The first time I saw Bennet Armstrong’s baby blues staring up at me from underneath his helmet, stunned and confused that I’d tackled him, I was smitten.
So, I tackled him again. And again. Whether he had the ball or not, I’d take him down, just so I could have his eyes on me.
I thought we were connecting. He thought I was a poor sport. Needless to say, when we found ourselves on the same team years later, he was not a happy camper. It got even worse when Coach paired us together for our pre-season workouts,...
Competition is my love language.
The first time I saw Bennet Armstrong’s baby blues staring up at me from underneath his helmet, stunned and confused that I’d tackled him, I was smitten.
So, I tackled him again. And again. Whether he had the ball or not, I’d take him down, just so I could have his eyes on me.
I thought we were connecting. He thought I was a poor sport. Needless to say, when we found ourselves on the same team years later, he was not a happy camper. It got even worse when Coach paired us together for our pre-season workouts, giving me a chance to stoke his competitive buttons, which I seem to do whether I intend to or not.
Bennet hates to lose, but there’s more to the fire in his eyes than a desire to beat me. He might not know it, but I do, and I’m determined to show him I’m right.
To do that, I have to bring him to his knees, and that reveals some wounds I didn’t know were there. Wounds that are so deep they blind him to the truth about himself, and us.
I should leave him in peace, and maybe I would if I didn’t know in my soul that he’s supposed to be mine. Now I just need to convince him, and what better way to do that than by making him want to win me?
