by Harper James
Wait. I’ve been seated with the girlfriends and boyfriends?
“Who are you with?” the guy asks in a cheerful whisper.
“I— uh— Carson Slate,” I say, not sure I should be telling them this detail.
The girl’s head snaps toward me, and the guy’s eyes widen. “Seriously? You’re with Carson Slate? No Date Slate?”
“Not like that— I’m a reporter for the Bowen Blaze,” I explain, and their expressions relax.
Carson is running some sort of drill with his teammates; if he sees me, he doesn’t show it, a fact that bothers me more than I think it should. It’s strange, seeing him on the field without an opposing team. At the game I went to, he was a machine, full of fury and movement and charge, like a thunderstorm made human. In practice, all of the power is there, but there’s none of the fury— he supports his teammates, calls out to them, tousles them playfully. When they start to slow or underperform, he shoulders them and says something I can’t hear that seems to lift them back up.
“They’re here for him,” the girl sitting near me whispers, and points at a set of seats a few rows down— red seats, not blue like ours. Five men are standing, hands on hips, wearing polo shirts and khaki pants. Some are videotaping on their phones, others are simply watching with eagle-eye expressions, and all are talking loudly. I must have been too focused on Carson to see them come in; now that I’ve noticed them, their volume is distracting.
“Pro recruiters?” I guess.
“Yep. They’re making notes on everyone, of course, but they’re all here for Carson Slate. His brother Sebastian signed to a team last year. Carson’s only a junior, but at year’s end he’ll be eligible for the draft.”
“Oh, cool,” I say, because I think being eligible for the draft is a good thing. “I wonder if they make him nervous.”
“They’d make me nervous. You spend your whole life playing a game and then some bros in pleated pants get to decide if it was worth it or not? That sucks,” she whispers.
“Is he…um…” I’m not sure how to ask this without exposing just how unqualified I am to be writing a story on Carson, much less sitting in the “significant others” section. “Is he good enough to get drafted?”
The girl smiles and, thank god, doesn’t look to horrified by the fact that I have to ask this. “Oh yeah. He’s amazing. But there’s talk that he hasn’t been playing as well this season because of all the stuff with his dad. Distracted, you know? Can’t blame him, but still. What a shitty time for your dad to go on trial for murder, right?”
The guy near us scoffs and laughs. “Uh, I think any time your dad murders someone is pretty lousy, Desi.”
“You know what I mean,” Desi says, and sticks her tongue out at him. We fall silent again as the team runs another play. I find that I sit up straighter in the seconds when Carson has the ball, just after the snap. The way he watches, waits, plans. Everything about his body is sexy, but there’s something even more so in watching him strategize an entire play in mere seconds. I see, now, why so many people think the quarterback is the most important player on the team. If he’s no good, the rest of the team hardly has a chance.
The practice is two hours long, but it goes quickly, especially now that my eyes are darting between the recruiters and Carson, trying to interpret their every expression. Are they as impressed with him as I am? Surely. The team circles up around the head coach; after a short conversation, smaller circles form around other coaches.
While this is happening, one of the security guys I met at the gate leads a group of kids out onto the field. They’re all wearing Bowen navy shirts, and look to be in middle school or upper elementary school. A teacher is with them, and she looks every bit as excited as the kids do— they’re all staring at the stands, the field, the players, the coaches, clearly star struck.
“They do community outreach stuff at the end of Monday night practices,” the guy whispers. “It’s so adorable I can hardly stand it.”
I snort a little too loud, but watch as the kids wait patiently for the players to finish their circles. Some of the players head back to the locker rooms immediately— in fact, most of the older players do, leaving the younger and not-so-famous players to interact with the kids.
Carson, however, stays behind. He takes a few pictures and signs autographs, always taking a knee so he doesn’t loom over the kids when he talks to them. I have to look away to say goodbye when Desi and other guy head out to meet their significant others on the field; Desi’s boyfriend sweeps her up despite her protests that he’s grossly sweaty, while the guy’s boyfriend gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before they head off together, a little more shoulder-to-shoulder than just friends would be.
When I look back, I can barely see Carson for the crowd of kids around him— which means I’m free to notice that one kid, a boy, is hanging out at the distant periphery of the group. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and his bright blond hair is shaved so close to his head that he almost looks bald.
Even from here, I can tell that the kid is posturing— trying to pretend that he doesn’t give a damn about what’s happening, while also casting the players wistful glances when he thinks no one is looking. I feel a swell of pity for the boy; I mean, he ought to just go up and allow himself to be excited, like the other kids are, but I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in his life that he can’t even be excited for something so obviously cool.
Carson stands.
I mentally plead for him to notice the boy and, to my surprise, it works— Carson begs off from the rest of the kids and jogs over to wear the boy is standing by himself. They talk for a moment, and while they’re certainly too far away for me to eavesdrop, I can tell Carson is taking a different approach with this boy; he stays standing, folds his arms, looks like he’s talking to another adult rather than a kid. The boy resists, but then begins to speak, begins to gesture with his hands, and at long last, smiles. I don’t realize that I’m grinning at the entire exchange until it ends, and Carson suddenly looks directly at me.
