Page 10 of Winning the Quarterback
"Is it working?"
Her eyes meet mine, warm and teasing. "You don't need lines, Devin Turner."
Christ. The way she says my name does things to me… makes me want to hear it in different contexts, different tones. Breathless. Pleading. Satisfied.
We pass beneath the largest oak, its branches forming a canopy of lights above us. I take her hand, threading my fingers through hers. Her palm is soft against my calluses, and she gives a small, pleased sigh at the contact.
"This is nice," she says quietly, looking up at the lights. "I've lived here my whole life and sometimes I forget how beautiful it can be."
"I used to run sprints around this circle," I tell her, memories surfacing. "Five-thirty every morning, before school. Rain or snow."
"That sounds awful."
I laugh. "It was. But worth it."
"Was it?" The question is gentle, curious. "The game, I mean. Worth everything you gave it?"
No one's asked me that before, not like this. I consider her question as we continue walking, the night air cold against our faces.
"Yes," I say finally. "Even knowing how it would end. It gave me... purpose. Identity." I pause. "The hard part wasn't losing the game. It was losing who I was in it."
She squeezes my hand, understanding in the gesture. "And now? Who are you becoming?"
The question hits deeper than she could know. "Still figuring that out. But tonight... tonight feels like a step in the right direction."
We've reached the corner of Willowbrook Lane, our street. Her house glows warm in the distance, porch light a beacon in the night. Neither of us quickens our pace. If anything, we slow down, reluctant to end whatever this is.
"I should probably tell you," Nora says, her voice taking on that adorably nervous quality I'm coming to recognize, "I don't usually do this."
"Do what?"
"This." She gestures vaguely between us. "The whole... intense connection thing. With someone I just met yesterday. It's not—I'm not—"
"Hey." I stop walking, turning to face her. "Me neither. This isn't... normal for me."
Relief softens her features. "No?"
"No." I brush a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. "What's happening between us, I don't have a playbook for it."
She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. "Good. I don't either."
We stand there beneath the oak trees, caught in limbo between her house and mine, between yesterday and tomorrow. The night wraps around us, intimate and expectant.
"I should let you get home," I say, though it's the last thing I want.
"You could..." She hesitates, a blush spreading across her cheeks. "You could walk me to my door. If you want."
"I want."
Her porch steps creak beneath our feet, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet night. Nora fumbles with her keys, and I wonder if her hands are shaking from the cold or from the same anticipation coursing through me.
"Would you like to come in?" she asks, finally getting the door open. "For coffee, or..."
"Or," I say, and her laugh is nervous, breathless.
Pudding weaves between our legs, meowing indignantly at being left alone.
"Sorry, buddy," I tell him, crouching to scratch behind his ears. "Your mom was busy terrorizing firefighters."
