9. Cameron

Cameron

" W ay to use that Rectus Abdominis," Jagger smacks Bennet on the butt as he jogs back to the huddle.

"Did he just say I have a nice ass?" Bennet asks me as we trot behind him at a much slower pace, milking the comparatively lax intensity of summer practices to the fullest.

"He's saying you did a good job keeping your balance while you were trying to stay in bounds." It really was impressive, the way Bennet seemed to run on a tightrope along the sideline after a catch, gaining over a dozen additional yards. Especially since we aren't in pads, and wearing only our helmets makes us look like bobbleheads that should be top heavy instead of nimble.

"What does my ass have to do with that?"

"Nothing. But the ab muscles you use to keep your balance are called Rectus Abdominis."

"The fuck?" Bennet stops mid-stride to gape at me.

"I know, it doesn't make sense. That's why Jagger's going overboard on the clinical terms. He figures if he uses them enough, they'll stick and he'll ace his test next week."

Despite only being six days into the summer semester, we've already got a mid-term to study for. Technically, the test is falling just after the quarter mark, so I don't know why it's called a mid-term, but I guess the label doesn't matter when it counts for a third of your grade. Since we'll be expected to know all the major muscle groups, that's a lot of information to accumulate in a short timeframe, and Jagger's pulling out all the stops to ensure he's ready.

His methods for learning have always amused me. As kids it was flashcards, which wasn't all that unusual except that he claimed using different colors helped him see the words better in his mind. In middle school he'd make up silly songs to help remember things, and in high school he experimented with rhyming as a way to recall facts. That one was a bust though and he ended up remembering the rhyme instead of the fact it was supposed to help him recall.

Now, he's hoping repetition will be the key to remembering different parts of the human anatomy, and even though he sounds ridiculous, I secretly love the creative way he's come up with to study.

"How come you're not speaking Spanish?" Bennet asks.

"It's Latin," I correct.

"Shut your Orbicularis Orbis," Jagger gives Cruz a playful shove, shaking his head and laughing at whatever was said between them.

"Shut your mouth," I translate.

"I was gonna go with pie hole, but I get your meaning." Bennet shoves his mouthguard back in as we wait for our quarterback, Nate, to tell us the play we're running.

It's basically the same route Bennet just ran, but with Jagger slated to catch the ball since Coach wants each of them to be able to run this route in their sleep. It'll come in handy when we're running two-minute drills that require us to move the ball long distances in a short amount of time, with the ability to get out of bounds quickly to stop the clock if needed.

We break the huddle and line up, and since the play requires Jagger to run along the sideline instead of over the middle, I'm tasked with giving our quarterback time to throw instead of creating an opening for him to squeeze through.

Once the ball leaves Nate's hands, everyone comes off their blocks and watches the ball soar through the air. Although there's a defender in the area, he's more of a placeholder, serving as a reminder that in a real game Jagger will have the sideline and another body working against him. A few months from now, when we're in pads, the ball will be up for grabs. Right now, the goal is to work on timing and position, so Jagger only has to concentrate on catching the ball.

His arms pump furiously as he runs downfield, biceps flexing with the effort. Yet despite the obvious exertion, his stride is fluid. Graceful. I never get tired of watching it.

He swims the same way.

As kids, our parents made us join the swim team just to burn some of our energy, and I remember Jagger repeatedly beating me even though it looked like he was taking a leisurely lap. I would circle my arms furiously and still be seconds behind. In or out of the water, his body just knows how to move efficiently, so his speed is actually a thing of beauty. It looks especially elegant today, though I can't say why that is. Maybe the angle of the sun that seems to make him glow.

As the ball drops in altitude, he stretches up an arm, getting just enough of a grip on it that he can pull it off course, driving it right into his chest.

"Fuck, he makes that look pretty," Cruz says the exact words I'd been thinking.

"High Thenars!" Jagger's voice carries downfield as he holds his hand up to slap those along the sideline. The gesture makes it clear he's asking for high fives since I'm not sure our teammates realize thenars are muscles in your hand.

