Page 16 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
“Matthew and Tyler are beasts this summer. As you know, Matthew has put on about fifteen pounds of muscle. Transformed himself into a walking refrigerator.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose as the memory of commenting on his legs comes screaming back. “Don’t remind me.”
“And Tyler has improved the most. He saw a play coming before I even finished the snap count. Ended up tackling our running back three yards behind the line.”
“Sounds painful.”
“That’s football, baby.” Adam’s expression shifts, turning almost reverent. “But Hart…man. That guy’s on another level.”
My pulse quickens at the mention of Jameson.
“He’s NFL-level precise in his running route. And his hands?” Adam shakes his head in amazement. “Yesterday, I threw this absolute garbage pass way behind him. It should’ve been picked off. But Hart reached back with one hand”—Adam mimics the move, most likely for my benefit—“snagged it out of the air, spun aroundtwodefenders, and took it all the way home. Sixty-yard touchdown.”
“Wow.” I might not know a great deal about football, but I do know my measurements. Sixty yards is more than half a football field in length. That’s a lot of running, way more than I could do, even on a good day—unless vicious bullies were after me.
“Coach has been working with him on jet sweeps, bubble screens, you name it. The guy’s our entire offense now.” Adam’s voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but scouts from Penn State and Maryland are already sniffing around him.”
I clutch the arms of my chair.Do not think about how amazing it’d be to sniff Jameson, Kevin.I work hard to keep my face neutral.
“They’re not supposed to contact him directly yet,” Adam continues, oblivious to my sudden inner turmoil. “But we know they’re watching. He’s been putting in extra time, showing up an hour early, staying an hour late. Works with the other receivers and teaches them his techniques. And you know his little brother, Ethan?”
I nod, picturing him as a werewolf and smiling. “Vaguely.”
“Hart brings him to camp sometimes.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“That’s Hart for you. Guy doesn’t have a selfish bone in his body.” Adam yawns and stretches his arms above his head. I wrinkle my nose, pretending his armpits reek. He sticks his tongue out at me. I stick out mine in return. “Speaking of camp, I should probably get some sleep. Gotta be on the field by seven.” He pushes off from the desk but pauses at the door. “You know, if you want to be more invested, you could come watch us at practice sometime. The team loves having people in the stands, even when it’s not a game.”
Could I? I picture myself on the metal bleachers, the summer sun beating down on me as I watch practice, watch Jameson in those mesh practice jerseys that show off more skin than they probably should. “Maybe,” I say.
Adam grins. “Cool. Just let me or Robbie know, and we’ll give you a ride.” He turns to leave, then adds over his shoulder, “And maybe lay off the late-night Instagram stalking. It’s weird.”
I wait until the door closes before opening the laptop. Before a magnet buried somewhere in the trackpad pulls my hand back to Jameson’s Instagram, even though my brain is screaming that this is unhealthy and borderline tragic. The image I left off on hasn’t changed. It’s still Jameson, shirtless, sand-dusted and squinting into the sun, hair falling over his forehead in a way that should be illegal for anyone born after 2000. I stare at the photo a second too long, then snap the lid shut and push thelaptop away. Five seconds later, the guilt and curiosity tag-team to force me to open it again.
I scroll and scroll. I know it’s pathetic, but there’s a weird comfort in knowing exactly how much of someone’s life is available in squares and captions. The Jameson in these photos isn’t the guy from my kitchen, or even the guy from freshman year. He’s golden and grown now, an expert in the art of effortless cool. Here he is at a bonfire, holding a marshmallow to the flames and laughing at something out of frame. Here he is in junior prom pictures, standing at the far right of a group shot, the only one not making a dumb face. Here he is in a video from last summer at Archer’s Creek, shoving someone off the trestle and then diving in after them, emerging with a grin and flipping his hair to cheers from the crowd.
I click into the tagged section, hoping to see something embarrassing, but there’s nothing. He isn’t one of those guys who sing into his phone camera or post cringey TikToks. All his friends love him, if the comments are to be believed. Tyler calls him a “legend.” Robbie once called him “the only guy who could make Jesus weep at his awesomeness.” Even Adam has commented “beast” on at least three photos.
My eyes drift to the time on the toolbar. It’s nearly four in the morning now, and I’m still wide awake, replaying a ten-second conversation, as if there’s any new information for my brain to process.
My forehead thuds gently against the desk. I will myself to think about anything else. Musicals. The birthday presents Adam and Robbie got me—signed Playbills off of eBay and tickets to a comedy show in the city. The fact that I should be sleeping. But my brain is a dog with a bone.
I scroll back up to the top of the page and read Jameson’s bio: “WR #85, amateur dog whisperer, lover of all things breakfast.” I note, with a kind of sick fascination, that his mostrecent Instagram story is an early-morning shot of pancakes and bacon at the all-night diner. He posted it thirty minutes ago. Which means he’s probably still up. If I were a braver person, I’d follow his account, maybe send him a message, likethank you for coming to my birthday party, even though you were really invited to Adam and Robbie’s birthday party, which also happened to be mine.
I groan. This is a new low for me. I’ve gone from zero to obsessive in less than twenty-four hours. And for what?
Opening a new tab, I typeHow to stop thinking about someone. The results are generic and unhelpful.
Get a new hobby.
Practice mindfulness.
Talk to friends.
No one mentionssurviving until the crush passes or you die of embarrassment, whichever comes first.
I wish for a time machine so I can go back fifteen hours and tell myself to stay in Adam’s room and avoid the kitchen. I wish I could wipe Jameson Hart’s smile from my neural pathways. But wishes are not how the universe works, so instead I sit here, alone in the blue glow, replaying everything over and over until it’s less of a memory and more of a curse.
