Page 52 of After the Snap

My steps slow as I hook two fingers beneath the collar of my practice jersey and catch the chain I still put on this morning, even though her mother’s ring isn’t hanging from it anymore. My thumb runs over the bare links before I let them fall against my chest again.

She glances across the field and catches me looking at her, her attention dipping briefly to the collar of my practice jersey before returning to my face. Neither of us looks away, and even with enough people between us that this should be nothing more than me seeing someone I know after practice, it doesn’t feel that simple. She knows why I had that chain around my neck in the first place, and I know exactly what her face looks like when there isn’t an entire football field and her father standing between us.

Coach says something that finally pulls her attention away, giving me the chance to keep walking toward the facility before either of us has to figure out what happens when we’re standing close enough to talk, but I change direction instead.

Calliope notices when I’m halfway across the field, and the slight tightening of her fingers around the folder tells me she knows exactly where I’m going. She doesn’t turn away or suddenly find something else that needs her attention, staying where she is while I close the distance between us until I’m near enough to see the sunlight catch the purple stone on her finger. Seeing the ring back where it belongs should make the empty chain around my neck easier to ignore, but it doesn’t.

“Good work today,” Coach says, forcing me to drag my attention away from Calliope.

“Thanks, but there are still a few things we need to clean up.”

“There are always things to clean up.” His attention drops to the folder tucked beneath Calliope’s arm. “You said Denise changed the afternoon schedule?”

“She changed your afternoon schedule,” Calliope says, her eyes locked on her father instead of me. “Apparently, putting things on the calendar doesn’t matter if you refuse to look at said calendar.”

Coach opens his mouth, pauses, then looks at me as if I might somehow rescue him.

“I’ve been here for a week. I’m not getting involved.”

“Smart man.”

It’s the first thing she’s said directly to me since I walked over, and when her eyes meet mine, some of the tension I’ve been carrying since I changed direction finally eases. Not enough to make me forget who’s standing beside us, but enough that answering her doesn’t feel like something I need to plan.

“This feels unnecessarily hostile.”

Coach motions between us, and the laugh slips out before I can decide whether I should let it. Calliope’s smile widens in response, bringing back the woman from Houston despite all the careful distance we’ve been trying to keep between us. We’re standing beside her father, surrounded by players and coaches leaving practice, but talking to her still feels as easy as it did when neither of us knew enough for any of this to be complicated.

That was part of what made Houston dangerous before I knew enough about her for anything to be dangerous at all. Conversation never felt like work. There was no silence I had to fill before she decided I was awkward or not who she expected me to be. We talked because we wanted to, and when we stopped talking, neither of us had needed much convincing. Standing this close to her again brings back exactly how we stopped.

I shift my helmet beneath my arm before my body can follow the memory anywhere it has no business going with her father three feet away.

“Callie!”

King’s voice carries across the field before he reaches us. He slows only enough to sling an arm loosely around her shoulders as he passes, sweat-soaked practice jersey and all.

“Easton, you’re disgusting.” She recoils immediately, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

“You missed me.”

“If I get whatever disease is currently living on you, I’m billing you for the treatment.” She ducks beneath his arm and wipes her shoulder with the side of her hand.

He grins at her, completely unbothered, as if he already knows exactly how far he can push before she pushes back. Calliope’s eyes narrow behind her glasses, her mouth already forming whatever insult she’s going to throw at him next, and King looks delighted by the possibility.

I watch the exchange longer than I should. King knows exactly which buttons to push, and Calliope is already preparing to push back before he’s finished. I knew her for one night, and in Houston, that had felt like enough to know things about her nobody else did. Standing here with someone who has years of history with her reminds me how much of Calliope existed before she ever sat down beside me in that bar.

“You done contaminating Coach’s daughter?” Tuck asks as he approaches from behind King, and both of their expressions change instantly.

“Don’t.”

King’s arm drops from where he’d been reaching for her again, and even Coach looks up from the folder.

Calliope crosses her arms, eyes laser-focused on Tuck. “You get one warning.”

“Callie—”

“I have a name. Use it.”

There’s no anger in her voice, but Tuck doesn’t make the mistake of turning it into a joke. He gives her a small nod instead. “Sorry, Callie.”