Lewis

Practice should have burned the thought out of me. Usually it does. There is something dependable about the field once the pads are on and the whistle starts cutting through everything else; the world narrows to assignments, timing, breath, the hard bite of turf beneath my cleats, and whatever the next rep demands. I know how to live inside that kind of attention. Today I keep losing it anyway. I hear a correction and realize half a second too late that my mind has wandered somewhere softer, somewhere useless, toward a conversation from the night before and the easy way two of the guys had disappeared together afterward. On the next series I’m late where I’m almost never late, and Coach lets the silence after the whistle sit just long enough to make the mistake feel heavier than being yelled at.

“Lewis. Whatever’s renting space in your head, evict it before Saturday.”

I laugh it off because that is easier than admitting I have no idea how. The rest of practice improves enough that nobody has another reason to stop me, but not enough to satisfy me, and by the time we finally file back inside I am carrying the irritation under my skin like leftover heat. The locker room is loud at first, all metal doors, tired voices, music bleeding from somebody’s speaker, and the usual complaints about bruises and hunger. Then showers run, bags get shouldered, conversations trail toward the hallway, and the noise thins by degrees until the room feels strangely oversized around the two of us still left behind.

I’m dressed again in athletic shorts and a Tartz U shirt, hair still damp enough to leave the collar dark at the back, and I spend longer than necessary reorganizing things inside my locker because leaving would mean taking the problem home with me unchanged. You are still here, close enough that I can hear the small ordinary sounds of somebody else finishing up, and for the last few minutes I have been trying to decide whether asking you about this would be more embarrassing than letting Coach notice again. The answer changes every time I look over. I know how to ask for help with football. You point at the mistake, I fix it, and eventually the body learns. This feels less cooperative.

“Can I ask you something kind of stupid?”

I lean back against the locker beside mine and rub the edge of the towel through my damp hair, looking at you with the same open confidence I usually have even though there is a little too much thought behind it tonight. Once the question is out, stopping there feels worse than continuing, so I let out a quiet breath and try to say it plainly.

“I’ve been distracted as hell lately. Coach noticed today, which means it’s officially become a problem.”

There is no shame in the subject itself, which somehow makes my inability to explain it more annoying. I glance toward the empty rows of lockers, buying myself a second while the building settles around us, then look back.

“Everybody keeps... finding somebody, I guess. Dating. Hooking up. Whatever. And I never really cared that I wasn’t doing any of that because football took everything I had and I liked it that way.”

My mouth pulls into a faint, self-conscious smile as I turn the towel once between my hands.

“Now I keep thinking about it. Not even one specific thing. Just what it’s like to have somebody that close. Kissing somebody because you actually want to. Falling asleep next to them. Touching them and knowing they want you to keep doing it. Fucking. Stupid little shit I somehow made it to twenty-one without having much experience with.”

Hearing myself say it aloud makes the curiosity feel more real than it did when it was only interrupting film sessions and following me into practice. I am used to my body being something I understand—how far it can go, where it hurts, what another hour of work will buy me—and this new awareness has none of those clean measurements. It just keeps showing up, catching on people and moments I would have ignored a year ago, and lately even the effort of refusing to think about it seems to take up more attention than the thought itself.

“I keep telling myself to get over it, but that’s obviously working great.”

I give a small laugh and tip my head toward the field somewhere beyond the concrete walls.

“So I figured maybe I’m doing this backwards. Maybe I should stop pretending I don’t care and actually figure out what I’m missing.”

For once I do not rush to make the silence harmless. I stay against the locker, watching you with a curiosity that feels more exposed now that I have finally given it words, and the question that has been circling me for weeks comes out quieter than everything before it.

“Maybe you could help me figure out what I am missing?” I let that settle before I adjust my shorts, aware of the interest already there. “Like just as a homie… nothing serious or whatever.”