I don’t know how long I observe from the fringes of the parking lot, awed by Justin’s talent and contemplating why he’s not making use of the lights that tower above the practice turf, but it’s long enough for him to run through the cycle of throws three times.
It’s only when he jogs to the side of the field, takes a seat on the bench with his back to me, and takes his helmet off that I walk through the open gateway in the fence.
He turns when he hears the click of my heels at the same time that I speak. “I’m impressed. Practicing after a game? Not many players do that these days.”
“What . . .” The word falls from his mouth at the same time his eyes meet mine, but the man with a rifle of an arm isn’t Justin Hobbs.
Not in the least.
No, the eyes that meet mine are a mixture of blue and green and are the same ones that stopped my heart many times in my teenage years.
Recognition flickers in his just as quickly as his expression falls before a slow, reminiscent smile spreads on his lips. “Well, if it isn’t Bratty Brex.”
My heart jumps in my throat at his voice and a thousand teenage dreams about my first crush come flooding back. My heart feels like it just turned over in my chest in a way I haven’t felt in forever.
But my own smile remains steady even if the ground beneath my feet feels like it just trembled.
“If it isn’t Dreadful Drew,” I repeat the childish nickname of our youth while remembering the secret ones my girlfriends had for him later in our teens. Sexy Drew. Dreamy Drew. *Sigh* Drew.
“God, I haven’t heard that in forever.” The second string quarterback for the New York Raptors chuckles softly and angles his head to the side to take me in.
I study him in turn. His dark, short hair is wet with sweat and going every which way from him running his hand through it. His skin is tanned from being out in the sun, and those eyes of his are unrelenting as they meet mine again.
“What? I mean—why—or rather how come…” I shake my head as nerves I shouldn’t feel tinge the edge of my voice.
How have we avoided each other this long?
How are you?
How have we been in the same industry for so long and our paths never crossed until now?
“Probably because of the same reasons as you,” he says when I don’t complete my scattered thoughts.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You always struggled to complete your thoughts when you were flustered. I always thought it was cute.”
“I’m not flustered. Or cute.”
“You’re right. I was wrong. You’re not cute at all.” Drew’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “You’re gorgeous.”
There’s a brief beat where I simply stare at him, eyes blinking to make sure I heard him properly, before I burst out laughing. This is not something Dreamy Drew would say to me.
This is something I might have dreamed and wrote in my diary that I wish he would say, but it’s not something I know how to process . . . so I laugh clumsily.
And luckily he does too, because there’s a sudden awkwardness between the two of us—two kids whose parents were best friends, who vacationed together . . . and then acted like the other didn’t exist after scandal hit.
“Thanks. I mean . . . yeah, thank you.” I shift on my feet and try to look anywhere but at him. “Why are you out here? Why don’t you have the lights on? Why—”
“You still ask a million questions, don’t you?”
I pretend I’m not melting inside at his shy smile and playful tone. But I totally am.
“And you still get annoyed by it,” I say, waving a hand at the field in front of us. “What are you doing out here in the dark?”
“Doing the same thing I do after every game.”
“Which is?”
“Putting in a full game’s worth of passes by myself since I didn’t get to touch the field today.” He nods. “I’ve got to keep my skills sharp in case I’m called to play.”
I’m impressed with his response.
Even more so with his dedication.
“Are the Raptors too cheap to turn the lights on for you?”
He laughs. “No, I don’t want them on. Lights mean people look and I don’t want people to look.”
“Why not?” It’s a legitimate question, but perhaps I’m a little overzealous in the way I say it, because Drew’s head jostles at the words. “From what I just saw you’re every bit as good as Justin is. In fact, I’d put my money on your accuracy percentage being higher. I don’t know your other stats but I’m not exactly sure why you’re complacent with sitting second string here when you could be starting with so many other teams.”
“Humph.” It’s all Drew says as he rises from his seat and gives a sharp shake of his head. “That’s the same question I’ve asked myself for years. Wonder why that could be?” Sarcasm laces his tone and every part of me stills at the words.
“Do you really think it’s because . . .”
“I’ve been contracted in the NFL for seven years, four of which have been with the Raptors. I find it interesting that numerous people have said the same thing you just did—that I’m good enough to be a starting quarterback—and yet backup is all I’ve ever been.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Don’t try to. The mental gymnastics is exhausting, and you never reach a definitive answer.” He looks over to the person helping him. “You good, Steve?”
“Yeah. We should be set to go again in a few minutes,” Steve says.
“’Kay.” Drew turns back to face me. “It was good to see you again, Brex, but I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Yes. Sure. I . . . it’s great to see you too.” We stand a few feet apart, eyes locked, with a sudden unease taking hold. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I thought you were Just—”
“Justin Hobbs. Yeah, I figured that’s who you thought I was.” There’s a trace of annoyance in his voice as he pulls his helmet back on. “For the record, Justin never puts extra time in. If you’re here to recruit him then you should know that.”
“Who said I’m recruiting him?” I ask, suddenly wondering why I haven’t set my sights on Drew.
“Everyone.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Thanks for the tip,” I say and take a few steps back, hesitant, almost as if I don’t want this conversation to end—despite its sudden awkwardness. I feel like there are so many things I want to say, and yet, I haven’t seen this man for almost ten years. In fact, the last time I did, he was wearing board shorts with floppy surfer-style hair and I was watching him from afar, wishing he’d notice me as someone other than a family friend’s daughter.
“I’m sure I’ll see you around,” he says and then jogs back onto the darkened field without another word.
I stand and stare after him for a moment, stuck in the weirdest feeling of indecision. Wondering how a conversation that started out so playful and fun ended up giving me a sour taste in my mouth.
“Well . . . okay then,” I mutter to myself as I kick an imaginary rock with the toe of my shoe and head off the field the way I entered.