Waiting on the Sidelines

“So, you’re going to try the mile, huh?” I squinted from the sun a bit looking over at him.

“Yep, oh? Hey, here,” he said, handing me his sunglasses.

“Thanks,” I took them, grateful that I had something to mask the reaction to our conversation in my eyes and also incredibly puzzled at Sean’s behavior.

“I think you’ll do well,” I continued. “You were always good at distance running. I think you were the only person that beat me in grade school,” I said with a small laugh. I was so nervous, which was really stupid and unexpected. I felt so foreign to myself.

“Ha, thanks. I don’t think I could handle your race, though. The 400? Man, that one makes me puke … literally!” he said, settling in to our conversation. We walked up to the snack bar and I was looking over the menu of sports drinks and energy snacks. I was still studying when Sean stepped up to the counter and ordered two Gatorades and two apples. He handed over five bucks and turned around to hand me a drink and apple.

“Oh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that,” I said, truly surprised by his gesture.

“You need your energy, Noles. Least I could do,” he said, bumping my side a little.

“Well then, thanks,” I said, bumping him back. What was I doing? I was in a full-on flirt fest with Sean. Never in a million years did I see this coming when I got up to start my day this morning.

We sat over on a concrete curb by the edge of the home stands and bit into our apples, laughing when we both made obnoxious crunching noises and squirted juice out in front of us. Sean pulled his sweatshirt sleeve down over his hand and blotted up the apple drops that fell on my knee. He didn’t make eye contact with me, but was very deliberate and gentle. It was strange to see him act this way. Sean was handsome, for sure. His hair was golden brown and short, always styled perfectly. He was one of the tallest boys in school and had broad shoulders. He was pretty fast, but not a sprinter by any means. He was a receiver for the football team mostly because of his height. I watched him as he pulled his sweatshirt off to reveal the gray track team shirt underneath. He stood and reached his hand down for me again and pulled me up to stand next to him. His hands were strong and his arms had defined muscles. He wasn’t as built as Reed, but he was close. I locked into his brown eyes briefly, but looked away not wanting to get caught.

“Hey, you should start your warm ups. I’m gonna go pick a seat to watch your race, k?” he said, his hand softly resting on my arm.

“Sounds good. Wish me luck,” I smiled, turning to jog away. What was happening?

I took a few practice starts and did a few sprints and knee-highs across the middle of the field before I sat down and started stretching near the shot put area. I watched Reed take his first throw, bending down, his sweats pushed up to his knees revealing his solid calf muscles and long legs. He twisted as he shuffled forward and released the weighted ball through the air. He turned around with a grin and high-fived some guy on the other team, letting out a ‘Woooooo!’

He caught my eyes on him and came over to where I was stretching.

“Did you see that? Twenty eight feet! Not bad, huh?” he boasted.

“That’s awesome. See, I knew you’d be good at this,” I smiled. He smiled back, dimples creasing his cheeks as he knelt down to sit next to me. My heart raced a bit, something that it hadn’t done in months, and I was caught off guard. He looked around for a few minutes while I stretched, almost as if he wanted to say something. Finally, he blurted it out. “You know Sean likes you, right?” he said, seemingly waiting for my reaction.

“Uhm,… Tatum sort of said something. And I am starting to get an idea, yeah,” I looked up, almost wanting him to tell me what to do. And deeper down wanting him to tell me that Sean wasn’t good enough for me and that he was the only boy I should ever kiss. Stop being ridiculous.

“He’s a good guy. I just wanted you to know,” he said, standing up and walking away. He looked over his shoulder at the last minute and threw in, “hey, good luck!” with a wink.

I won my race. I think I let the distraught confusion in my gut fuel my speed, because I pulled out a personal best time, just under 60 seconds. The sun was setting when we were packing up our camp and getting ready to board the bus. Sean had finished third in his mile race, which was pretty good for a field of 15. He was one of the last to run so he was still getting his gear packed and changing his shirt when most of the team was boarding the bus. I wasn’t really watching where I was going when I turned to leave the confines of under the bleachers and nearly ran into a kissing Reed and Tatum. “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t looking,” I said, embarrassed and stung again at the visual reminder.