The ball ends up in the tight end’s hands, and he reaches their ten-yard mark before he is tackled.
A yellow flag lands on the Rubies’ backfield. Hendrix and I exchange confused glances, which we then share with our other teammates. A familiar-looking judge takes a moment to speak with the referee before the latter turns to face the stadium.
He places one foot behind the heel of the other. “Tripping. Offense number forty-two. Fifteen-yard penalty.”
In the Los Angeles stadium, there is no shortage of Rubies fans, and they make themselves known by loudly booing the officials. Meanwhile on the field, the player at fault—Kit—begins to cause a scene with the familiar judge.
“Seriously, Larson? I did not trip him! Is this because—”
Aleks closes in on him at the same time Hendrix and I do. “Come on, buddy,” Aleks says, pulling Kit’s arm. “Let’s go take a knee for a minute.”
As their replacements come out, Hendrix and I take our places again, and it is all I can do to keep my focus until the second quarter ends.
When we return after halftime, I finally pull my head out of my ass and work Hendrix over like I would any other receiver—except for the way my eyes linger on his bulging biceps and the athletic tape he is wearing from wrist to elbow to shoulder, which he didn’t use last season and hasn’t told me about during any of our daily phone calls.
“What’s with the tape?” I ask him next time we line up.
Hendrix looks side to side, making sure he’s in the correct position. “What?”
“The tape,” I point at his arm. “You okay? Did something happen?”
“T—” His head turns to me briefly, then goes back to watching his teammates.
“Why didn’t you tell me—”
“Shit!” Stumbling back, he moves as if to be in motion during the snap. I realize his curse is due to the fact he missed the quarterback’s signal to run when a chorus of whistles sound from the officials.
“Delay of game,” the referee announces.
The Rubies call a time-out, but Hendrix circles back to stand so close to me he’s about to give away our relationship. At least, that is what I think until I register his tense shoulders and clenched fists. “What the hell, Tahegin? Did you do that on purpose?”
I hold my hands up, palms out in a gesture of innocence. “Do what on purpose?”
“Distract me!”
“What?”
“Guys, separate. Let’s go.” A judge shoulders their way between us, mistaking our close proximity for a fight—or is he not mistaken? A wary glance over Hendrix’s reddened face and down to the official’s hand shoving at his chest has me wondering exactly how angry Hendrix is about the penalty. Yes, I’d asked him a question, but it wasn’t to intentionally distract him; I’m simply curious about the athletic tape, is all.
The Hendrix standing in front of me isn’t the Hendrix I spent last night in bed with, naked legs tangled and wandering fingers ghosting over exposed skin. This is Sour, the scowling walk-on from last year who hated every fiber of my being. His grey eyes, clouded with storms. His broad shoulders, trembling with anger as his hands open and close into fists.
God, I forgot how hot he is when he’s mad.
The fact that he’s mad at me? Slightly less appealing.
“Rix—” I whisper his name, but what else can I say? The things I want to say—to do—to him are impossible in front of this official, our teams, our fans, and national television. “I’m sorry,” I finally settle on saying. “It wasn’t on purpose.”
I see it then—the flash of my Hendrix beneath the hurricane in his eyes. His shoulders loosen slightly as the fog clears in his head. It’s a fog I know well, one that sits among the hormones in my body, waiting for the day I slip up and miss a dose. The difference is Hendrix has a reason—even if it comes from the heat of the moment, at least there is a moment—whereas mine, when it attacks, has no motive or instigation. It just appears. Even with the different origins, I know that anger, and because of my familiarity with it, I know that, given time, Hendrix will come to see what happened earlier for what it truly was—an accident.
Having struggled and lived with tumultuous emotions for most of my life, I’ve grown to naturally be the type of person who doesn’t overreact, spew words laced with feeling rather than wisdom, or let the heat of a situation guide my actions—most of the time. In some cases, like when other players try to rile me up by spewing hateful words about my heritage, my trained calm demeanor is a blessing. In others, it has been a curse. My last ex hated how composed I remained during an argument. She wanted to scream and yell, wanted me to shout back so she could accuse me of treating her poorly and make herself the victim. The traps never worked in her favor, and she left me to search for another professional athlete to get the perfect drama-filled relationship she wanted. I have had boyfriends and girlfriends of all types—some more manipulative than others—but never once in any of our arguments did I feel as powerless and vulnerable as I do now, standing only feet away yet feeling as if I am behind impenetrable, bulletproof glass.
For a long time, Hendrix and I stare at each other, me desperately trying to tell him with my eyes how serious I am—trying to tell him that I would never sabotage someone, least of all him.
We stand, barely a foot apart, an official wedged between us, for so long that a whistle blows and a yellow flag lands at our feet.
“Unsportsmanlike conduct. Taunting. Offense number thirteen.” The umpire calls Hendrix’s number for no good reason. He did not taunt me.
Appalled, I look away from Hendrix to follow another official on his path to retrieve his yellow flag. I watch as his gaze searches the Rubies’ sideline, and when he finds who he is looking for, a self-satisfied smirk spreads across his face. Following his line of sight, I’m met with Kit’s gaunt expression, face an alabaster pale as he sees that smirk.
Larson’s smirk.
In the wake of the penalty, Hendrix and I are swept apart, but when my eyes catch his across the field, I quickly sign to him. “It’s Larson. He is the reason all these penalties are being called.” Because, seriously? Hendrix and I may have been close—may have been stretching the time allotted for players to back away from each other—but he definitely hadn’t taunted me. If anything, we both should have been flagged. “Look at Kit,” I sign.
Hendrix glances at his teammate, and when he sees the pallor on our friend’s face, it all clicks into place for him. Tugging Kit’s shoulder pad until he finally looks away from Larson, Hendrix pulls Kit into a hushed conversation, their ruby-red helmets pressed together. Their lips move, first Hendrix’s, then Kit’s—whose don’t stop for what feels like an entire quarter, but is really only the end of the time-out. Back on the field, Hendrix lines up in front of me, inching as close as the scrimmage line allows. “Kit broke up with Larson,” Hendrix mutters under his breath so only I can hear. Then, his hands quickly spell “retaliation” in ASL.
We run our play, neither of us quite in it as we wait for our next chance to speak. It isn’t until we’re grappling in the red zone for a deep pass that the ball is called dead on the field after I bat it away, and we get a moment without other players in earshot.
“We have to tell someone,” he hisses as we half-ass our hustle back to the line of scrimmage.
“Not yet,” I mutter back. “This is serious, and we don’t know what exactly went down between them. First, we finish this game. Second, we sit Kit down and talk to him.”
“And then?”
I meet his grey eyes, their depths once more a raging storm, and give my God’s-honest truth. “I don’t know, Rix. But we have to help him.”
✧ ✧ ✧
“You aren’t a part of this team anymore, Ellingsworth,” Coach Mathis politely informs me, one finger pointed at my face as his other hand attempts to cover the chalkboard at his back. It would be too little too late if I could actually make sense of the new play being drawn, but unless someone decides to give me a verbal explanation of all those Xs and Os, it will remain the Rubies’ secret for now.
