Chapter 6 Luc
SIX
LUC
The game on Sunday against the Bills is another win.
It wasn’t pretty. It was one of those ugly, hard-fought games where every yard feels like a fistfight, but we pulled it off.
The roar of the crowd is still ringing in my ears just as loudly as the music from the Lest is Moore show. My thoughts are still louder.
Between snaps, in the huddle, even in those long seconds when I’m crouched on the line waiting for the ball, I keep wondering if Jesse’s watching. He said he would.
It’s stupid and distracting, but I can’t shake the thought of him somewhere with a TV tuned into the game, green eyes fixed on the screen. On me.
After the post-game handshakes and locker room chaos, we shuffle through the after-game obligations.
I don’t usually talk to the press, but I hang back longer than I normally do, standing in the background of Monty’s sideline interview.
I get a once-over by the trainers due to a hard tackle in the third quarter, but I’m fine.
The coaches pull us in for a quick post-game congratulatory talk, and then we head for showers.
Several of my teammates have more press obligations before we head out for dinner, where half the team orders enough food to feed an entire army.
By the time we get back to the hotel, it’s after nine and my body feels like I’ve been hit by a truck.
My phone buzzes while I’m peeling off my suit jacket.
Ghost: Congrats on the win. You were a beast out there.
A grin tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. I thumb back a quick thanks, hit send–and nearly drop the phone when it immediately lights up with his name. Jesse’s calling me?
“Hey,” I answer, my voice rough.
“Hey yourself,” he says. His tone is warm, teasing. “It sounds quiet where you are, I’d assumed you’d be out celebrating.”
“I’m just getting in after the team dinner.”
“Where are you headed to next?”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “My bed,” I grumble. “I’m in for the night.”
There’s a pause. “Isn’t it only eight o’clock where you are?”
“It’s after nine,” I correct him, amused. I lean against the desk and pull my feet out of my shoes.
“It’s still early. Are you sick?” He sounds legitimately worried.
“No, why?”
“I just expected you’d be out celebrating with the guys from your team. Or is that not a thing for football players?”
“It depends on what else we have going on, but a few usually go out. It’s not really my thing.”
“So the great Luc Martín is a homebody? Or are you just not a people person?”
“Little column A, little column B.”
He laughs. “So what is it you do like?”
“I like to read. And I like old camp films.”
He chuckles. “I kind of love that. It’s not what I was expecting, but also somehow isn’t surprising after only having met you twice.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Naz reads a lot too. Maybe the two of you can trade book recommendations.”
“Are you not much of a reader yourself?” I ask. It occurs to me how very normal this conversation is, and that in of itself feels strange, but this was what I wanted. We’re getting to get to know each other.
“I try,” he says. “But I’ve got the attention span of a gnat. I pick it up, get very into it, then have to put it down for whatever reason, sometimes just because I saw something shiny. Once I put it down, I forget everything and then have to start it over to remember the plot. Rinse and repeat.”
“So what do you do with your free time then? What does a famous rockstar do other than the whole sex, drugs, and rock and roll thing?” The words are out before I can stop myself. I don’t know why I said it. I guess to remind myself who I’m talking to.
“Well, true free time isn’t something I come across often, which honestly might be for the best,” he laughs. “I work on music almost constantly, no matter what I’m doing. I’m always jotting down notes of my thoughts or lyrics or even just vibes. And lately I’ve been swimming.”
“Swimming?” That body makes sense now.
“Yeah. Most hotels have pools and can be persuaded to let me use them overnight. It keeps me from climbing the walls if I can’t sleep.”
“Do you have trouble sleeping?”
“Sometimes,” he answers, but the way he says it gives me the impression he has issues more often than not.
“Are you good friends with your bandmates? I mean, I read that you and the drummer–that’s Naz, right? I read that y’all have known each other since childhood.”
“He’s my best friend, and the other guys really are, too. We’re all close.”
“And where are they tonight? I’m not keeping you, am I?”
“Not at all. It’s just after eleven where I am, so they’re most likely out at a club.”
“You wouldn’t rather be off having fun with them?”
“Not really my scene anymore. I still go out with the guys sometimes, but I’d rather talk to you.”
“Even though I’m an anti-social homebody?”
His laugh is infectious. “Yes, even so.”
He tells me about their upcoming single dropping while I get changed for bed and brush my teeth.
I usually like to shower again, but I don’t want to hang up, so I stay on the line.
While I’m settling into bed, he asks me about football and the places I’ve gone.
He seems fascinated by my life, despite the fact that he’s had a much more interesting one.
The places he’s traveled, the people he’s met, the things he’s seen.
I cannot for the life of me imagine what someone so extraordinary could find interesting about me. But we talk for hours, about everything and nothing, much the way we did the night we met. It’s so easy.
If only it could be so easy to associate the man I’m talking to on the phone with the very different person I see in the photos and gossip.
I know most of the tabloid stuff is likely made up if not grossly exaggerated.
It just feels like there’s so much more evidence to support the public image of Jesse Moore than the person he’s presenting to me.
Still, I fall asleep to his voice describing the time he purposefully got lost in the crowds of Seoul, Korea.
Or at least tried to, but he’s six-foot-two and one of the most recognizable people on earth, and it was harder to blend into the crowd than he’d anticipated.
Long story short, he made friends with an old woman who runs a street food booth and still sends her cards and visits her whenever they’re anywhere close by.
