Page 21 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

i know him so well

Rita

Today’s the day! Operation Football Observation is a go! Remember to stay hydrated and take notes for the spreadsheet.

Me

There is no operation. And, OMG. I forgot about the spreadsheet.

Rita

Your bookstore encounter has been coded green! Oh, and don’t forget to put on some sunscreen. Wouldn’t want you getting a farmer’s tan while you pine.

Me

I don’t pine.

I swing my legs out of bed and pad to the closet. What do you wear to observe your crush at football practice?

I pull out a T-shirt, but it’s snug. I don’t want to appear as though I’m trying too hard.

I grab another one, but that one billows.

I also don’t want to look as though I raided my dad’s closet.

After cycling through half my wardrobe, I settle on a plain navy shirt and khaki shorts.

It’s casual and unmemorable, same as me.

Adam’s driving, which means we’re going to arrive in one piece.

Robbie claimed shotgun before anyone else could blink, leaving me wedged in the back seat between Matthew and Tyler.

Their shoulders press against mine, turning me into the meat in a man sandwich, and I try to make myself smaller, which is saying something since I’m already the smallest one here.

“Thanks for driving us, guys,” Matthew says, his knee bumping mine as Adam takes a turn. “My Jeep’s in the shop again.”

“No problem, man,” Adam says, coming to a stop at a stop sign and waiting for the kids to cross the street.

Robbie twists around in his seat, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. “Guess what! Kevin has a crush on someone from school.”

My entire body goes rigid. “Robbie.”

“A crush?” Matthew perks up, his attention zeroing in on me. “Our little Kevin’s growing up!”

“I don’t?—”

“Oh, this is perfect,” Tyler cuts in, practically bouncing in his seat. “Let’s figure it out. Process of elimination.”

Adam glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I telepathically try to get him to crash the car. A small fender bender—nothing serious—but enough to end this conversation.

“Is it someone from the drama club?” Matthew asks. “What about that guy who played Gaston our freshman year? What was his name?”

“Otto,” I supply automatically, then immediately regret engaging. “And no, it’s not him.”

“Okay, so not a theater kid,” Tyler muses. “What about someone from the debate team? You know, those intense intellectual types?”

“Kevin doesn’t even do debate,” Adam points out, but there’s amusement in his voice. The traitor.

“Right, right.” Matthew shifts, and his thigh presses more firmly against mine. “Oh! What about someone from the swim team? Brandon Carter? Dude’s got abs for days.”

My face heats. “I don’t even know who that is.”

“You don’t know Brandon Carter?” Robbie sounds personally offended. “He holds three school records!”

“I’m sorry that my knowledge of the swim team is lacking,” I mutter.

“Wait, wait,” Tyler leans forward. “What about the wrestling team? Those guys are always, you know…” He makes a vague gesture down there that I guess is supposed to indicate something about wrestlers.

“Always what?” I ask, though I know I shouldn’t.

“You know, rolling around on mats, getting all sweaty and grabby.” Tyler waggles his eyebrows. “In latex.”

Matthew laughs so hard his whole body shakes, jostling me. “Grabby? That’s your technical wrestling term?”

“I’m just saying, if Kevin’s into that?—”

“I’m not into anything! Can we please talk about literally anything else?”

“Absolutely not,” Robbie declares. “We’ve narrowed it down to not theater kids, not swimmers, not wrestlers. What about baseball players?”

“Why are you only naming athletes?” I ask.

“Because you’re suddenly interested in football practice,” Adam says with a shit-eating grin. “Makes sense you’d develop a thing for jocks.”

“I don’t have a thing for?—”

“Oh my God,” Matthew interrupts, grabbing my shoulder. “Is it someone from the football team?”

The car goes quiet except for the hum of the engine. All four sets of eyes are on me, waiting for a response that I don’t want to give.

“No.” Of course, that one simple word has to come out all weird and squeaky.

“That was the least convincing ‘no’ in the history of denials,” Tyler proclaims.

“Yes! It’s someone on the team!” Robbie crows. “Okay, okay, let me think. Is it Jake Morrison? He’s got that whole mysterious thing going on.”

