“She needs help picking something to wear.”
“What’s wrong with what you’ve got on?” Sarah teases. I look down at my bra and cotton shorts and then back at her. She snorts as she makes her way to Addie’s closet. “You know he’d notice you no matter what you wore, right?”
“I’m not trying to dress up for him, you know?” I lie, folding my arms across my chest.
“Oh, sweetie,” Sarah murmurs as she presses a kiss on the top of my head, “denying your feelings won’t make them go away.” I narrow my eyes at her and she offers me a smirk. “He—”
“Isn’t interested,” I interrupt, finishing her sentence for her.
“Here we go again,” Addie says as she stands.
Sarah grins at her from over her shoulder before returning to her task, decisively reaching for items of clothing. “My argument that he
is
interested still trumps yours. Shall we go over the list again?” She pauses as if to wait for an answer, but before I can speak, she’s yanking off my shorts and encouraging me into pair of distressed jeans, complete with holes in each knee. “He always walks you to our front door after you guys hang out—even if you were just downstairs.”
“That’s just him being a gentleman. All of us get escorted home—by him or Hammy.”
“I’ve seen him carrying your cello more than once,” pipes in Addie, ignoring my rebuttal. I forget to make my counter argument as I’m temporarily distracted by the fact that Sarah’s dressing me—and I’m actually
letting
her. “And the kicker,” she says, tugging a spaghetti strap tank over my chest, “is that he’s been to three of your orchestra concerts.”
“First of all,
everyone
came to my last one—even Jack and Claire,” I mutter, finding my words once more. “Second, he was just being supportive. I go to his football games.”
“Yeah.
Because you like him,
”
argues Addie.
“He practically stamped
I like you back
on his forehead at your concert,” says Sarah, plucking a thin, loose knit, sweater from a hanger. “He wore slacks and a collared shirt,” she insists, pulling the garment in her hands over my head. “He
dressed up
for you,” she adds, as if her previous statement needs clarification. She sweeps my hair out from underneath the collar and it falls down my back. “He’s shy,” she explains.
“No—see, that is the biggest hole in your entire argument. He’s the star quarterback! He’s one of the most well known people on campus—where thousands upon thousands of people attend school—he is
not
shy,” I say with a laugh.
“You look adorable, Ave,” says my sister, guiding me toward her full length mirror. “How could he
not
be shy around you?”
A knock sounds at the door and, for a moment, we all fall silent. “They’re early,” I announce.
“Go let them in,” says Addie. “I just need a couple more minutes to finish drying my hair.”
“And I have to get back in the kitchen. Besides, we all know who Gray would prefer to open that door.”
I shake my head as they giggle and then make my way out to let our guests in. Despite the fact that I know who stands just outside, my breath catches in my throat at the sight of him.
He’s tall. Very tall. Quarterback tall. So tall that I sometimes add that to the list of reasons why I’m in the friend zone. I mean, I wouldn’t want to date someone who was more than a foot shorter than me, either. In fact, his height was one of the reasons why it originally surprised me that I was so attracted to him. Hammy is tall, too—
who isn’t, compared to Addie and me?
—but Sonny’s even got him beat by three inches. He’s practically a giant and I’m like a squeaky toy in comparison.
Then there’s his hair. I never thought that I would like a guy with long hair . . . but it’s so
pretty.
I’ve not seen such a beautiful shade of auburn on anyone else in my life. His intensely wavy locks are a rich red color so deep and burnt that it’s almost brown, but it’s not. It hangs loose down to his shoulders and I can’t deny that I’ve often daydreamed of sinking my fingers into it—but I have
great
self control.
Unlike most red heads, his skin isn’t pasty or pale. He tans beautifully in the summer and the fall, as he trains with the rest of the football team. Instead of being covered in freckles, he’s only got a few that sprinkle their way across his nose. I swear, God took His time on this one.
His broad shoulders and toned arms are not too overwhelming, but just big enough to speak of his strength; and when he hugs me—
my
Lord
—his chest is like the warmest, safest place my body has ever known.
Yes, that’s right, his chest is its own destination.
