Page 4 of Praised By the Cornerback

Something about the way he says it makes me shift in my seat. It’s not surprising that he noticed. He’s supposed to keep a close eye on me on the field. But this feels like more than that. Like he’s reaching past the trash talk and the stats into something I don’t want examined. And the fact that it’s Vega doing the noticing makes it a little harder to shrug off.

I’m still searching for a way to deflect when he speaks again. “You know what pisses me off most about playing against you?”

“That I beat you?” I smirk, trying to steer this back to safer territory.

He shakes his head. “No. That nobody talks about how good you are.”

I don’t know what to do with a compliment like that, so I laugh it off fast, turning it into a joke about how he’s clearly drunk if he’s complimenting me. Then I keep talking, easy and loose, trying to bury whatever the hell that was.

But it doesn’t quite take. Something’s off now, and I can’t shake it. Like Vega saw something he wasn’t supposed to.

Santos and Vega leave not long after, Santos clasping hands all around, Vega just giving me one last look I can’t read before they disappear into the crowd.

I drain my drink and immediately wish I’d paced myself better.

“What did Vega tell you?” Rhodes asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I missed what he said, but you looked like he’d caught you out.”

“It’s nothing,” I say, but my voice comes out too defensive.

Cole laughs. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not. It’s just hot in here.”

“Did Vega’s powerful bisexual energy rattle you?”

I stare at him. “What? Vega’s bi?”

“Not officially, no,” Cole says. “But in athlete circles, it’s widely known that he dates both men and women.”

“Oh.” I let that sit a second. “I didn’t know that.”

“Does it matter?” Rhodes asks, watching me carefully.

“No. Why would it?”

Cole and Rhodes exchange a look that I pretend not to see. I focus on my empty glass instead, on the ice melting at the bottom.

The room tilts a little as I push to my feet. “I’m getting another drink.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Rhodes asks.

“Probably not.”

But I go anyway, crossing to the bar at the edge of our section, putting distance between myself and that table, and whatever the hell just happened. I feel off-kilter and can’t put my finger on why.

I signal the bartender and order a double whiskey. While I wait, I stare at the space where Vega and Santos disappeared. One thing he said sticks with me: that nobody talks about how good I am. I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.

The bartender slides my drink across the bar, and I down half of it in one go. I’m looking forward to leaving this place. Leaving Miami and not seeing Adrian Vega until next season.

Preferably never.

2

Connor