He groaned. “Touchdown. It’s called a touchdown.”
“Whatever! Watch me, I’m about to make football history.”
“You don’t even know where the end zone is.”
He chased after me, and I shrieked, laughing as I tried to dodge him, but I didn’t stand a chance. His arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me clean off the ground. I flailed, the football slipping from my fingers and rolling across the grass.
“Put me down!” I laughed. He spun me once before we both lost balance and tumbled to the grass, me landing squarely on top of him.
“You’re cheating!” I gasped, kicking gently at his shin.
“I’m tackling. That’s legal.”
“We weren’t even playing for real!”
“I take all my games seriously.”
His hands still held my waist, my hair falling in a curtain around his face as we both gasped and laughed and tried to catch our breath. His eyes were close—closer than they’d been all afternoon. Close enough that I could see the little flecks of gold in them, the crease at the corner from squinting into the sun. I felt almost like I could count every eyelash and freckle on his face.