"And he ruined it." A few of our teammates hesitatingly hold their palms up while Cruz and I shake our heads "When is that test? I don't think I can take much more of this."

"Think of it as learning a new language," I say.

"The playbook is like learning a new language. This is—"

"Torture," Bennet interrupts.

"Nails on a chalkboard," Cruz agrees.

"Get used to it," I tell Cruz. "Your boyfriend will have to take anatomy for med school, so you can't escape it."

"My boyfriend won't shout encouragement in ancient Latin."

"You must not be doing anything to warrant encouragement then." I give him a sly wink, just to bait him, and get shoved in the shoulder in return.

Coach calls us off the field for a water break, and as I trot to the sideline, I can't keep the smile off my face.

I love these summer practices. We're still working, so it's not easy, but the atmosphere is playful. Or it will be until we get into the swing of things. Once the season officially begins, it'll be different–brutal in its intensity–but we've got about five weeks until that point, so right now, it's all about building stamina, learning the playbook, and coming together as a team.

That's my favorite part of football, bonding with the guys. Yeah, game strategy is interesting, and what I'm learning about health and training can help me be a better physical therapist after I graduate. But it's the interaction with these guys, joking with each other, pushing each other to get better, that keeps me coming back each year. That, and Jagger wants us to play together as long as possible.

The clock is winding down on that one.

If I really wanted to, I could push myself to have a shot at the NFL. Still, I'm a realist. I know the odds of making it aren't in my favor, and I'm content to enjoy what time I have left on the field rather than stress about how to extend that time beyond college. Besides, if I chase the NFL, there's a hundred percent chance Jagger and I end up in different places, and while I've been low key preparing myself for that anyway, it's not my first choice. Or his, based on the conversation we had in his room last week.

Thank God. Life would be pretty bland without him.

Water dribbles down my chin as I fight off the urge to laugh at my best friend, who's trying to convince Bennet to get his gluteus maximus over to the fifty-yard line so they can race to the end zone, settling a long-standing dispute over who's faster.

Since practice is nearly done, Coach indulges their antics, breaking out a stopwatch and taking up a spot in the end zone with our Offensive Coordinator so they can clock the finish. When the Defensive Coordinator whistles for them to start I cheer right along with everyone else, though none of us root for anyone in particular since they're both our teammates.

Bennet takes an early lead—he's a bit bigger and all power, so those first few strides propel him forward at a faster clip. But Jagger's lean frame makes him lighter on his feet, and he quickly closes the distance.

They're neck and neck for close to twenty yards, when Bennet's few extra pounds—even though they're all muscle—start to slow him down. Still, Jagger doesn't effortlessly pull away. I can tell by the way he kicks his ankles up, like he's trying to spring forward with every step, that he's digging deep. I'm sure that's partly due to the fact that he's already tired after a few hours of practice, but it's just as valid to say Bennet's making him work for every inch.

When they cross into the end zone Jagger's in front by roughly half a foot, which translates into point three seconds on the stopwatch.

From my spot on the thirty-yard line, I watch as they slap each other on the back in an exhausted side hug, then lace their fingers behind their heads as they try to catch their breath. From half a field away, I can see the sliver of skin that peeks out from under his jersey as his chest heaves with exertion, and even though I've seen that before, it's hard to pull my eyes away this time.

If I was still concerned that there was a deadline on the amount of time we had together, the need to watch him could be explained. Filling my mind with images and memories would be a natural response when you know separation is imminent. But since we both agreed last week that wherever life takes one of us the other will follow, I don't have a good reason for why I can't pull my eyes away.

Grabbing a water bottle off the ground, I start to head toward them, pausing when I feel pinpricks along my back that make me shiver despite the heat of the afternoon sun.

I spin around, curious if one of my teammates is flapping their arms or waving a towel, something that might explain a sudden draft, but there's no one behind me. It's as I'm ready to shrug off the sensation that my eyes drift to the stands, and I see a figure tucked along the back wall, partially obscured by shadow.

His presence alone explains the weird feeling I've had since practice started. These sessions are supposed to be closed to the public. With it being summer, the campus is mostly empty, so I'm not even sure the security guards are around to enforce the no entry rule. Yet something about the stranger makes it seem like he's not just a curious onlooker.