When he smiles at me, his true green eyes sparkle and his barely-there-dimples make my knees weak. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of jeans that fit low on his hips. He looks amazing and I can’t seem to stop staring.
Get it together, Avery. He’s not interested, remember? Say hello to the man—Sonny, your friend!
Grayson
SHE
SLAYS
ME.
When she opens the door, the effect she has on me is comparable to being sacked on the football field—no joke. Every time I see her, whether the time lapse is a day, a week, or five minutes, it’s the same. She’s just so freaking beautiful.
She’s identical to my best friend’s girl. They’ve got some crazy attractive combination of ethnicities happening, making them both unique and worthy of a double take. I think their dad is a mix between African American and some sort of French Canadian background, while their mom is of Pacific Islander decent. Avery always says that their mother is to thank for her long black hair. I do her one better and thank God for their mother, their grandmother and their grandfather, too.
For a while, I couldn’t tell the difference between Avery and Addison. I’d always found them attractive, but because I couldn’t tell them apart, I never thought to pursue anything, from fear that I’d end up hitting on Beck’s girl. Then I got to know them—and while they are a lot alike, they are also incredibly different. Not that my ability to tell them apart mattered at that point. By the time I realized that I liked her as more than a friend, it was quite clear that she deserves far better than the likes of me . . .
But that doesn’t mean that I can’t look.
She’s more than a foot shorter than me; and even though I know she’s got her own little bit of strength, evident in her toned muscles gained from years of running and carrying that cello of hers, she’s so petite and delicate. Sometimes I wonder how her personality fits inside of her small frame. She’s incredibly talented, with a focus and determination that seems to be a reflection of my own. She can also be really shy, which I find to be just downright adorable. Then she’ll get really passionate about something and you can’t shut her up, but she’s always kind and genuine.
When she looks up at me with those big brown eyes, like she is now, and smiles at me with her full heart-shaped lips, she owns me. She doesn’t know it—but she does. What I want to do is scoop her up into my arms and tell her how pretty I think she is, only I won’t. Instead I simple say, “Good Morning.”
“
Finally!
He speaks,” says Beckham, nudging me with his shoulder. “I thought I was just going to have to stand here all morning and watch you two stare at each other.” I whip my head around and cast a warning glare at him. He chuckles and pushes past me. “Morning, Ave.” He greets her with a hug and I force myself to shake off my annoyance—first, in regards to his comment; second, in regards to the fact that he just stole my hug.
“Morning, Hammy.” When he releases her and enters the apartment, she offers me a smile and, just like that, all my irritation has become null and void. “Morning, Sonny.”
My arms are wrapped around her before I can even stop to think about it. I manage to control myself, enough to keep her feet on the ground, and pull away before I send the wrong message. As she steps away from me, I close us inside and she furrows her brow in confusion.
“Where are Jack and Claire?”
Beckham and I make eye contact, silently recalling why we decided to leave early. “They’ll probably be late,” he says.
“They got distracted,” I add with a shrug.
“Oh,” Avery whispers with a blush. The color in her cheeks turns my smile into a grin.
“Hey, guys,” calls Sarah from the kitchen. “I’m guessing your early arrival means you’re quite hungry this morning.”
“For your pancakes? Always,” I reply.
“Morning, love,” Addie greets Beck as she emerges from her room.
For a moment, none of us exist. That’s how they are, how I’ve always known them to be, and I envy them. No—envy isn’t the right word. I’m happy for them, I just wish I could have something like that—something pure and healthy and full of love . . . but regardless of all the things I’ve put behind me, I’m not sure I’ll ever have what they have. Not with the woman I wish to share it with. She deserves more than the mess that is my past—she deserves someone like Beckham.
Growing up, it was just my father and me. Or should I say
Patrick
and me.
He doesn’t believe in love. In fact, I’m not sure that he believes in much of anything, anymore. Not even me. He does believe in whiskey with his breakfast, microwave dinners in front of the television, and Saturday night bar brawls—but not love. The only exposure to affection I ever had growing up was from my Uncle Charlie. My mother’s brother. Or should I say
Rhonda’s
brother; she wasn’t really much of a mother.