She apparently makes the best kimchi pancakes he’s ever eaten in his life, and even though I have no idea what that is, I love listening to him talk about all the random friends he’s met and continues to stay in touch with.
For the rest of the week, it becomes almost routine for him to call in the evenings when I get home after practice. I find myself looking forward to sinking into the velvety comfort of his voice and hearing what he and the band have been up to.
Despite being the beginning of October, the heat index is well into the nineties, making today’s practice brutal. All of us are dragging, and it doesn’t help that we don’t have a game this weekend, so no one has much motivation, either. We’re all ready for our days off.
Other than our general sluggishness, it’s business as usual. Pads slap, whistles blow, voices bark back and forth across the field. AJ jogs beside me as we rotate through drills.
“How’s the fam, Martín?” he asks, tossing me the ball to reset.
I grin. “They’re doing well. The girls are keeping Dad on his toes, as always.”
“You’re probably heading out to visit them for the bye week, yeah?”
Instead of answering, I gesture for him to line up to run the drill again.
I usually head home to visit my dad, sisters, and Shawna when we have any breaks, but I’m not sure what my plans are yet.
I’ve been talking to Jesse almost every night. Sometimes texts, sometimes hours on the phone until one of us falls asleep. It’s crazy how fast it’s become routine.
He wants to meet, to hang out in person, since he’s going to be within reasonable traveling distance of Shreveport on my bye week. I’m pretty sure he means for it to be a date. He’s never once pressed me or made me uncomfortable, but he’s nothing if not unapologetically flirty.
I keep going back and forth over whether or not this is a date, and how comfortable I am with it.
There’s a big part of me that wants it, but worry chews at me.
Jesse lives such a loud, public lifestyle.
He can’t go anywhere without being recognized, and the paparazzi go nuts whenever he’s caught spending time with anyone.
Every time he smiles at someone, fan theories and speculation erupt.
I was surprised to learn, during one of our many late-night talks, that half of the people he’s been “shipped” with are barely more than acquaintances.
He’s a friendly guy, and it gets blown out of proportion a lot.
He told me this like it was no big deal.
Probably because he’s so used to it. Little does he know that it’s the one thing keeping me from forming any sort of real relationship with him, platonic or otherwise.
I’ve loved our conversations and getting to know the man behind the fame.
I can even trust it when he tells me that the hard-partying lifestyle he’d fallen into is something he's trying to put behind him.
He told me about rehab, something that their new manager and PR team were able to keep out of the press.
There is so much to like about Jesse, but seeing him in person makes me nervous.
It’s easy to get to know him over the phone, to learn about the person he is while keeping him at arm’s length.
I’m not sure I can maintain that space in person, though.
Even on the phone, whether he’s being flirtatious or not, his voice does things to me.
He makes my skin feel alive and electric, my blood hot, and my libido has never been this strong.
Seriously, who gets a boner while listening to a story about the time Jesse and one of his bandmates got arrested for public intoxication?
I definitely don’t fit into his world. Still, I can’t stop looking forward to seeing him.
AJ tries to catch up more on our way to the showers after practice, but he’s easily distracted and I manage to talk around the answer until it’s time to go.
He tries to ask me if I want to hang out or go have dinner, but I mutter something about being tired and slip away before he can press any further.
I know I’m being an asshole friend. I’m just not ready to talk about everything that’s been going on, and I know AJ.
If he even gets a whiff of me still being in contact with Jesse after that concert, he’ll never let it go.
He’s barely stopped asking me about the night of the concert as it is.
Driving home, I glance up at a digital billboard flashing an ad for a radio station announcing Lest Is Moore’s hot new single. Jesse’s face, all smoky eyes and silver hair, lights up the sign.
How is it that I never noticed his face and voice everywhere? Maybe subconsciously I did and that’s why I could never forget him. Now that I’ve noticed, it’s a floodgate. It’s like he’s everywhere now. Like I couldn’t escape him even if I wanted to.
Almost as soon as I walk through my front door, my phone rings.
“Do you have my apartment bugged so you know exactly when I walk in the door?
“You’re predictable,” Jesse says when I answer, and I can hear the grin in his voice.
“Am not. I’ll have you know that I almost went out with AJ tonight,” I lie. He probably knows I’m full of shit, too. He certainly laughs like he does.
“You are, but I love that about you. Have you thought about the weekend?”
I close my eyes. “Yeah. I’m free. Let’s meet up.”
“Really?”
A little cheer goes up in the background, and at first, I think it’s a reaction to my acceptance of the maybe-date, but that would be weird. Then I remember the single dropped today, and they’re obviously celebrating.
“I take it the new single is doing well,” I say, wanting to make sure he knows it’s okay for him to go celebrate instead of talking to me for hours.
Noise erupts on his end–laughter, voices, a cork popping.
“Hold on,” he says, and my phone beeps. I click the icon to accept a video call, and suddenly I’m looking at his face.
His hair is damp, skin glowing, eyes bright.
Behind him is a skyline, people bustling around, champagne bottles everywhere.
“You remembered,” he beams. “And yeah, we’re top of the charts.” More cheers in the distance and people waving into the phone around and behind Jesse.
“Congratulations,” I say, awkward but genuine.
“I wish you were here,” he says simply, and I smile back.
I’m happy for him. I really am, but all the champagne popping and luxury and fanfare around him just remind me of how different our worlds are.