Chapter 4 Luc #2
(and told you the truth)
The team stands around a cordoned-off area so close to the stage it might be too close.
There’s a good bit of the stage we can’t actually see, and the speakers are so close my ears are already ringing.
But we’re well-separated from the rest of the stadium crowd and backed up to the stadium for inside access.
Nearly our entire roster came. There are at least forty of us plus a few of the coaching and training staff.
They’ve really gone all out, full VIP treatment with drinks, snacks, merch, and private bathrooms so we don’t have to fight the crowds. It’s a really nice setup.
Nobody can stop talking about why we’re here.
Speculation runs wild. The most popular guess is the same one that I’d had, but the idea of the band inviting teams that cross locations with their touring schedule doesn’t make sense if the Bills aren’t here as well.
The other ranking theory involves Connor Laramie’s supermodel girlfriend, who is a known hardcore fan.
If that were the case, wouldn’t she be invited, too?
Granted, the WAGs rarely travel along with the team for away games, and they weren’t mentioned in the invitation. Nobody has a good answer.
The opening acts already have me overwhelmed.
The main opening act is a late ‘90s alt-rock group I know and like well enough. They look old, which makes me feel a little old, even though I’m only twenty-seven and they’re a little before my time.
I’ll probably look the same if I’m still grinding at their age.
The act before them screamed a little too much for me, but the first one had a grunge vibe I appreciated, even though we walked in halfway through.
When the final opener announces the band and the lights drop, the entire stadium goes feral.
Tens of thousands of people are on their feet, screaming with the kind of intensity and excitement you can feel in your ribcage.
My teammates are contributing to the din, shouting and throwing their fists in the air.
AJ is positively beside himself. The way he’s talked about this concert, you’d think it was the highlight of his entire career to get invited here like this. His enthusiasm is infectious.
From the start, the band is high-octane, relentless energy that resonates through the crowd.
Some of the vocals are so high, I imagine the notes drifting off into the stratosphere.
This guy could give Steven Tyler a run for his money.
I stick to the back of the crowd, back resting on the wall where I can’t see as much, but I have to admit they’re pretty damn good.
I’m even feeling the music, bobbing my head and tapping my foot.
The whole spectacle is well worth all the excitement.
The thumping beats, wild riffs, lights, massive screens flashing insane artwork with overtly political messages are really something.
But what gets me the most is the lead singer’s vocals.
A few times I even push myself off the wall, nearly hypnotized by the sound of it, wanting to see what kind of human could possess that kind of raw grit, pain, and sexuality in just their voice.
Eventually, I find a break in the wall of muscle and bobbing heads to get a peek at the stage.
The frontman, Jesse Moore, is a blur of motion, energy cranked to eleven, voice cutting through everything with a sharpness that makes the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
He’s in the middle of the stage, facing away from us, sandwiched between the bassist and lead guitarist. The three of them look close.
Like they’re all very familiar with each other.
The crowd loves it, screaming as the frontman reaches around his bandmate’s waist to finger the strings of the bass, then leans back on the guitarist's shoulder like he’s in ecstasy.
I shift on the spot, feeling uncomfortably warm despite the cool September night.
Jesse turns back towards our section, his eyes seeming to pan the crowd as the rasp of his voice makes suggestive words sound downright lewd–
I’m okay with being used
Whatever you want me to do
Break me, make me, twist me up
I can’t breathe unless it’s rough
When push comes to shove
I wanna be painted with your love
Drip, drip, drip it down–make it enough
His eyes lock on mine in passing, then snap back, a slight hitch in his singing like he loses the beat for a quick moment.
And then… God help me, it feels like he’s looking at me.
The suggestive curl of his mouth around the lyrics, the way he moves, it rattles something loose inside me.
I jerk my gaze away, but every time I glance back, it’s the same.
Like he’s singing directly to me. Which is insane.
I’m just another face in a mass of oversized bodies. But the thought won’t leave.
Not only that, but he’s so familiar. He reminds me of…
Don’t be ridiculous. That’s impossible. This guy has an entirely different build, not to mention the rough edge about him that doesn’t match the soft, casual vibe of the man I met that night.