Charlie lived in Colorado for as long as I could remember and, two weeks every summer, my dad would send me out here to hang out with him. I remember those fourteen days were the best fourteen days I would have all year. I’d get drunk off of Charlie’s attention—I craved it in ways that I couldn’t even understand. He always treated me the way I wished my father would but never did. It broke my heart when he passed away a couple years ago. Having experienced so much shit in my childhood, I never imagined losing him could hurt as much as it did. He saved my life, all those years ago, during our time together.
Charlie took me to church. Two Sundays. Two Sundays a year I would set foot in a church. Back then, it wasn’t enough—it wasn’t enough to compensate for the other fifty Sundays I had to endure with Patrick, or rather, without him. It wasn’t enough to help put the pieces of my shattered childhood back together. There were so many things that I longed to escape from and I always felt like Colorado was a safe place; Uncle Charlie was my safe place . . . but two weeks was never enough.
To add insult to injury, I was a military brat. Being a marine was just about the only thing that mattered to Patrick, so we were moving all the time. My home was never a stable one and moving around the country every couple of years made it even worse—I didn’t have time to even figure out what it meant to plant roots somewhere. Patrick retired just before my freshman year of high school. We moved to Texas a couple weeks before school began. It was a blessing and a curse. It was a relief to be able to stay at one school for four years—but living with that man was never easy. To make matters worse, he and Charlie had some sort of falling out and my summer visits to Colorado stopped. That’s when I decided, that’s when I
knew,
that if I was ever going to find my way back to Colorado—or
anywhere
away from Patrick—I had to make my own way. So I did.
Football was my ticket out, so I gave it everything I had. I made sure to stay on top of my grades, as a backup and to make sure I was always eligible to play, but I was good at football. Really good. I always thought that part of my skill came naturally and the rest came from sheer determination. I tried to stay as focused as possible, but I definitely did my fair share of dumb stuff. Sometimes football wasn’t enough and I needed another outlet, another way to find escape . . . sometimes I needed more than the team.
Anyway, my hard work paid off. I had a few colleges interested in me, but when Colorado State offered me a full ride, I knew that it was meant to be—like destiny. Then I met Beckham. I met Beckham and I realized that it was more than destiny that brought me here. There was something about him, something so genuine, kind, and accepting—something so subtle that I couldn’t place my finger on it; but I was drawn to it. We clicked in a way I’d never experienced with anyone. I trusted him. I trust him still, more than anyone. He’s my best friend and he’s taught me a lot about life—about family.
Then I met Addie, Avery, and Sarah and I became a part of a community—something different than a team, something bigger than football. Nothing has been the same ever since.
Beckham
I WRAP MY ARMS
around Addie and scoop her off her feet, holding her tightly against my chest. She hums a laugh, hiding her face in my neck, and the smile that pulls at my lips can’t be helped. She smells amazing and when she pulls away in order to align her gaze with mine, I’m reminded just how much I love this girl. Not that I really need reminding. I feel like I’ve loved her forever.
Five years ago—actually, four years and ten months ago—my church youth group went to a statewide conference. That’s where I met Addie. I often wonder how my life would be different if Avery was in my small group instead of Addison. The two of them being identical, I would have been attracted to her, too. I wonder if I had met Avery first and then Addison later if our lives would be on the same course they are on now or if we’d be living separately. Luckily, such thoughts are just hypothetical. As it turns out, Addison was the one in my small group. Amazingly enough, I didn’t even meet Avery until the last day. I didn’t think much of it then. There were hundreds of us at the conference. Now that I know them so well, I think it’s crazy that they weren’t connected at the hip more often.
In any case, Addie and I hit if off right away. She was fun to be around and easy to talk to; she was sweet and pretty and I loved the sound of her laugh. We soon discovered that we were the same age, in the same grade, and resided in the same city—Colorado Springs—but because our parents went to different churches and we didn’t attend the same schools, our paths had never crossed. Once they had, there was no way I was going to let her get away.