The man's gaze is focused on the end zone, where the rest of the team is congregating, which you'd expect since that's where all the commotion is. But it's the way he's focused on my teammates… So intently that he hasn't moved in the time I've been watching him. And that makes me uncomfortable.

He's too far away for me to make out his features, but something seems familiar. His posture maybe?

I suppose it could be a scout. I didn't think they came to practices, only games, since I'm not sure attending practices is allowed. Admittedly, I haven't paid much attention to the process, but if it's anything like getting recruited for college ball, there are rules about when and how you can talk to potential recruits. I assume the same is true for NFL scouts looking for prospects. Maybe this guy figures he'll get a head start but doesn't want to get in trouble for it. That would explain why he's lurking in the shadows.

I don't get time to dwell on his motives since Jagger pounces on me from behind, snatching the water bottle from my hand as I stumble.

"Did you see that? I'm now the reigning champ of the fifty-yard dash." Water dribbles down his chin when he can't rid himself of a proud grin before squirting more into his mouth.

I bite back a snort. "Impressive. Although, I'm not sure why you went for fifty when every measure of speed in the NFL is based on forty."

Jagger's mouth pops like a goldfish as he tries, and fails, to come up with an explanation. "What we record in practice wouldn't have been an official time or anything," he finally sputters.

"Maybe not." I let him off the hook as my eyes search for the stranger and find him missing. "Hey, did you see that guy in the stands earlier?"

"What guy?"

"I don't know. He was here just a minute ago, watching the practice."

"What do you mean?" Jagger's eyes narrow as he searches the stands for the man I already know he won't find.

"He was peeking around the corner like he didn't want to get caught lurking."

"You think it was someone from another team trying to gain an edge on us?"

I hadn't thought that, but it makes more sense than an NFL scout watching a summer practice. "Maybe?"

"Nah," Jagger dismisses his own suggestion. "Why risk getting caught cheating for a pre-season practice. That makes no sense." He holds a hand above his eyes to block the sun as he scours the bleachers again. "Are you sure you saw someone up there?"

"Pretty sure," I say as Coach hollers at us to hit the showers.

"But not positive?" Jagger prods as we grab our helmets and follow after the guys. Our cleats echo like those heels girls wear as we clomp through the concrete tunnel leading to the locker room.

"You think I imagined a guy sitting in the stands?"

"Nooo." He drags the word out in a way that makes it sound like it's more of a reflexive answer than something he believes. "I just can't think why anyone would bother watching us this early in the season."

"Me neither, but I know what I saw."

"What'd you see?" Cruz asks when he overhears us.

Jagger jerks a thumb in my direction. "Cam thought he saw someone in the stands."

"I did."

"Practices are closed to the public." Cruz shoves his helmet in his locker and starts stripping down for a shower.

"Doesn't mean someone couldn't sneak in," I retort, wincing when I catch a whiff of the jersey I pull over my head. Summer practices leave us all pretty ripe.

"I think he's seeing things." Jagger winks at me, and I roll my eyes with an audible huff, determined not to take his bait. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for my teammates.

"What, like ghosts?" Bennet chimes in. Lovely .

"Here we go," I grumble under my breath as I set my cleats in the locker.

"There's one living in the frat house," Bennet says, which brings a mischievous twinkle to Jagger's eyes since he loves zany conversations that have no real point. Usually, I do too, but not today since I know I didn't see a ghost. "It used to turn my stereo to the jazz station."

"Are you sure that wasn't just your roommates trying to hint that you have shitty taste in music?" Cruz elbows him in the arm.

"Very funny." Bennet tosses his sweaty gear into the nearest laundry bin.

"For real though." Jagger grabs a towel from the stack provided for our showers. "How could a ghost change the station? They can't touch stuff on our plane of existence, and you can't change the station without touching the stereo. Or a remote."

"Say what?" Cruz gapes at him as he grabs a towel of his own.

