Page 96 of Hail Marry
The coach’s voice comes over the P.A. system to discuss team business, and I take the time to review what was actually said in our conversation by the car. I can feel my heart leaping ahead of things, and I need to make sure I’m not misinterpreting or overinterpreting.
All Luca said explicitly is that when he’s around me and when he touches me, he feels things for me. That can’t meanbadthings, can it? Any reasonable person would assume it means good things. Or at least thingsIthink are good. Maybe he’s talking about a purely physical response, though. It’s entirely possible his heart has nothing to do with it.
“Kiss me.”
My head whips around, and I stare at Luca. Am I going crazy, or did he just ask me to kiss him?
“He’s watching,” Luca says, not breaking eye contact with me.
Bennett. He’s talking about Bennett. He wants me to kiss him because we’re performing for an audience. This is strictly necessary physical contact.
Which, according to Luca, makes him feel things.
Me too. Me. Too.
Aware of Bennett watching us in my peripheral vision, I lean toward Luca. Our gazes lock, and my heart thrums as I lift my chin and he lowers his. I close my eyes, and his hand comes to rest under my jaw, his touch light as a feather. Our lips touch, and chills ripple across my skin. Forget Bennett. I want to explore this, to test the limits of what Luca feels, whatever that is.
Luca pulls away, and I open my eyes.
We stare at each other for a few seconds, then he turns his head forward.
I follow suit, but out of the corner of my eye, I note Luca blow a little breath through his lips.
That’s a good thing, right?
Please say it’s a good thing—like a Darcy hand-flex.
“Let’s talk about this youth event, shall we?” Coach says over the mic. “These kids come from low-income families and schools. Most are only able to attend thanks to the Admirals’ willingness to foot the bill. They’re interested in football, but for many if not most, it feels out of reach. You all know the costs associated with this sport, and that’s a big burden for these families. An insurmountable one for some.”
Luca’s hand tightens imperceptibly, and I think of what he told me about his grandma paying for his football fees from her minimal income.
“So,” Coach Staley continues, “our purposes here are two-fold. First, we’re here to inspire. You remember what it was like to be a teenager. Kids at this age are at a crossroads in life, and we hope the time you spend with them today will motivate them to make choices that will benefit them for years to come. Secondly, we’re here to provide opportunity. Ten participants will leave today with a scholarship to use toward uniforms and fees. I want you to make the most of your time because, whatever today means toyou, they’ll remember this forever.”
We arrive at the high school stadium where the camp is being held, and the team files out of the bus. About forty high school-age kids wearing athletic clothing are lined up to wait for us.
Most of them cheer and put out their hands for high-fives from the players, while a couple stand emotionless. Those are the ones I take note of. To me, they’re almost like young Lucas—not the type to wear their hearts on their sleeves and yet here because they love football and want a future with it. Their stoicism is probably because they don’t want to get their hearts crushed if it doesn’t work out for them.
The coach splits up the team into their positions and the kids into groups, assigning them to positions. They’ll move from position to position every fifteen minutes.
What my role is supposed to be in all of this, I have no idea. Apparently, I’m not the only one with this question.
“Are you here as a cheerleader?” one of the kids asks me with a too-cool-for-school smirk. It’s followed by laughs from his friends.
“Me?” I point at my own chest and scoff loudly. “Please. I taught these guys everything they know.” I gesture at Luca, Bennett, and the other wide receivers.
The kid snorts. “Do you really play?”
I reach into the bag of footballs Luca’s holding and take one out. “Doyou?” I toss him the ball, and it hits him in the chest, which is lucky because, given my skill throwing footballs, it could just as easily have hit him in a much less protected area. Or hit the kid next to him. “Show me what you got.”
“All right,” he says, apparently willing to play along. “Go long.”
I glance at Luca, who’s watching with interest.
Great. I’m about to make an enormous fool of myself. But after my gentle trash-talking, I’m nothing if not committed. I imagine the dozens of times I watched Luca in last week’s game, and I start running. I glance over my shoulder as the kid throws the ball into the air.
It sails toward me, and a vision of it hitting me in the nose flashes across my mind. But my street cred is on the line, so I banish that thought and keep running as the ball arcs downward toward me.
I stretch out my arms, and the ball makes contact with my fingers. I fumble to grasp it and lean too far forward, then stumble and fall to the ground, rolling. There’s no ball in my hands as I blow a couple blades of grass out of my mouth and turn onto my back, evaluating what parts of my body I’ve angered.
