Page 49 of Hail Marry
Tori
Hey, where are you?
It takes a couple of minutes to get a reply.
Luca
Just got to the practice field to run some drills. What’s up?
I hesitate, debating whether to spill the awful truth over text. But no. That’s not the right way to handle this. And maybe he already knows?
No.
He doesn’t. I know he doesn’t.
Tori
Is it cool if I come by?
Luca
Always. I’ll send my location.
Heart rapping a quick beat against my chest, I change into comfortable clothes and head to USC.
It’s dark outside, and the lights around the field illuminate the vibrant green grass. There’s just one other person there besides Luca, and he’s practicing on the opposite side of the field.
Luca’s wearing a red tank top and black gym shorts. His hair is tied back, and he’s got a black stretchy band keeping the flyaways out of his face.
He doesn’t notice me right away, and I stand on the sidelines, watching him for a minute. The slight sheen of sweat on his skin, and the stadium lights grant extra definition to the assortment of muscles easily visible in his arms—the shoulders, the triceps, the biceps. It’s immensely attractive. But more than that, it speaks to his serious dedication. The type of dedication that brings a guy here on a weeknight after a two-hour practice.
He has a stopwatch in hand, and he gets in position on a white marker on the track. He takes a few focused breaths, eyes ahead, then simultaneously presses the stopwatch and takes off.
He zooms forward, feet slapping the track in a quick rhythm. It almost looks like I put life on one-and-a-half speed. But it’s over in a flash. He checks the time on the watch, then lets his head drop back as he stares up at the dark sky and blows out a breath.
I’d be over the moon if I could run that fast, but he’s not. He’s disappointed.
He’s under so much stress with the draft approaching. Zach told him the most likely scenario is that he’s a 4th or 5th round pick. He’s got a few teams interested in him, but nothing’s a given.
Fingers interlocked behind his head, he cracks his neck, then goes still as he spots me.
I wave and smile. “Hey, you.” I hop over the barrier and onto the short grass as he comes over.
“Hey, yourself,” he says.
“What time are you clocking?”
He shakes his head, frowning at the stopwatch. “4.65.”
“As in four seconds and sixty-five milliseconds?”
He nods.
“And that’s…bad.”
“It’s not great,” he says.
“Whatisgreat?” I ask. “Seems like if you go any faster, your legs might detach and sprint ahead of you.”
