Just Friends(6)

When we lost contact I continued to believe he went to play football for a D1 college. Simply for following the trajectory he was on, being watched by agents who kept their eye on rising stars, surely, once he healed, he could take his pick of any college team.

Maybe I’m oblivious to how much damage the accident caused, but Declan (and his mom, yes, I checked) hadn’t left a single social footprint on the internet, much to my dismay. Other than a single photo posted to Declan’s Instagram account, which created more questions than answers. Still, I’m shocked to have finally found him, back home, managing a coffee shop.

As much as I try to resist it, a memory from six years ago forces its way to the forefront of my mind, taking center stage. If the memory’s job is to make sure I never finish getting over him, I don’t think I ever started.





Six Years Ago: Summer


Just run like five yards and then look over your shoulder, and I’ll throw you the ball.” Declan is trying to coax me into the idea of pretending to be his wide receiver. It’s the summer before our junior year and he’s antsy to start practice with his new team. We’re facing off in the middle of Seabrook High’s empty football field, a rare misting of dew coating the perfectly grass-green turf beneath us.

“I don’t think you’re understanding me,” I retort. “I have never been good at running with my legs and simultaneously using my arms.”

Declan stares back at me with a disbelieving half-smirk, so I forge on.

“Let alone using my eyes to track the ball at the same time. It’s not happening.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll tell you a secret.” He throws the ball as high as it will go and lets it hit the top of his head on the way down. I flinch when it lands, but he doesn’t react in the slightest. It topples to the ground and bounces side to side like a fish out of water before settling.

“Wh— How did you—”

“This is a fake football,” he supplies, reaching to pick it up off the ground. “It’s made out of foam.” He squishes it, showcasing how easily it molds to his grip.

“Oh.” I blink twice. “And why do you, two-time state champion quarterback, have a fake football?”

He looks down, flipping the football-disguised piece of foam in his hands. One stray lock of brownish-blond hair flops over his forehead.

“Because I wanted to practice with you.”

“So…” My eyes narrow. “You only bought it to play with—”

“Yes,” he says with force. “With you specifically. So, you have to at least try to run a few yards and catch it now that I’ve confessed that.”

The admission does something I don’t want to name to my chest.

“Seems fair. Hurry up then.” I clap my hands together before breaking into a sprint. Mostly so he can’t see the blush creeping up on my cheeks at the thought of him going to the store and buying a foam football just to spend this mundane summer evening playing catch with me.

I have no gauge for how far five yards is so I sprint until I hit a white line and then look over my shoulder. To no one’s surprise, by the time I turn around the ball is flying toward me faster than my eyes can communicate to my arms to respond.

Declan laughs when the foam football hits my face. It kisses my nose before bouncing off in a cartoonish arc. It’s too squishy to hurt, so I descend into self-pitying chuckles, coming to a stop and letting my arms hang limply at my sides in defeat. Meanwhile, Declan peels over at the waist in a fit of full-on cackles.

I stand there watching him with my lips pressed together in an ironic, self-evident display of pity, overstating how correct my previous objections to this idea were. I’d have the nerve to actually be annoyed if he didn’t look so cute laughing.

It’s like his face can’t take the weight of his joy, so it has no choice but to crumple beneath it. Lines bracket his mouth like parentheses, and a specific spot above his cheek is creased down with nowhere to go. After another second, he collects himself, pushing off his knees to stand up straight and walk over to me.

His face becomes my entire view, obscuring the damp blades of fake grass and the bright yellow field goal post.

“I told you! “I wouldn’t have been able to catch that ball if my life depended on it.”

“Are you okay?” he tries to say through leftover laughter, still filtering itself out of his body.

“Yes,” I reply, deadpan. “I am fine. But unfortunately for you, I don’t think I’ll be a good partner with whom to practice your throws. Just like I predicted.”

“With whom, huh?” he volleys, eyebrows rising in that challenging way that sends a tingle of awareness up my spine.

“Mm-hmm. With whom indeed.” I nod defiantly. “I think I’ll stick to reading my books. Sixteen-year-olds casually overthrowing kingdoms, etcetera.”

“Right. But can’t you do that and continue being my football partner?” At my stony look he adds, “Please?,” eyebrows tenting upward in a pitiful plea.

“I don’t think I’ll be much help training you to become a good quarterback if your practice buddy can’t catch any balls. Good or bad throw? Won’t matter. They’ll all land right here.” I point to the tip of my nose.

In a shocking display of affection, Declan grabs my wrist from my face and says, “No, come on. No football buddy would look half as cute as you did when it hit your face.”