"Don't you watch Spirit Hunter?" Jagger asks over his shoulder as he walks to the shower, the rest of us falling into step behind him, although my step falters a bit when my mind snags on how a guy as cut as he is can look so lithe doing something as simple as walking.

What the hell? That's twice today I've caught myself admiring how he moves. What the fuck is going on with me?

I shake my head to rid that errant thought as the steam of the room engulfs me. "It's a show where people chase ghosts," I explain as I reach the stall. "It's one of our guilty pleasures." Turning on the water, I grimace as the cold droplets hit the floor and splash onto my shins. "According to them, physical laws don't apply to ghosts since they don't have any form, which is why they pass through walls and shit. Without any form, they couldn't touch your stereo. That's how I know I didn't see a ghost, since it was standing on the bleachers."

"Well, my stereo hijacker is a ghost." Bennet tilts his head into the spray to wet his hair, wiping stray drops of water off his face before pinning me with a knowing look. "It can do shit with its mind, so it doesn't have to touch anything."

"That's the first intelligent thing you've said about ghosts." White suds snake down Jagger's toned back as he lathers his hair in the stall next to me, and despite having seen the same thing hundreds of times before, it's strangely captivating today. I have a sinking feeling in my gut as I realize why.

The guy asked to see my dick one time and suddenly the wall I'd build between our friendship and my sexuality is starting to crumble.

This is not good. Knowing Jagger is someone I could fall for, I built a wall specifically to keep that from happening. Our friendship is too important to ruin over unrequited feelings, so I made sure I didn't have any. It's worked for years, and now… Now, I can't pull my eyes from the water cascading over his sculpted muscles, making his skin glisten even in the dim light of the shower.

What would it feel like to trace those drops with my finger? To–

Cruz's voice is like a bolt of lightning. The deep timbre narrowly snaps me out of my daze right as Jagger looks over his shoulder toward the sound. "Did you just use the words intelligent and ghosts in the same sentence?" Cruz balks at Jagger, shaking his head as he reaches for his towel and flinging water droplets everywhere. "Isn't that an oxymoron?"

Though Jagger's green eyes are barely visible through the saturated locks of his hair, I know they're too busy observing me to answer. I'm not sure what they see but voices from the stalls across from us have us both turning away.

"Are you calling me a dumbass for believing in ghosts?" Bennet shuts off his shower and stares at Cruz with his lips pressed into a firm line as I carry on rinsing off like I wasn't just lost in a dangerous fantasy.

"Okay, I can see how it might've sounded that way." Cruz holds his hands up as he backs out of the shower towards the lockers.

Bennet twirls his towel between his hands, letting one flick at Cruz like a whip.

"Hey," Cruz yelps as he hops out of the way. "You almost hit my nuts."

"Sorry, I guess I'm not intelligent enough to aim." Bennet flicks the towel at him again.

"I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry. Stop aiming for my dick, Liam really likes it." Cruz's voice fades as he backs further and further into the locker room, away from Bennet.

Glancing sideways I spot Jagger, who might be wiping away a tear instead of spray from the shower given how hard he's laughing.

I bite back a smile and shake my head, relieved that our little moment earlier seems to be forgotten, and taunt him. "Liam might come after you if Cruz suffers bodily harm for calling Bennet an idiot."

" Please ." Jagger shuts off the water and grabs his towel, scrubbing it over his face. " If Bennet actually connects with Cruz's junk, I'm sure Liam will just kiss it all better, in which case he should thank me for the thorough blow job. Besides, I wasn't the one to bring up ghosts, or the one to call Bennet stupid for believing in them."

"You egged them on, though."

"I'm merely doing the good lord's work. Someone has to keep the locker room entertaining." He wraps his towel around his hips, the bulky material only accentuating how flat his stomach is.

It takes me a second for my eyes to meet his. But when they do, he holds my gaze for an exaggerated beat that makes it feel like I'm caught in a tractor beam. Then that gaze lowers a fraction before he slowly, almost suggestively, turns toward the locker room.

As he saunters away, I recount a slew of little details I never would've thought twice about before, and only then do I let myself look down to confirm that my cock isn't as flaccid as it should be.

Fucking hell. I hope he didn't notice that.