The shape of his mouth is so familiar. to the one I’ve dreamed of…No. Stop it. Sure, maybe some of his features line up, but it can’t be.
I look away, ashamed of the way my mind finds ways to make impossible connections. It’s not the first time I’ve twisted my obsessive memory to fit the present in a wild attempt to make myself believe it could be possible. Or even just to imagine.
I’ve imagined scenarios where the stranger from that night all those years ago comes back into my life, each of them more and more impossible.
It started with simple daydreams, wondering and visualizing how life would be different if I’d woken up with him still next to me.
Or if he had shown up in the next two days that I’d extended my visit, waiting forlornly on the beach for the ghost of a guy I only knew existed from the dwindling soreness in my body and fading marks he left behind.
Then my daydreams became delusions. My heart would quicken if I saw a similar hairstyle from behind or looked into a pair of green eyes.
My wishful thinking turned into hopeless imaginings, little “what if” scenarios that I’d make up in my mind.
What if he saw me on tv and showed up to a game?
What if we bumped into each other at a grocery store or airport?
It’s like a sick hobby I’ve become addicted to.
Though I can no longer remember the exact shape of his jaw or taste of his skin, that night is always at the edge of my consciousness.
He’s more than just in my dreams, waking me up in the middle of the night, sweat slicked and sticky like a pubescent teenager.
He’s a fantasy that I’ve built to give myself comfort and lull myself to sleep at night.
One where I can imagine a world where our story doesn’t have an end.
One where I can feel him against my skin again.
Skin that is currently breaking out in goosebumps as the opening chords of a familiar song start up. The very song that hurt so much to listen to, I’d play it on repeat. The song that helped me heal.
The crowd goes wild, and so does my heart.
Jesse steps out onto a raised platform as the audience gets even louder. “I hope y’all don’t mind, but I thought I’d strip this one down a little.”
The place detonates. A tech hands him a black acoustic guitar.
He’s shirtless, ink sprawling over sweat-slick skin, hair wild, chest rising as he catches his breath from the last number.
His voice is hoarse with use, but when he starts strumming and singing, it hits me hard in the center of my gut.
The way his fingers move over the strings, the tilt of his head–it’s too familiar.
My stomach twists, and I look away again.
My head is starting to ache with the effort of not matching his face up to my memory.
And every time I look up again, I can’t convince myself that he’s not looking straight at me.
And I can’t convince myself that he’s an older, more muscular, more heavily tattooed version of the guy I met so many years ago.
Logically, I know it’s the song that’s getting to me.
The feelings the song stirs up, and the energy of thirty thousand people swooning is bound to affect anyone.
There is a reason this band is so popular, after all.
Everyone in the crowd probably feels it too.
I look back and forth from one of the most famous rockstars alive, staring down into the crowd like he sees me, to my sneakers, trying to wake myself up before I need professional help for my delusions.
Then he starts to walk down the platform, faced away from the crowd, back towards the main stage. Directly facing our group. His fingers strum the guitar as he walks, slow and deliberate, his voice rolling over the crowd like smoke. Straight towards me.
I freeze. My teammates shift, some shooting me looks I can’t read. My chest is tight. I haven’t slept in days, not since I pulled that damn song back into my rotation, and now I’m hallucinating. The crowd, and the noise, and the sleeplessness have all finally taken their toll.
I need some air. Some space to breathe… Something.
Muttering an excuse, I tear myself away and slip out. AJ yells after me, asking about going backstage, but I quicken my steps until I’m running through the stadium halls.
A security guard points me towards the back exit, the team bus waiting to haul us away from the chaos. By the time I’m halfway there, the crowd’s already flooding into the parking structure. The concert’s over.
I’m climbing the steps when someone shouts my name. I turn, expecting AJ or one of the guys chasing me down.
But it’s not.
It’s him. Jesse Moore. Charging out the back door of the arena, calling my name.
My legs stutter, but I stop, rooted, as he closes the distance. Shirt thrown on, unbuttoned, billowing with his stride and showing off his abs, chest, and the edge of a tattoo that makes my fingertips tingle.
And then he’s right there. Just a few feet away.
My eyes drag away from the familiar ink, and I look up into unmistakable, impossible, bright green eyes.
It’s actually… him.