My smile falters, but not in a bad way— it becomes a blush, something shyer and more hesitant. When Carson walks toward me, I feel my stomach flip more than a few times. The fact that I’ll be face to face with the guy who got me to orgasm over the phone hits me, and I feel myself begin to shake as he nears the bleachers. He stops a few yards away so that we can see one another without me having to crane over the railing, and I’m grateful— any closer, and I feel like I might have vibrated my molecules right out of existence.
“Are you waiting for me?” he asks.
“What?”
“You’re still here. Are you waiting for me?” His voice is calm, deep, easy, and it slows my heart the tiniest bit.
“No. I mean— yes. I guess? I was just watching,” I say.
“For the story,” he says.
“Right. Yeah, for the story,” I answer, nodding. Frankly, I hadn’t thought about the Bowen Blaze since I explained myself to the significant others sharing the seats near me, but Carson’s reminder pricks at my professionalism. “I have some questions for you, if you’ve got the time.” I pull out my phone— I wrote them down there, since I knew I wouldn’t be able to remember them when I was face to face with Carson.
“One question,” Carson says, folding his arms. He’s covered in dirt and sweat and grass, and for some reason I suddenly wish I could see what it looks like for a shower to wash this away, for water to run over his architectural muscles and leave them bare—
See, this is why you wrote the questions down, I scold myself.
“Okay— there were recruiters here today. Are you excited about that? Are you looking ahead to going pro?”
“I’m just playing the best game I can play right now. If I start thinking ahead, I stop thinking about the present,” he says.
“Right, that makes sense. Do you feel good about the way you’re playing, though, in terms of what they’re seeing?” I press.
Carso
n frowns, and I can tell he’s aware of the fact that I’ve now asked two questions. He answers anyway. “I always want to improve. I’m never happy with the way I’ve played.”
“Really? Even when you’re great? Everyone acted like you were the second coming of some famous football player at the last game,” I say.
Carson’s mouth curves into a wry smile. “You can’t name a single famous football player, can you?”
I make a face at him, then shrug. “That’s why you’re letting me interview you, remember? I’m not an insider.”
“That’s not why I’m letting you interview me, Astrid Tyler,” Carson answers immediately, and there’s smoke in his voice that startles me. I smile despite myself, despite the heat that his words drummed up in my core. How does he do this to me so quickly? How is it I never see it coming?
I swallow. “I— um, okay, next question—“
“No,” Carson says, shaking his head. “You already got two. If you want to ask more, you’ll have to do more.”
“Do more?” I ask, unsure what he means.
Carson grins, and it’s not at all like the wry one I saw a few moments ago— it’s brooding, clever, threatening in an incredibly sexy way. I bite my lip, and it only intensifies his expression. “Meet me for dinner tonight.”
“And we’ll continue the interview at dinner?” I ask.
“No.”
“After?”
Carson shakes his head, and before I can draw up the courage to ask him more, turns and walks away. I’m left buzzing, terrified, and, loathe as I am to admit it, excited beyond all reason.
6
I have no idea what to wear to dinner with Carson Slate, but thankfully, I have Arianna. She shakes her head in disbelief when I tell her what I need to borrow another outfit for, and then squeals and calls Jess into the room when I ask for something similar to that black romper, because “Carson really liked it.”
“You are totally going to sleep with Carson Slate. I can tell,” Jess says, falling onto Arianna’s bed as I change into a sundress so short that I’m pretty confident it’s supposed to be a shirt.
“I’m going to dinner with him for a story, that’s all,” I say, as if repeating this will make it true.
“In a short dress, because he likes you in short clothes,” Arianna says in a sing-song voice. “We’ll want details, you know. Like, inches. He’s huge, so his cock has to be—“
“Arianna! Stop!” I protest, but I’m blushing hard, which only eggs her on.
“I’m just saying, you’d better be prepared. You haven’t had sex in ages, have you? Unless you’re like, sneaking around when we’re not here. You’ve never brought a guy home or stayed over, though,” Arianna says thoughtfully.
“No. No,” I say, shaking my head, and I spoke way too quickly and way too cagily. My secret is out.
“Astrid Tyler. Are you a virgin?” Jess asks, eyes wide.
I sigh. “Yes. Yes, okay? I’m not embarrassed to be one, it’s just always such a thing and I hate that. Plenty of people are virgins,” I protest.
“Plenty of people aren’t going on dates with Carson Slate. Does he know?” Arianna asks, looking seriously worried.
“No! Why would I tell him that? Besides, Carson Slate doesn’t have girlfriends. He doesn’t sleep around. Everyone knows that. So it won’t matter, because we won’t be having sex,” I argue. Something in my chest twinges when I say this— disappointment. I’m disappointed at the prospect of not having sex with Carson.
“Okay, but if you do end up having sex, do not tell him it’s your first time. Got it?” Jess says, shaking her head. “He’ll freak out. Guys always freak out.”
“If she doesn’t tell him, he might be too rough with her. He weighs like four times as much as she does,” Arianna points out.
“She’ll be fine. Don’t let Arianna freak you out,” Jess says when she sees my face. Pretty sure I’ve gone pale.
