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I stare up at him blankly.
“I think you need to rephrase that.”
“To what? Here.” He hands me a navy jersey, the number 29 in white on the front. When I turn it over, his last name is splayed above the number. Young. The material is worn, like it’s been through a few cycles in the wash.
“Oh my god, wait. Is this your actual jersey?” He nods, meeting my eyes with a vulnerability I’m still surprised to find him capable of. I hold it out over my torso to gauge the fit. “Wow. You might be the first guy I’ve dated I can actually share clothes with.”
“Promise you’ll still love me when all my muscles turn to flab?” His smile is adorably sheepish, whether from the thought of letting himself go or using the word love so casually, I can’t say.
I know exactly which part makes my pulse stutter.
I avoid answering him by pulling on the jersey over my head. It is, indeed, a perfect fit. He runs out onto the field backward so he’s still facing me, tossing the football between his hands. “We’re gonna start you out with something easy.”
“Easy for you, or easy for me?”
He ignores my question and points to the line in front of him, a foot away from him. “Stand on that white line.” I run out to where he indicates, but not without a grumble. “I want to see how far you can throw.”
“You will be sorely disappointed.”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” he says. “Come on.”
The first time he throws the football, I lift my arms to cover my face. He shouts something I can’t make out as the ball hits my funny bone. The vibration shoots from my elbow to my wrist, until I’m left with a fuzzy feeling up and down my arm. “Ow.”
“One more time.” He jogs after the rogue football, which landed by my foot. “And this time, try to catch it.”
“And what do I get for catching it?” I ask in a suggestive tone.
One brow arches, equally suggestive. “I think we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
“Keep talking.”
“Can’t.” He grips the football with two hands, readying a second throw. He almost makes football look sexy. “Don’t wanna ruin the surprise.” My brow quirks up as he returns to his white line. Surprise? Before I can ask what he means, he says, “All right, get ready.”
I hold out my hands in preparation for the unexpected.
“Bend your knees a little,” Theo tells me. “And keep your arms closer to your body.”
“Why don’t you come over here and show me?” I bat my eyes innocently. “Let’s reenact that part of the rom-com where the guy teaches the girl how to do something sporty, so he has an excuse to put his hands on her, all romantic-like.”
“Are you saying I need an excuse to put my hands on you?”
“No,” I admit. “But maybe I need an excuse to tell you I want you to put your hands on me.”
“You definitely don’t.” But he relents, closing the space between us and coming around behind me. I lean back into his chest with a sigh. His fingers trail up and down my arms, featherlight. Goosebumps rise on my skin as if woken by his touch. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his hair tickling my nose. I raise a hand to run my fingers through his hair.
“Focus,” he admonishes, even as he plants a kiss on my shoulder. “Keep your shoulders straight.” I adjust my shoulders, as he instructs. He lowers my arms and brings them closer to my chest. “Now ready your battle stance.”
“Come again?” I turn to look over my shoulder. “What is my ‘battle stance’?”
“Keep your knees bent,” he says, rolling his eyes when I smirk at him. “Be ready to pounce at any given moment.” I pout when he moves away from me, running back to the line. “I’ll throw the ball straight at you to start, but this will get progressively harder. You ready?”
“If I say no, can we stop?”
He laughs. “Not a chance.”
His arm bends back, but he brings it forward slowly. The ball arches perfectly my way, and into my hands. I surprise us both when I spring forward, cradling the ball to my chest as I dash past him. He calls after me, asking where I’m going when I run for the white goalpost. I turn my head to smile at him, but it drops open when he breaks into a sprint after me. When I screech, he lets out a booming laugh from his diaphragm.
“You’re never gonna catch me!” I increase my stride, running as fast as I possibly can. But I’m no match for a former NFL player. I’m breathing hard, sweat dripping down the side of my forehead, when Theo reaches me. But he doesn’t try to stop me. He runs beside me, matching my pace until I reach the goal and throw the ball between the poles.
