Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
While this is happening, one of the security guys I met at the gate leads a group of kids out onto the field. They’re all wearing Bowen navy shirts, and look to be in middle school or upper elementary school. A teacher is with them, and she looks every bit as excited as the kids do— they’re all staring at the stands, the field, the players, the coaches, clearly star struck.
“They do community outreach stuff at the end of Monday night practices,” the guy whispers. “It’s so adorable I can hardly stand it.”
I snort a little too loud, but watch as the kids wait patiently for the players to finish their circles. Some of the players head back to the locker rooms immediately— in fact, most of the older players do, leaving the younger and not-so-famous players to interact with the kids.
Carson, however, stays behind. He takes a few pictures and signs autographs, always taking a knee so he doesn’t loom over the kids when he talks to them. I have to look away to say goodbye when Desi and other guy head out to meet their significant others on the field; Desi’s boyfriend sweeps her up despite her protests that he’s grossly sweaty, while the guy’s boyfriend gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before they head off together, a little more shoulder-to-shoulder than just friends would be.
When I look back, I can barely see Carson for the crowd of kids around him— which means I’m free to notice that one kid, a boy, is hanging out at the distant periphery of the group. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and his bright blond hair is shaved so close to his head that he almost looks bald.
Even from here, I can tell that the kid is posturing— trying to pretend that he doesn’t give a damn about what’s happening, while also casting the players wistful glances when he thinks no one is looking. I feel a swell of pity for the boy; I mean, he ought to just go up and allow himself to be excited, like the other kids are, but I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in his life that he can’t even be excited for something so obviously cool.
Carson stands.
I mentally plead for him to notice the boy and, to my surprise, it works— Carson begs off from the rest of the kids and jogs over to wear the boy is standing by himself. They talk for a moment, and while they’re certainly too far away for me to eavesdrop, I can tell Carson is taking a different approach with this boy; he stays standing, folds his arms, looks like he’s talking to another adult rather than a kid. The boy resists, but then begins to speak, begins to gesture with his hands, and at long last, smiles. I don’t realize that I’m grinning at the entire exchange until it ends, and Carson suddenly looks directly at me.
My smile falters, but not in a bad way— it becomes a blush, something shyer and more hesitant. When Carson walks toward me, I feel my stomach flip more than a few times. The fact that I’ll be face to face with the guy who got me to orgasm over the phone hits me, and I feel myself begin to shake as he nears the bleachers. He stops a few yards away so that we can see one another without me having to crane over the railing, and I’m grateful— any closer, and I feel like I might have vibrated my molecules right out of existence.
“Are you waiting for me?” he asks.
“What?”
“You’re still here. Are you waiting for me?” His voice is calm, deep, easy, and it slows my heart the tiniest bit.
“No. I mean— yes. I guess? I was just watching,” I say.
“For the story,” he says.
“Right. Yeah, for the story,” I answer, nodding. Frankly, I hadn’t thought about the Bowen Blaze since I explained myself to the significant others sharing the seats near me, but Carson’s reminder pricks at my professionalism. “I have some questions for you, if you’ve got the time.” I pull out my phone— I wrote them down there, since I knew I wouldn’t be able to remember them when I was face to face with Carson.
“One question,” Carson says, folding his arms. He’s covered in dirt and sweat and grass, and for some reason I suddenly wish I could see what it looks like for a shower to wash this away, for water to run over his architectural muscles and leave them bare—
See, this is why you wrote the questions down, I scold myself.
“Okay— there were recruiters here today. Are you excited about that? Are you looking ahead to going pro?”
“I’m just playing the best game I can play right now. If I start thinking ahead, I stop thinking about the present,” he says.