“Stop, both of you,” I say, shivering and adjusting Arianna’s dress. It hangs off my body a bit, but it cinches in at the waist enough that it still looks good. “It’s just dinner and it’s for the school paper. That’s all.”
Except, I can’t stop thinking of the way Carson looked at me this afternoon— a look that said this was not going to just be dinner. As if I wasn’t already terrified, now I have to worry about whether or not I should tell him I’m a virgin. What if he freaks out and ditches me? But Arianna is right, he’s so much bigger than I am, and I’ve heard enough virginity-loss horror stories…
“I’m a reporter. That’s all this is about,” I say, swallowing nervously, as if trying to reassure myself.
Carson sent me the name of our dinner spot, a restaurant called Highlands that’s way fancier than typical college fare. It’s the kind of place that parents take their kids to celebrate graduations, or alumni take their rich friends to celebrate being rich. I arrive a little early, tugging at the hem of my dress to keep it from riding up too high. I’m clutching my purse at my waist and trying to keep my balance in heels when Carson pulls up to the valet station.
The flickering lamps outside the restaurant make everything look warm and romantic, which means I don’t stand a chance when Carson steps out of the car. Between the lighting and the perfectly fitted dress shirt he’s wearing, he looks like a guy from a fantasy dream sequence.
He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s looking me over, starting at my legs and dragging his gaze up my body, to my eyes. He grins, the smoky look that delights and frightens me, as he walks over.
“You look amazing,” he says, standing close enough that I’m forced to tilt my chin up to look at him.
“It’s my roommate’s,” I blurt out. “I didn’t have anything nice enough to wear here.” Why did you tell him that? What the hell is wrong with you, Astrid?
He continues to watch my anxiety mount, and I get the distinct impression that my nerves please him. He puts his right arm around my shoulders lightly, and guides me to the restaurant door. I wonder if he can feel me quivering at his touch. I wonder if he likes it.
We’re seated in a far corner near a fireplace. The employees clearly know him, thought they all seem surprised to see him here with a date rather than a family member. “Is Mrs. Slate not in town, this time?” the waitress asks.
“No,” Carson says, clearing his throat. “Not this time.”
“And Mr. Slate—“
“No,” Carson cuts her off. The waitress doesn’t seem surprised— she was prying, and she knows it. “This is Astrid, a friend of mine. She’s a reporter for the Bowen Blaze.”
“Pleasure,” the waitress says with false warmth as I nurse the sting over being called a “friend”. I mean, it makes sense— what else do you call someone writing an article on you, who you talk through masturbating late one night? “Friend” is definitely the easiest, broadest term, and a lot less complicated than the alternatives. The waitress vanishes for a while, returning with a bottle of red wine that Carson didn’t even order. She pours us both glasses, and I start to swirl mine a little, like I know you’re supposed to do in fancy restaurants. I’m relieved when Carson doesn’t bother, opting to just drink his straight away, as if it were water.
“I guess you come here often?” I ask as I sip my own wine.
Carson shrugs. “My family likes this restaurant. My dad knows the owner.”
“From where?”
“I have no idea. My dad knows everyone, to be honest. It’s just how he is.”
I bite my lip, thinking about the last item on Devin’s list: HIS FATHER HIS FATHER HIS FATHER. This is as good an opening as any to test the limits of asking questions about Dennis Slate.
“Are you guys close? You and your father and brothers, I mean?” I ask.
Carson looks to me, and his eyes narrow a bit. “Let’s get through dinner before you start with that, Astrid.”
I look away. “Okay. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s your job,” he says, and seems to
mean it. He goes on, “Is that what you want to do after college? Write for a paper?”
“Honestly? I’d rather write novels. Something more creative. But my parents don’t think writing is a legit career anyway, so writing fiction was way out. So, I’m majoring in journalism to keep everyone happy.” This rolls off my tongue easily, because I’ve said it a thousand times before, and I’m grateful for the chance to say something well-rehearsed instead of fumbling through a conversation.
Carson seems impressed, and nods thoughtfully. “And yet here you are, stuck interviewing a football player.”
“What about you? Can you tell me any more about what you want to do after you graduate?” I press.
Carson considers this, studying me. “I think I need to explain something to you, Astrid.” I nod, and he goes on, never looking away, never doubting his own words. “You know that I don’t date. That I don’t sleep around. I have to stay focused on the game— there’s too much going on in my life for me to get distracted by anything else. But…now I’m finding myself incredibly distracted by you. And that’s a problem.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to stomach the dagger his words just pushed into me.
He continues. “I thought that after our phone call the other night, I might be satisfied. And then I thought that seeing you at the practice, reminding myself that you’re a reporter— I thought that might do it. But here we are, and you’re asking me interview questions, and I’m thinking about the sounds you made when you came the other night.”
My lips part, my face flushes red, and once again, I can tell that Carson likes this— he likes my nerves, my timidity. He smiles with one corner of his mouth, and continues. “So, here’s my suggestion, so that we both get what we need from this. I’ll give you information for your story, like I promised. And you give me…you.”
“I…I don’t know exactly what that means,” I stammer.