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I didn’t know what it was about that one move. Whether it was simply him, all sweaty in uniform, or if it was the look in his eyes and the tilt of his lips as he watched me fumble with my things, but…it did something to me.

Kicked my heart into overdrive. Forced my breaths to stall somewhere between my lungs and my mouth.

I slowly made my way down the bleachers one measured step at a time and didn’t stop until I was standing right in front of him, less than a foot away, looking up into his green eyes.

He smirked. “Want to learn how to kick a field goal?”

“What?” I said, somehow anxious and confused and lacking oxygen all at the same time.

“I’m going to teach you a little something about football, and then in exchange, you can show me how to draw,” he said.

“Okay.” I laughed. “I mean…why not.” I shrugged, as if I wasn’t excited about it. As if there wasn’t a giddy version of me laughing and giggling and rattling pom-poms inside my chest.

He smiled. A knowing smile. Crooked and perfect.

“But let’s not expect me to be good at this,” I added with a finger pressing into his chest. “Because then you’re just in for disappointment.”

“We’ll see about that.” He pulled me by the hand to the far end of the field, dropping the ball to the ground and turning to face me. “So, first…kicking the ball is all about body position…and follow through. If your ball is here…”

He bent down and positioned the ball between his hand and the ground before letting it fall again, going all serious on me between one breath and the next. “You’re going to want to be here…”

His hands slid over my hips, wrapping around them as he walked me back three steps, and another two to the left.

The breath of his words fell over my lips.

He was explaining things.

Angles and degrees and body positioning, but all I really heard was the steady whooshing in my ears. My heart completely overreacting to our proximity—to his hands on me.

His fingers curved over the front of my jeans as he moved behind me. A hand on my thigh.

What was he saying?

“…eyes on center goal, and kick.”

I nodded. “Okay.” I was pretty sure I’d heard at least enough to give it a try. Right?Keep telling yourself that, Jess.

He kneeled down and held the ball in place as I positioned myself where he’d shown me before. “Perfect,” he said with a smile.

I stood there and stared at that smile for a few lingering seconds, my own lips curving higher before I shook my head, focusing on the ball in front of me.

And then I went for it, kicking it as hard as I could.

It flew out straight ahead, crashing right into the center pole of the field goal, maybe two feet up from the ground.

Oh well. I tried.I laughed.

I found the same laughter dancing in Greyson’s eyes as he attempted to suppress his smile. “Okay,” he eventually said. “How about something a little easier?”

And by the end of that hour, I had learned how to properly hold and throw a football, what each position on the team was responsible for, and why football pants were so distractingly tight.

Turns out, there was a reason for this—other than my own personal viewing pleasure, of course.

Greyson laughed as he explained knee and thigh pads and the way his pants held them in place, but a quick google search later that night confirmed my thoughts exactly:

It was all about the bulge.

“Eyes up here, Jess,” he said, and I tore my gaze away, unapologetic.