20. Greer
Greer
Promise me you’ll only do what’s right for you.
I wouldn’t have guessed what was right for me would be standing here, in a line to get into the stadium, shoulder to shoulder with strangers draped in white, gold, and black, or in such proximity to so many people with air horns.
Stella cuts a look at the man standing in front of us, jade eyes tracking the horn as he waves it back and forth with a bit too much exuberance for my liking. Her hand finds the crook of my elbow. “Do you have your pills?”
“Yes, Mom.” I hold up my bag, widening my eyes. “I don’t think he’s going to randomly turn around and blow that in my ear, Cash.”
Her lips pull into a tight line and she tips her chin up, hooking her arm through mine. “He better not if he knows what’s good for him. But you can’t trust these people, Greer. Sports fans—Canadian sports fans—are a little too enthusiastic.”
“I think I’ll be okay. But you might be onto something. Remember Beckett told me someone threw a Timbit at him?”
Stella whips her head towards me. “What flavour was it again?”
“Birthday cake.”
She purses her lips and shakes her head. “What a waste. I can think of so many other uses for a Timbit and Beckett Davis together.”
“Ew.” I wrinkle my nose, but my stomach twists uncomfortably. He’s not mine. He’s just my friend, but I think of Beckett on his knees for me, Beckett hovering over me, hand gripping the headboard, so he can find out what I like. What I don’t like is the idea of him with someone else.
“What? You’ve seen it all up close. I know—” Stella snaps her fingers and fishes her phone out of her pocket. “Let’s watch the Gatorade commercial while we wait.”
I give her a flat look. “No.”
She tips her head back, an exaggerated sigh towards the sky, and lets her phone fall back into her pocket. “Where are we sitting?”
“I didn’t look at the tickets.” I pull my phone out when we step towards the security guard at the door. “But he said he needed us to stop by the counter before we sit down.”
“Why?” Stella asks, stepping back and dropping her bag into a bucket so it can go through the metal detector.
I shrug. “Who knows. But he was adamant.”
Stella steps through the scanner after me, lips tipping up when she retrieves her bag. “Do you think he left a surprise for you? A sexy surprise? Like a signed shirtless photo?”
“How old are you?”
“Is one ever too old to tease their sister?” Stella laments. She looks like she’s about to traipse right through the crowd towards the ticket counter, but she stops with a tiny gasp and points towards one of the giant pictures mounted to the walls along the concourse. “There he is—your lover. My god, he really is photogenic, isn’t he?”
I grab her arm and I tug her towards the counter, but my eyes flick up to the poster. He’s not wearing a helmet, unlike the rest of the players in similar photos spanning the concrete wall.
A smart decision by the photographer and whoever oversees marketing because Beckett really is beautiful.
He’s smiling—one of those smiles that kicks the dimple up in his cheek—green eyes bright, and the lines of his jaw clean-shaven. Chocolate hair perfectly tousled with waves curling over his ears. He’s in his equipment, white jersey with gold lettering, ridges of muscle in his arms taut and on display because he holds a football in his palms across the centre of his chest.
His name stretches across the bottom of the poster in block lettering, and underneath that, a list of titles.
Beckett Davis, #19
All-Time NCAA Division 1 FBS Field Goal Leader (Career)
All-Time NCAA Division 1 FBS Field Goal Leader (Single Season)
All-Time Rookie Longest Field Goal
Five-Times First Team All-Pro
Six-Times Pro-Bowl
I wonder what he thinks when he sees that—all these accomplishments spelled out for anyone to see, whether there was a time his chest would swell with pride, and he’d realize he’s so much more than he gave himself credit for. Reliable and likeable, sure. But more gifted at something he might think is useless than most people could ever dream of being.
But a lot of the things that make up Beckett wouldn’t be found on a banner.
They’re found in the way his smile changes when he’s comfortable in his own skin, the way he makes everyone feel seen and at ease. How when he speaks to you, his eyes are only on you—and he’s always listening. The fact that he brings the most fragrant flowers to a scent-free environment. Loves obscure parts of history and spends too much time talking about reformer Pilates. That he gives away smiles willingly and I don’t think he leaves much for himself.
The way he breathes with you when you can’t do it on your own.
“Hello.” Stella leans forward, crossing her arms on the ledge of the counter. “My sister is here to pick up a package from Beckett Davis.”
A woman blinks at her from behind the glass, and I think a blush creeps across her cheeks. “Greer?”
“Yes?” I raise a hand and try to smile at her, but I don’t think it’s a terribly friendly thing—that he told this random woman my name.
She turns, producing a brown bag with my name scrawled across it in black marker.
“He did leave you a present!” Stella looks smug, eyes glinting as I take it.
I ignore her, peering in hesitantly before reaching in.
Earmuffs.
Giant, fluffy white sherpa earmuffs with the team’s logo on either side, but just above, stitched in gold—the number nineteen.
Stella inhales, her fingers rolling down over my wrist.
I glance up at my sister, and everything about her is soft. The corners of her lips twitch, her nose wrinkles, and she blinks too quickly, like she’s trying not to cry.
A note, on the same brown paper as the bag, sticks to the band.
I heard earmuffs were more friendly than a jersey. In case it gets too loud in there—Beckett
I tug the paper off. My fingers brush the material—it feels soft—but I think I can feel Beckett’s pinky around mine, too.
I pull the earmuffs on, and everything around me dulls to a quiet, comforting, pleasant murmur.
I can’t really hear anything except that pinky promise.
Promise me you’ll only do what’s right for you.
Nine words strung together and said by a friend with a simple enough meaning. But I think I hear him say something else—that maybe he could help me take care of myself, too.