As in awe as I was of her talent, though, I was even more impressed by her discipline and work ethic. I’d never seen anyone grind as hard as Summer. In addition to all the required team practices and lifts, she put in extra mileage every week, extra time in the weight room, and frequently did two-a-days. Some of our best conversations came during those cross-training sessions when I’d offer to keep her company. Whether doing the elliptical or aqua-jogging, her little “add-on” workouts were among my most grueling—and I have to admit that I preferred just riding my bike alongside her as she did her slower long runs. Nothing was more peaceful than those quiet moments on the wooded trails.
One night during the spring of our fourth year, Summer and I went on a long bike ride together. Her ankle had been bothering her, and she was giving herself a couple days off from running. As we biked, she confided the extent of her pain, expressing worry about her ability to compete in the postseason.
“Even if that happens, you gotta remember that you’ve already accomplished so much,” I told her. “You’re an All-American.”
“But I’ve never won a championship,” she said.
I could hear the stress in her voice, and I knew there was nothing I could say to reassure her. I tried anyway. “You can only do your best,” I said. “I’ll be proud of you no matter what.”
“Thanks, Tyson,” she said, sounding unconvinced.
“Seriously,” I said. “I’ve never been so proud of anyone in my life.”
She smiled, then pedaled faster.
Later that night, Summer came to my apartment to watch her Cubs play in their season opener. I had picked up a six-pack of beer for myself, and she brought the snacks—popcorn and Reese’s Pieces—making an exception to her no junk food rule. As we hunkered down in my double-wide La-Z-Boy recliner—our usual spot for watching games—something felt different. She even looked different. Her hair was in soft waves around her face when she usually wore it up in a ponytail or two side braids. She was wearing tiny pink running shorts, and her legs looked better than ever. I couldn’t believe it—but I suddenly felt attracted to Summer.
Over the next several innings and beers, I imagined kissing her. Of course I didn’t do it, knowing it was a terrible idea. Then, right after the seventh inning stretch, she very casually slung her left leg over my right one. It was the sort of touchy-feely thing Lainey sometimes did, but it wasn’t Summer’s style, and it made my body tingle. I tried to focus on the game—think about baseball, as it were—but that didn’t work, and I could feel myself getting excited. Wearing mesh basketball shorts, I panicked, then did my best to hide the evidence with a bottle of Amstel Light.
A long minute passed, and then she suddenly turned in the chair, directly facing me, and said my name as a question.
“What’s up?” I said, my heart pounding as I held her gaze.
She swallowed, then took a deep breath. “I’m really going to miss you next year.”
“Me too,” I said, my heart beating faster. “But if you end up going to Harvard, we’ll be pretty close.”
“Yeah. A two-hour and forty-seven-minute train ride,” she said with a sheepish smile.
“Is that right?” I asked, getting more butterflies.
“Yes,” she said. “I checked.”
I smiled at her, and her cheeks turned as pink as her shorts.
“You should have applied to Yale,” I said, going out a little further on the limb we were on.
“I know. I wish I had. If I don’t get into Harvard, will you still visit me in the Midwest?”
“Of course I will.”
“Good. Because I’m gonna want to see you,” she said, her voice now a whisper.
“Oh, you’ll see me,” I whispered back.
Kissing her suddenly felt inevitable.
If not now, then eventually.
And if eventually, why not now?
I looked into her eyes, wishing I could read her mind. My gut told me she was feeling the same way I was, but I still felt vulnerable. A lot could go wrong.
In the back of my mind, I could hear my father warning me about the history of miscegenation and the potentially disastrous outcomes for Black men, even today. With Summer, my best friend, that risk felt virtually nonexistent. But regardless, kissing her would still change things. Forever. There would be no taking it back. Was I willing to roll the dice?
I decided I was—or maybe I just stopped thinking.
Overcome with attraction, I placed my open palm on her smooth thigh.
“You’ve got great legs,” I said.
It was the first compliment I’d ever given her on her appearance, and my heart pounded in my ears.
“Thank you,” she said with a shy smile.
“You’re welcome,” I said, holding her gaze.
“What are you thinking?” she finally asked me.
I hesitated, staring into her wide green eyes. “I’m thinking…that I want to kiss you,” I breathed.
“Oh,” she said, moving closer, her face only a few inches away from mine.
“Can I?” I asked, inhaling her sweet vanilla scent.
She gave me the slightest nod, looking as nervous as I felt. Then I leaned in, closed my eyes, and brushed my lips against hers. It was barely even a kiss, but it counted. In the background, I could hear that the Cubs had wrapped up their victory, three to one.
“Cubs win,” she whispered.
