Page 35 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
The Food Lionbathroom is exactly what you’d expect—harsh lighting, beige tiles, and that weird pink soap that doesn’t quite smell of anything identifiable. Adam takes the urinal on the left, and I take the one on the right. The automatic flush sensors blink their beady red eyes at us.
I clear my throat. “So, um, I was thinking…”
“Dude, seriously?” Adam’s head whips toward me. “We’re peeing. This is not conversation time.”
“I know, I know, but”—the automatic flush goes off prematurely, making me jump—“I want to come to your next practice. When the rain stops.”
Adam’s stream falters for a second. “You’re talking to me about football practice while we’re at the urinals?”
“Just hear me out.” I focus on the graffiti someone scratched into the tile. “Remember how you said I could come watch? Back when we talked about me being more invested?”
“Kevin, this is weird even for you.”
“I’m serious! I want to see what you and Robbie do at practice.” The words tumble out faster now. “I want tounderstand the plays better, see the drills, watch how the team works together.”
The lie settles in my stomach like bad meat, but it’s better than admitting I want to watch Jameson Hart run around in short shorts.
Adam finishes his business and moves to the sink. I follow shortly after. A slow smile spreads across his face as he eyes me in the mirror. “Well, damn. Yes, of course, you’re welcome to come. Coach Potter won’t mind.” He grabs paper towels from the dispenser. “Fair warning, though; it’s not exactly thrilling for spectators. Lots of repetitive drills, water breaks, and standing around as someone gets screamed at.”
“I’ll bring a book.” And sunglasses. Dark ones. Purely for sun-protection purposes.
“Oh, and Ethan usually sits in the bleachers during practice. Hart’s little brother,” he adds, reminding me when I don’t need to be. “You guys could hang out and get to know each other.” Adam tosses his paper towel into the trash. “Kid’s cool. You’d probably get along.” He holds the door open for me. “Just don’t turn it into some weird musical in your head, okay?”
Too late.I’m already choreographing the number—something about dreams coming true on the fifty-yard line. But Adam doesn’t need to know that.
We return to our abandoned cart to find a woman examining our selections with undisguised judgment. She purses her lips at the mountain of junk food before shuffling away with her basket of sensible vegetables.
“Pasta aisle next,” I announce, checking the list again. “Dad wants five boxes of spaghetti and three jars of sauce.”
The rest of our shopping trip passes in a blur of grabbing items and dodging other rain-soaked shoppers. By the time we reach the checkout line, our cart has been stocked for a fallout shelter.
The teenage cashier’s eyes widen as she scans. “Having a party?” she asks, running three packages of hot dogs across the scanner.
“We’re a family of men,” Adam replies with a shrug.
The mounting total makes me wince, but Dad gave us his credit card for this exact reason. While Adam loads the items into the reusable shopping bags, I mentally prepare myself for another sprint through the rain.
The drive home is quieter.Adam focuses on the road while I stare out at the waterlogged world, already planning what I’ll wear to practice. Something casual but nottoocasual. Something that says “supportive brother” and not “desperate weirdo.”
When we pull into the driveway, Robbie shows up at the front door, face beaming and wiggling his butt in a happy dance. “Finally! I was about to start gnawing on the furniture.”
Between the three of us, we haul all the groceries inside in one trip. It’s a point of pride in the Pryor household—never make two trips when you can destroy your circulation with grocery bag handles instead.
As we unpack, Robbie attacks a bag of chips as though he hasn’t eaten in days. “What took you guys so long?”
“Kevin wanted to have a heart-to-heart in the Food Lion bathroom,” Adam says, tossing boxes into the pantry.
Robbie pauses mid-chew. “That’s a new one.”
“I want to come to your next practice,” I tell him, organizing the canned goods by type because someone has to bring order to this chaos. “Adam said it was okay.”
“Really?” Robbie’s face lights up. “That’s awesome! You can see my new kicking technique. I’ve been working on this thing where I?—”
He launches into an explanation that involves a lot of foot movements and terms I don’t understand. His enthusiasm is infectious, though, and I end up nodding along.
“Plus, you’ll get to see Hart in action,” Robbie adds. “Dude’s been giving it his all.”
I fumble the can of green beans I’m holding. It rolls across the floor and stops at Dad’s bare feet as he enters the kitchen.
