Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
jason
The late-afternoon light made the field glow. Fresh-cut grass, white paint on the yard lines, helmets stacked near the benches. This was my church. Whistle in Coach’s mouth, ball in the quarterback’s hands, my cleats digging into turf.
We ran warm-ups until my lungs burned. Sprint out, turn, sprint back. Lateral shuffles, high knees. The rhythm settled into my muscles. Up, down, breathe, do it again. My body knew this pattern better than anything that I’d ever seen in a textbook.
“Alright, routes,” Coach shouted.
We jogged to the line of scrimmage. I tugged my gloves, flexed my fingers, and rolled my shoulders. The quarterback called the play, and the words slid into place in my head as clean as puzzle pieces.
I lined up wide, toes behind the line. Across from me, the corner stared at my hips, focused and sharp. I grinned at him. He didn’t grin back.
Bennet would hate this, I thought. Not the game itself but the chaos of it. Too many moving parts, not enough neat columns. He would try anyway. He would sit with his pencil and figure out how to count all of this.
The quarterback barked, and the ball snapped.
My world narrowed to green and possibility.
I exploded off the line, hips low, driving forward.
The corner tried to jam me, fingers at my chest. I slapped his hand away, cut inside, then broke out, feet working like mad.
Three hard strides, then I turned my route vertical.
Wind bit at my face, and my legs pumped. I felt the coverage shift and sensed the safety drifting toward me. Good. Take the bait. One more sharp plant of my foot, and then I bent my path toward the middle of the field.
The ball left the quarterback’s hand. I saw the spiral before I truly looked for it. It spun in the air, white laces, brown leather, carving its way through the cold blue sky.
For a second, the whole world slowed. The ball hung between sky and ground.
I reached for it without thinking. Hands met leather, fingers closed, and the impact thudded through my chest. I tucked it tight and felt the corner slam into my side.
My cleats dug in. I kept my balance, kept moving, kept shifting. One more shove and I broke free.
“Go, Jason,” someone shouted behind me.
Yard lines blurred under my feet. The end zone was just ahead, wide and welcoming. Adrenaline rushed through me, bright and clean. I crossed the line, let myself slow, then flipped the ball to the nearest teammate. Shouts and whoops followed.
“Beautiful,” the quarterback called. “You sold that post.”
I lifted a hand in answer, panting, sweat already cooling on my back. My chest rose and fell. My legs buzzed.
Bennet’s voice slid in out of nowhere, from the other night. Averages reveal trends. Standard deviations reveal consistency. Significance tests reveal whether any difference is meaningful or random.
I had stored his words somewhere in my brain. Now they floated up while I rolled my shoulders and jogged back to the huddle.
I saw him beside me for a heartbeat, in my mind, his small notebook in his hands instead of gloves, eyebrows pulled tight while he watched the play. I imagined him muttering about sample sizes while I ran. The image made my mouth twitch.
“Again,” Coach yelled.
We ran it in the other direction. This time, I drew coverage, opening space for the receiver. My route was a decoy, but I ran it like the ball was mine. That was the rule. Trust the pattern. Trust the guy throwing. Trust that your job matters even when no one sees it.
I cut, pushed, and sprinted. The corner grabbed my jersey for a second, then let go. I heard pads collide behind me as the slot caught the pass and turned upfield.
In my mind, for one ridiculous moment, Bennet sat in the stands with a stats sheet. Little circles around my routes, notes in the margins, and my name at the top. I laughed under my breath and swallowed it before anyone heard.
“Focus,” I muttered to myself.
We cycled through plays. Every catch, every cut, every fake tugged on my muscles and filled me with that glow that only came from a perfect rep. The world shrank to the crunch of my cleats, the clack of shoulder pads, and the sound of my own breath in my ears.
And still, between snaps, fragments of the other night slipped in.
The way Bennet clutched the armrest when the monster on screen jumped out. His hand had brushed mine in the popcorn bucket, then darted away like that single second had burned him. The way he tried to hide it when he laughed, lips pressed together, eyes bright behind the glasses.
Then to earlier, in my room, when I changed.
I had turned my back to him without thinking while I stepped out of my sweatpants.
