Page 64 of Make the Play
Jason waits until he’s gone to turn towards Emerson, pulling him into a fierce hug which Emerson returns with more force than usual, his longer fingers fisting so tightly in the back of Jason’s hoodie it feels like he might rip a hole in it. Not that Jason would care. Clothing is replaceable, Emerson is not.
“Caldwell is a fucking dick.” He rubs his hands along Emerson’s spine, the line of his back tense and unmoving. “I’m sorry he gave you shit just because you were helping out one of my players. I didn’t mean to drag you into whatever his issue is with the athletes.”
Emerson grumbles something unintelligible from where his face is smashed into Jason’s shoulder.
“What was that?” Jason asks, settling his palm on Emerson’s lower back to pull him that much closer, something in his brain screaming to keep him close and safe. Sure Caldwell isn’t a real threat, but he made Emerson uncomfortable, and for that Jason hates him more than ever. “I couldn’t quite make it out clearly. Did you say, ‘Jason, I hate Caldwell, and I hope he burns in the fires of Mordor?’”
The soft rumble of Emerson’s amusement reverberates against Jason’s chest and eases away the tightness. More of that same tension slips away when Emerson pulls out of the embrace and smiles at Jason.
“I did not say that,” Emerson huffs, “but I might havethoughtit.”
“Then I’ll say it out loud for the both of us,” Jason grins, relishing the feeling of Emerson in his arms.
Shit, how did he not see his feelings from the beginning? Worse, how is he supposed to cope now that he has?
“You know what?” Emerson says, taking a step back from the embrace to seat himself on the edge of one of the student desks. Jason copies his position, choosing the desk closest so his knees butt up against Emerson’s.
“What?” Jason asks, pressing his knees against Emerson’s. He’s not exactly subtle about his increasing desire to touch, but Emerson either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t realize what it means.
He’s not sure which is more probable; the second is most likely, given Emerson’s inability to read subtext, which is the world’s biggest blessing and curse all wrapped in one for this current situation. He isn’t calling Jason on how obvious he’s being, but he won’t ever because it most likely isn’t obvious to him.
It occurs to Jason that if he wants to know how Emerson feels about him having feelings for him, he’s going to have to explicitly ask.
“Caldwell is an asshole.” Emerson sits up straight. “How dare he.”
Just, maybe not right now.
“Conversation just now registering?” Jason asks, increasing the pressure of his knee against Emerson’s.
“Yes,” Emerson frowns, crossing his arms. “How dare he care more about his own ego than his students. What a, a?—”
“Asshole? Dick face? Fucker? I’m trying to think of some kind of elven reference for you, but I think I used all my cool points with the Mordor thing.”
The corner of Emerson’s lips twitch, a sharp contrast to his furrowed features. Even mad, he’s adorable and Jason itches to smooth away the lines between his pale eyebrows, to kiss his delicate brow. To?—
“He’s horrible,” Emerson groans, dragging Jason’s attention back to the conversation. “Caldwell is exactly like the teachers who used to make me think I was stupid or an inconvenience. It makes me so angry that I just shut down. He said all those horrible things, and it was like my brain froze, and I couldn’t talk.”
Emerson’s been open about his issues with going nonverbal like that, and while Jason has never experienced it, he’s beginning to understand the kind of stress response it triggers in Emerson, and he’s eager to help him move past it.
“He might be a shitty person and a shitty teacher but you’re not. You are the kind of teacher who gives kids hope,” Jason soothes, laying his hand on Emerson’s knee. “You’re worth a hundred Caldwells.”
“I don’t know about that,” Emerson protests.
“I do. You’re a good teacher and this school is better with you here.” Verbalizing this makes a lump form in Jason’s throat, especially when Emerson’s jaw wobbles. Has anyone ever told him how incredible he is? How much better off the world is with him in it? Jason doesn’t think so and it makes him want to do it every day for the rest of Emerson’s life, to be there at his side cheering him on and reminding him how goddamn awesome he is. Just because not everyone sees it doesn’t mean it’s not true. “My life is better with you here.”
Emerson’s pale eyelashes flutter, resting against his high cheekbones. Slowly, he breathes in and out, his eye contact so intense Jason feels like Emerson is looking into his very soul.
Suddenly, Jason is imagining what might happen if he blurted everything out right now. What’s the worst that could happen if he got the nerve to simply say,you are so special to me and I think my feelings have changed. Except that’s not right. He’s not sure they’ve changed at all. It feels like maybe they’ve been there since that very first day, he just didn’t know what they meant.
Maybe something else.Emmy, I don’t think I’m as straight as I thought I was, and I’m pretty sure I want to kiss you. Terrible. Jason wishes he had a football in his hands so he could throw something. What a paltry explanation that would be for the man who deserves so much more than Jason’s floundering. He knows he wants to kiss Emerson, but why is saying that out loud so difficult? Jason’s never been scared of saying that to a woman before.
“Did you forget to eat?” Emerson asks, poking Jason’s stomach. “You’re making that pinchy face.”
“I ate,” Jason says, unsure how to explain his pinchy face is because he has a massive not-fucking-straight-crush on him. Does this make him bisexual? The idea of kissing any of the other male teachers here makes Jason recoil, but then again he doesn’t want to kiss any of the women here either. It’s been a long time since he wanted to kiss anyone, now that he thinks about it. His last few failed relationships had soured him on the dating scene in order to avoid anything superficial.
Being alone was preferable to something that wasn’t real. Well, Emerson is right here and he’s the realest thing Jason’s ever known. It’s wonderful and terrifying, and Jason feels like a bumbling teenager with his first crush all over again as he rubs his sweaty palms on his knees. There’s no way he’s going to survive hiding this for long. Jason is terrible at keeping secrets, and worst of all, every second that goes by where he doesn’t tell Emerson feels like a lie.
“Are you nervous about the game? Or maybe about the dance?” Emerson hedges, looking unsure. “I am.”
