Page 87 of After the Snap

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

That means yes.

A smile pulls at my mouth.

That means maybe.

Sure, Pea.

The remote is tucked beside the couch cushion where Dad always leaves it, and I hesitate before picking it up. Telling Jubal maybe leaves me room to change my mind, but I don’t need it because I turn on the television and find the pregame broadcast.

Coverage shifts to warmups almost immediately, and there’s Jubal with his helmet tucked against his hip, laughing at something one of his receivers says. One side of his mouth lifts before he gives in to the smile, and seeing something so familiar surrounded by everything I’ve spent years avoiding settles some of the strangeness of watching him like this.

Once the game starts, Dad’s years of teaching me football come back without effort, but Jubal holds most of my attention. I watch him in the huddle and see him give a frustrated receiver his full attention after a missed catch, then hold my breath when Atlanta gets through the protection and drives him into the ground. He gets back up, and when he settles under center again, something about the sight of him there brushes against a memory I haven’t let myself touch in years.

The field on the television tangles with high-school bleachers and another quarterback I once believed I knew better than anyone. I knew who my ex was when the helmet came off and everyone stopped paying attention, just as I knew my best friend in all the ordinary moments when neither of us had anything to hide. I never thought to guard myself around either of them, which is why remembering what they did still brings back a sick echo of the moment I learned they’d been sleeping together.

Losing two people I loved wasn’t the only part of the betrayal that stayed with me. Afterward, I stopped trusting all the moments that had felt safe while I was living them, searching conversations and memories for things I should’ve heard differently because believing I missed a clue was easier than accepting that I’d trusted the wrong people.

The game pulls my attention back to the television, but the old uncertainty comes with me as I watch Jubal call for the snap. He’s never given me a reason to compare him to my ex, and sharing the same position isn’t what unsettles me. Football had nothing to do with the way I first saw Jubal because I knew nothing about it when we met in Houston. He was simply a man who made me laugh, listened when I spoke, and made it unexpectedly easy to let him see me without all the expectations that usually came first.

Now I’m watching the quarterback match the man I already know. The way he talks to his teammates and gets back up after a hit fits beside the man who remembers when I’m taking the MCAT, tells me when he misses me, and looks at me like he means everything he says. Every familiar piece should make it easier to dismiss what my past is dragging into this, but I’m left facing how readily I believe they’re the same man.

Atlanta gets through the protection again before I can decide what to do with that, and I lean forward as Jubal scrambles away from the pressure.

“Get rid of it, Old Man,” I mutter as he buys himself enough time to find a receiver downfield.

Atlanta’s lead disappears late in the fourth, leaving the Valor with the ball and a chance to put the game away. I’m perched near the edge of the couch when Jubal gathers the offense before they break the huddle, and although I can’t hear what he says, I can tell everyone is listening before they follow him toward the line.

The next few minutes pull me forward with every snap until we drain the clock and secure the win. I’m still smiling when the broadcast follows the players onto the field, searching through helmets and uniforms until I find Jubal laughing near midfield as one of his teammates grabs him around the shoulders. Seeing how happy he is makes me reach for my phone.

Congratulations, Old Man. 3-0 looks pretty good on you.

He probably won’t see it anytime soon, but sending the message doesn’t satisfy the impulse to hear what the win sounds like in his voice. More than anything, I want to make sure his ribs are okay without trying to judge it through a television and see his face when I admit my maybe lasted approximately until kickoff.

The question of when they’ll be back almost makes it into the message before I stop myself. Jubal would know exactly why I was asking, and showing up at the facility tonight would be even harder to explain to everyone else when Dad doesn’t know there’s anything between us.

Dad will be coming back with the team, though. I dropped him at the facility yesterday so he could take the team bus to the airport, which gives me a perfectly reasonable excuse to be there when they return. Before I can examine how convenient that excuse feels, I back out of Jubal’s messages and open his.

Congratulations, Dad. Do you want me to pick you up when you guys get back tonight?

I send it before I can talk myself out of it. Dad doesn’t answer right away, which isn’t surprising when the game just ended, but every minute that passes makes going to the facility feel more like an impulse I might never have to follow through on. I try not to check for an answer every few minutes, but the unanswered text stays in the back of my mind until my phone finally vibrates.

Dad

Thanks, kiddo. You don’t need to come all the way over here. I can catch a ride home.

Of course, he can. Dad has been getting himself home from football games since long before I was old enough to drive, and his answer gives me exactly what I should want: permission to forget the whole idea and stay here. Except relief never comes, and disappointment takes its place because Dad needing a ride was never the point. Now that he’s taken away the excuse, I have to decide whether wanting to see Jubal is enough of a reason on its own.

I know, but I don’t mind coming to get you. Just let me know when you’re getting close.

Are you sure, sweetheart?

Yes, Dad.

Okay. I’ll text you.

With nothing left to do but wait, I head upstairs to shower and pull on leggings before reaching for a sweatshirt. My hand pauses over the first one I grab when I wonder what Jubal will think when he sees me, and I immediately resent that it’s something I care about now. The sweatshirt wins anyway, along with one quick check in the mirror that earns an eye roll before I head downstairs.