Locker room habit. Bodies were just bodies in that space.
Except I had felt his gaze, hot and careful on my shoulders, then dropping lower.
Nothing physical actually touched me, but the attention itself had weight.
My skin had prickled. I had wanted to turn around and catch him in the act, see what his face looked like when he forgot to be composed.
“Jason. You awake or what?” The quarterback snapped his fingers near my helmet.
I jolted. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Try not to float away, man. We need your hands here.”
“Got them right here,” I said, wiggling my fingers.
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted. We broke the huddle again.
This time, we practiced a timing route near the sideline. I sprinted, counted my steps, then cut at the invisible spot where the ball should appear. As my foot planted, the ball arrived, right on cue. I snatched it inches from the turf and dragged my toes inside the painted line.
Whistle. Coach’s shout of approval. Teammates crowding me with slaps on the helmet.
That feeling right there was what I lived for. The world acknowledged that I was good at something. I could see it in the eyes of everyone on this field. They trusted me with the ball. They trusted me with the game.
Bennet’s neat handwriting flashed through my mind.
Practice rolled on as the sun slid lower. Shadows stretched long over the grass. I ran until my legs trembled, then ran a little more. Sweat dampened my shirt, cooled in the breeze. I tasted salt on my lips. My lungs burned. I loved it.
Every time I paused long enough for my thoughts to wander, that quiet reality waited for me.
If I wanted this, the lights, the noise, the trust, and the feeling of crossing the line with the ball in my hands.
If I wanted any of it to last, I had to sit at that library table and stare at numbers until my skull hurt.
I had to watch Bennet explain variance and samples and all those other words that sounded like another language.
I had to listen and not just joke my way through it.
The idea of passing Stats felt impossible. The idea of not walking onto this field felt worse.
So I ran my next route harder. I exploded off the line, out past the defender, right under the arc of the ball. And when I caught it, fingers closing around leather with that familiar satisfying thud, I let myself picture Bennet in the bleachers for a fraction of a second.
My chest kicked.
I tucked the ball and ran to the end of the practice.
Heat radiated off my body as I filed into the locker room and carried a towel to the shower. I tossed it over the door and let the hot water wash the sweat off my skin for a long moment, knots loosening in my muscles, lungs filling with air and steam.
I leaned forward, arms folding on the large, white tiles, head resting on my forearms, and water pelting my back.
It wasn’t exactly surprising that Bennet floated around my mind in most spare moments.
He was a fixed point of this semester, yes, but he was also a mystery.
There was something unique about him. Beneath the cold, expressionless exterior, I could see a spark of interest, a glimmer of curiosity, and a good serving of something not so innocent.
He thought he could hide it well.
I saw through it like it was written on his forehead. I saw how nervous he got about seeing a movie together. I saw him glancing at the rainbow guitar strap. I saw him bite his lip after the lesson was over, and his gaze swept over my naked torso.
Not that I didn’t know what I was doing.
It was almost like a compulsive behavior to test the limits.
I pushed hard on the field and off the field.
I searched for the lines I couldn’t cross.
And Bennet had failed so hard that it was adorable.
He didn’t even comment on it until the end, so he wasn’t exactly displeased.
I straightened and soaped up my body, muscles still burning from exertion. My hands rubbed the sore spots, and my heartbeat flooded my ears, drowning the terrible singing from the shower next to mine.
When I was squeaky clean, I turned off the flow of water and wiped myself dry, tying the towel around my waist. I strolled back to my locker in the mess of activity.
I dressed in a pair of comfortable sweatpants and a plain, dark brown sweater, put on my jacket, and carried my duffel out of the locker room. I had a date with a textbook in Professor Colby’s empty lecture room. Bennet had special access.
He waited for me in the lecture hall when I entered. It was a small one with an office attached to the side. An empty desk, a whiteboard, and other props were placed on the far side of the room, and three rows of desks and chairs faced it.
Bennet sat behind Colby’s desk like he belonged there. I could see him there as easily as I could see him heading NASA someday. Hell, he was smart enough to just pick a path and follow it. Not like me, with a single talent under my belt and nearly zero chance to succeed at anything else.
“Professor,” I greeted him.
“Someday,” Bennet said.