Page 43 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
I spot Adam running drills. The ball leaves his hand without issue, hitting receivers right in the chest. Coach Potter nods approvingly after each throw. My brother makes it seem effortless, but I know he spent half the spring in our backyard perfecting that release.
On the other end of the field, Robbie lines up with the special teams unit. They’re working on field goals today, and even from here, I catch his focused expression that makes him look constipated more than anything else. He takes three steps back, two to the side—the same ritual every time. The holder sets the ball, Robbie approaches, and his leg swings through in one smooth motion. The ball sails between the uprights, and his teammates whoop their approval.
And then there’s Jameson.
He runs routes near the thirty-yard line, and watching him move is like watching water flow downhill—natural, inevitable, beautiful. He plants his right foot and cuts left sharply. The defender chasing after him stumbles. The ball arrives a split second later, and Jameson plucks it from the air without breaking stride. His hands are sure, his movements are fluid. He makes catching a football look as easy as breathing.
“You’re new,” a squeaky voice says.
I glance left and find a younger version of Jameson Hart studying me. He has the same bone structure, the same brown eyes, but scaled down and missing about six inches of height. Ethan, the younger brother.
“Am I?” I ask.
Ethan nods and sits down next to me. “My mom works at the hospital during the day, so I hang out here. Never seen you before.”
“I’m Kevin Pryor.” I gesture vaguely toward the field. “Adam and Robbie’s brother.”
“Oh!” His face lights up with recognition. “Jameson talks about your brothers all the time. Says Adam’s got the best arm in the state, and that Robbie has a wicked leg.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty good at the whole sports thing.”
“So, why haven’t you come to practices before?” Ethan pulls out a worn notebook and sketches anime characters while he talks. “Most siblings show up at least sometimes.”
“Theater kid,” I say, as if that explains it. To most people at Arcadia High, it does.
“Cool. My friend’s mom is involved in community theater. She played a witch once.” He flips to a new page and keeps drawing. He’s surprisingly good. “Are you enjoying practice?”
“Yes.” The lie comes easily. Much easier than admitting I’m enjoying watching his brother run around in short shorts.
Ethan nods, apparently satisfied with my answer. “Jameson says that having people in the stands, even during practice, makes the team play better.”
I watch as Jameson pulls off another spectacular catch that for anyone else would have been uncatchable. The entire offense erupts.
“Your brother’s really good,” I say before I can stop myself.
“He’s okay.” Ethan grins, clearly proud despite the blasé tone. “He works hard, spends hours in our backyard gardening with our mom. Everyone thinks he’s this dumb jock because he’s a ball of sunshine, but he’s secretly the brains of the operation.”
“So, what you’re saying is he’s not just another pretty face?”
“Pretty?” Ethan laughs. “Don’t let him hear you say that. His ego’s already big enough.” He starts shading his newest drawing. “But yeah, he studies film and makes spreadsheets to track defensive patterns. He’s a total nerd about it all.”
Spreadsheets, huh?I guess being gorgeous and athletic isn’t enough—he also has to be organized. “What else does he nerd out about?” I ask, with a hint of casual curiosity.
Ethan’s pencil pauses on the graph paper. “Why?”
“Just making conversation.” I shrug. “It’s hot, and I’m bored.”
“Alright. Uh…let’s see. Jameson’s super into cooking shows. Like,obsessed. He DVRs every episode ofThe Great British Bake Offand yells at the TV when someone’s pastry doesn’t rise properly.”
My brain struggles to process this information. Jameson Hart, destroyer of defensive lines, watches people make scones? “Does he bake?”
“His chocolate chip cookies are legendary. He makes them at Christmastime, and they’re gone in thirty seconds. And last week, he tried to make croissants from scratch. They looked like deflated footballs but tasted amazing.”
I file this away in the rapidly expanding folder labeled “Things That Make Jameson Hart Dangerously Perfect.”
Down on the field, the team runs another play. Jameson zigzags a few yards, and Adam’s pass finds him perfectly.
“He’s also weirdly good at crossword puzzles,” Ethan continues, warming to the subject. “Does theNew York Timesone weekly. Gets genuinely upset if someone spoils an answer.”
