Five Years Ago Senior Year
Break a leg!” I call out as Declan runs onto the field.
It’s the start of our senior year, and though our home turf is humble in size, the anticipation buzzing through each student for the first game of the season could power the largest nearby city.
Declan brought us to state championships the past two years.
If he does it again, he’ll be the first quarterback from our tiny beach town to win three in a row.
He is single-handedly putting Seabrook on the map to those who don’t vacation here in the summer.
I’ve made my way to my usual spot on the cold metal bench at the top of the bleachers, giving me the perfect view of Declan talking animatedly to his huddled team.
He’s the only player with his helmet off, wisps of damp chestnut brown-blond hair curling at the base of his neck and behind his ears.
I’m mesmerized by the cool determination on his face as he riles up the team.
The hard set of his jawline, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he shouts, swiveling his head to meet each player’s eye.
The first state championship he won was his sophomore year, which was enough to draw expectant eyes on him. The pressure has only increased since to keep up with that so-called potential.
This was only high school, but high school led to college, which led to the NFL. Declan had his mind set on the life he could achieve after college before kids in high school knew what classes they were taking that year.
The start of his ambition could’ve been credited to his dad forcing him to train at a young age, but eventually, the lines between his father’s demands and his own desire to win were blurred.
Perhaps only being loved when he achieved was a form of training in itself.
Now, he did exactly what his father wanted for his life without having to be told.
Declan finishes his speech to the team and they clap each other on the back while shouting “brEAK!” They disperse throughout the field like bees leaving the hive, jogging, stretching, or getting water before the game begins.
But Declan stands still, helmet in hand, as his eyes begin scanning the crowd. They find mine in impressive time.
I wonder if he also had that subconscious meter, working at all times regardless of my efforts to silence it, that scanned a room for his presence.
I always seemed to know where he was. His face softens when he spots me, the tension melting from his eyebrows like butter melting in a warm pan.
Like, if he hadn’t found me in the crowd, it would have crushed him.
He waves at me and I try to stifle the giddiness that swims up my chest as I wave back. He winks before putting on his helmet and running into position. It reinforces everything I’ve been feeling (and trying with effort not to name) that’s been shifting in our friendship since this past summer.
I try to wipe the idiotic grin off my face. The game has begun.
As I watch, mesmerized by Declan’s ease on the field, I find my mind sifting through memories of the past summer when we spent every second together that he wasn’t training.
I’ve replayed them so many times, combing through each frame for new hints or clues, there must be grooves permanently engraved into my brain.
Starting with prom at the end of junior year: us swaying to the sound of The Cars singing their contemplative lyrics, “Who’s gonna pick you up when you fall?
” Forfeiting our dismissive, playful demeanors for heated silence.
As if we were trying to communicate something through sight alone.
“Who’s gonna pay attention to your dreams?
” The sentiment stuck in my mind as I stared into Declan’s soft green eyes.
It was something big. So big that it felt too scary to acknowledge quite yet.
But then, nothing. Heated stares dissolved with the turn of his head. Almost moments became nothing moments.
He had so many opportunities to end this nauseating friendship purgatory. But he never did. So, I guess it wasn’t purgatory for him, just normal life. One he enjoyed, where he kept me as his friend and nothing more.
He must have felt something, but I was never going to find it in me to break the tension first. The thought of losing him forever over emotions he didn’t reciprocate sounded worse than swallowing glass.
So, I bowed my head and kept my wrists devotedly together, forever caught in his invisible grasp.
I blink and the crowd of students erupts into a cacophony of cheers.
Declan threw a game changing pass.
We have this game in the bag now, but it doesn’t diminish the frenzy we feel as a collective, watching the team with your school’s name dominating the field.
Declan removes his helmet and I’m entranced by the sight of his puffy maroon lips, swollen by his mouthguard, and the errant strand of hair dripping sweat over his forehead.
There was nothing more attractive than watching someone lost to what they loved doing most. The full-bodied focus, paired with the comfortable ease with which they maneuvered in their expertise.
It could be underwater basketweaving, but if they were passionate, it was intoxicating to witness.
Finally, it’s the fourth quarter. Declan runs back onto the field with the offense, huddling in a tight ball before yelling a series of words, and they scatter into their positions.
“DOWN. SET….” Declan pauses a second longer before calling “HIKE!”
And the ball is in motion, hurtling from the center and into Declan’s palms.
My leg bounces uncontrollably, and a pointed glance from the girl beside me causes me to grip my knees to keep them steady.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
She just nods, looking back toward the field.
“Come on, Declan. Come on,” I murmur under my breath.
Declan makes eye contact with a wide receiver farther down the field. Throwing it from where he stands would be a fifty-five-yard pass across the field.
Almost half the football field.
There’s no way he could make it. He glances toward the opposition, checking if anyone is close to tackling him while he decides who to throw to.
He makes a face of resolve, and there’s something about it that I just know. He’s going to attempt the half-field throw. He’s insane. There are NFL quarterbacks who wouldn’t be able to complete that pass.
A millisecond passes as he grinds his lips together, pulling his arm back as far as it will go before launching the football with all his weight.
It soars so high for so long that everyone seems to hold their breath.
Our wide receiver continues running full speed toward the end zone, tracking the football with unrelenting concentration.
It lands perfectly into his hands. And he’s so far from any defenders that he casually strolls into the end zone, slamming the ball down and roaring in pure ecstasy.
