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We make use of every surface, my tiny bedroom transformed into our playground. The desk, the floor, the windowsill, the bed. He warns me that tomorrow he’ll barely be able to lift his arm, but tonight his strength and energy are boundless. He pores over my body like I’m his only job in the world, like he’s left behind winning on the field and now all he wants is this. The man who could have any prize has picked me.
I barely register the influx of rings and beeps coming from his phone all night. But hours later, when we lie on my bed with the covers flung aside to let the ceiling fan cool our overheated bodies, I remember.
“You must have a lot of calls to return,” I say. “The fans are hungry for their hero.”
“No fans have my number.” He takes my hand and places it on his chest. “Unless we’re counting you.”
“It’s not your football skills that I’m a fan of.” I press my nails into his chest. “So if it’s not fans, then who’s blowing up your phone all night?”
He closes his eyes. “Friends. Guys from the team.”
“And girls?”
“Maybe.” He smiles behind closed eyes. “Okay, probably.”
“And what do they all want from number twenty-seven?”
“They just want to make sure I’m not dead. This is the first time in two years I haven’t been out on a Saturday night after a game.”
“Who were you home with on that legendary night?”
“Food poisoning.”
“Well, I guess I win this round.” I look at the clock. “It’s not even one. Don’t let me stop you if there’s a party calling your name.”
Reeve rolls onto his side to look at me. “Stop me? Girl, you own me. You know you do.”
Of all the words ever spoken, these are the ones I want to be true.
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