Day 86: Lanes

We’re put in the same heat for the hundred meter dash, like always, but for the first time he’s assigned the lane right next to mine.

“Jesus fuck, it’s cold,” he mumbles, half towards me. He rubs his bare arms and shakes them out. I’m transfixed by the graceful shoulders, the ripple in his jersey. He’s grown since last year.

“Yeah,” I say lamely, my cheeks heating. “Meets in March suck.”

The official blows his whistle and points to our line. We crouch, our fingers pressing the asphalt, so close. I hear his breath. The gun cracks, and we fly.

Day 42: Promised 3/?

We’re tucked in the corner of the dugout, the cooler between us. I could kiss him, we’re so close, but the team is on the other side of the fence. And there’s the fact that I promised him I’d never do that again.

Dumbass, I think to myself.

My fingers are about to freeze off from the ice I’ve been holding against his forehead. I pull it away to look at the bruise, now blooming an angry purple and blue.

“Gorgeous,” I say.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, with a half-smile, he traces the trail of water dripping down my arm.

Halftime Show

Every girl wants to be a flyer. She’s the tiny one who gets thrown, sits at the top of the pyramid, performs the flashy stunt that gets the oohs and aahs. She gets to, you know, fly.

Not me. I’m a base. I’ve got broad shoulders and thighs too thick for flying, see?

But I’m the lucky one. Because that flyer? That doe-eyed, pretty, petal of a girl? She’ll step on my back and climb me. She’ll stand on my shoulders. I’ll toss her, my arms always warm, legs always ready.

She’ll fly with me underneath, waiting to catch her.