The game-winning touchdown.
Every single person in the bleachers jumps up, including me. The commotion is so sudden it feels like an earthquake.
“YESSSSSSS!” I join the crowd, fists pumping in the air.
“SEAbrOOK! SEAbrOOK! SEAbrOOK!” they chant.
The screams of joy ripple through the crowd as the realization dawns on them. Declan might lead us to the state championships for the third year in a row.
Everyone stampedes down the metal stairs at once, charging onto the field to lavish the football players with praise.
My eyes furiously scan the turf for one person.
There are so many bodies cheering at once.
It adds to the commotion filling my head.
There’s blood pounding in my ears. But I have no one to share my joy with until I find him.
Find him. Find him—my body thrums with energy.
The bleachers have cleared out, so I’m left standing alone, using the vantage point to look for Declan.
I spot him.
He’s the only one standing still amid the maelstrom. People are running back and forth, pumping their fists, picking up teammates in bear hugs, and putting them back down. Cheerleaders’ pom-poms are cascading in formation.
But Declan is standing still, looking at me. It feels like a lock clicking into place when our eyes meet. A wordless understanding.
I sprint down the stairs as fast as my legs will take me, and I’m immediately thrown into the crowd, shoulders bumping into me at my eyeline.
I push through and run toward him. The smile overtaking his face cheers me on. It’s the kind of smile that bubbles up and can’t help but take over your entire face, demanding to be seen.
The satisfied relief etched into his body language at the sight of me feels rewarding in a way I can’t describe. The feeling of being equally wanted in a place you already craved to be.
He stretches his arms out for me to leap into.
So I do.
I jump, arms wrapping around his neck, the shoulder pads of his uniform giving me purchase, and my legs follow suit, wrapping around his middle.
He spins me in a circle, and our breathless laughter bursts into each other’s necks.
His warm breath tickles my ear as he slows, and for a moment, I panic, knowing that when I look at him from this position, something substantial will have changed between us.
The tectonic plates of our friendship are shifting.
Whatever happens next will be the aftershock.
I pull back to look at him, and instantly I just know.
Maybe it’s the mixture of longing and hesitation in his eyes.
Maybe it’s the excitement of having just won the game or the sounds around us dimming our better judgment, but somehow, we both come to a silent agreement.
He leans in, not giving me a second to hesitate.
Our lips meet, and the crush of them together sends shock waves through my entire body. Having imagined how his lips would feel beneath mine a thousand times only adds to my elation.
It’s happening. It’s finally happening, I think.
He pulls away slowly, seeming to savor the moment equally as much as he disbelieves it’s happening.
I actually giggle; the sound is light and giddy, like a child’s surprised delight at seeing bubbles for the first time—a sound I’ve never heard come out of me.
He responds with a low chuckle, vibrating the dense air between us.
My feet find the ground, and I stare up at him. My cheeks must be burning crimson. I’ve wanted this for so, so long. And if anything, the first thing I feel is vindication; it wasn’t just me feeling the spark—I wasn’t the only one harboring hope for a future where we were more than just friends.
“How long,” he breathes, urgency in his tone.
“What?”
“How long, Blair,” he begs.
“Yes.” I laugh.
“What?”
“Yes, Declan. This whole time. Yes, to all of it. Every year. Every single year I’ve known you.” I know he’s asking how long I’ve liked him. I know because it’s the first thing I wondered when he pressed his lips to mine.
I feel giddy with the relief of it. Of saying it aloud and seeing his pleased face staring back at me. He’s so beautiful.
He crushes his lips back against mine, as if he can’t stop himself now that it’s been allowed. We laugh, pulling apart. I feel like I’m in a dream. Like my head is floating off my shoulders, bubbles rising to the top and releasing with a satisfying fizz.
“Why now?” I can’t help blurting.
He understands the question instantly. “Because.” He looks away, wiping a hand through his sweaty hair, and then back at me again. “Because I can’t—I really don’t want to mess this up, Blair. If we start, I don’t want us to end.”
It sounds like he’s thought about that sentiment a thousand times before confessing it. And I understand the feeling so deeply, I don’t know how to communicate it in words.
I readjust my grip on the back of his neck, making sure he hears me when I say, “You won’t mess this up.” I shake my head. “If the goal was to make sure you didn’t ruin this friendship, I’ve already done that a thousand times in my head.”
The smile I was hoping for creeps onto his face, starting from the corners of his lips as he realizes my meaning.
Confetti pops from canisters beside us with a loud CRACK, and colorful pieces of paper rain down on us gently—a piece of pink confetti sticks to my cheek.
Declan looks at me like I might disappear if he looks away.
Like, if he’s not careful he might wake up to find that this was all a dream.
He lifts his hand. The movement is slow, tender, as he brushes the confetti off my cheek, holding it between his fingers like a trophy.
“Let me take you on a date,” he says.
“What? A date?” I stall, still not believing this is finally happening.
“A date,” he confirms.
“Yes.” I nod vigorously, like an army sergeant commanded it.
He smiles, his dimple deepening. The freckle on his bottom lip catches my attention.
I finally kissed that freckle, I think to myself.
“Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven p.m. Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dirty.”
“Yes,” I say again.
My brain is barely functioning.
“We won’t mess this up,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself.
I shake my head. “We won’t,” I insist, and pray to God that it’s true.