“It’s not Jake Morrison.”

“What about Anthony?” Matthew suggests. “He’s pretty chill, plays the piano…”

“Not Anthony.”

“Carlos?” Tyler throws out. “Dude can bench press a small car.”

“Why would that be attractive?” I ask, genuinely puzzled.

“Some people are into strength.” Tyler shrugs.

They continue throwing out names—guys from the offensive line all the way down to the water boy. Each suggestion makes me sink lower in my seat, wishing I could disappear entirely.

“Could it be Coach Potter?” Robbie muses.

“Ew,” I gag. “He’s old!”

Robbie shrugs. “He’s dad’s age.”

“I don’t think it’s Coach,” Adam chimes in.

“Why not?” Robbie asks, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

“Because that would mean Kevin has a daddy kink.”

“Oh, God!” Robbie and I cry out simultaneously.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I say.

“Me too!” Robbie wails.

“Wait,” Matthew says suddenly, and his voice takes on a wounded quality. “I’m hurt, Kevin. Deeply hurt.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Here I thought we had something special.” He places a meaty hand over his heart dramatically. “That comment about my legs made me blush, and now you’ve moved on to someone else?”

My face burns, and I’m surprised the windows don’t fog up.

“My beautifully defined legs mean nothing to you?” He’s really hamming it up now, fake-sniffling. “Was I just a passing fancy?”

“I hate all of you,” I mumble, covering my face with my hands.

“Don’t worry, Matt,” Robbie says consolingly. “You’ll always have your legs.”

“Small comfort,” Matthew sighs.

I need to get control of this situation somehow. Through my fingers, I peek at Tyler. “Actually, if we’re being honest, I’ve moved on to Tyler’s…” Don’t say legs, don’t say legs. “His, uh…” Don’t say arms, don’t say arms. “His feet!”

Seriously, Kevin? His feet? That’s worse than a daddy kink.

I grimace internally as the car erupts.

“HIS FEET?!” Robbie shrieks.

“Bro, you have a foot fetish?” Tyler asks, sounding weirdly delighted.

“No, I don’t have a—I was trying to?—”

“This explains so much,” Matthew says gleefully. “The way you always stare at the ground…”

“I’m shy!” I protest. “That’s why I look at the ground!”

“Sure, sure,” Adam says, trying not to laugh and failing. “It’s definitely not because you’re checking out everyone’s feet.”

“It was a joke!”

“About my feet specifically,” Tyler adds, wiggling his toes in his flip-flops. “Which, I mean, they are pretty impressive. Size thirteen, baby.”

“Please stop,” I beg.

“We need to protect the team,” Robbie says seriously. “No one goes barefoot around Kevin anymore.”

“I’m dropping out of school,” I announce. “I’m going to become a cave-dweller. Live in the woods. Never speak to any of you again.”

“But then how will you indulge your foot thing?” Matthew asks, smirking.

“I DON’T HAVE A FOOT THING!”

Adam pulls into the school parking lot, and I’ve never been this grateful to see Arcadia High in my life. “We’re here,” he announces unnecessarily.

I climb over Tyler, but in my desperation to escape the van, my foot catches on his leg, and I stumble out. I stop myself in the nick of time from smacking my face on the asphalt.

“Careful,” Tyler calls out. “Don’t want you hurting yourself before you get to see all those cleats up close.”

I flip him off, which makes them all laugh harder.

The guys grab their gear bags from the back while I stand there, trying to will my face back to a normal color. The parking lot is already half-full of cars, and I can see other players heading toward the field.

“Hey,” Adam says quietly, appearing at my side, “they’re messing with you because they like you.”

“Weird way of showing it,” I grumble.

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “That’s kind of our thing.”

Matthew and Tyler are already halfway to the field, their voices carrying back to us as they continue to joke about foot sizes. Robbie bounces between them, adding some colorful commentary.

“You good?” Adam asks.

I take a deep breath. “Yeah. Just…maybe don’t ever leave me alone with them?”

“No promises,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders and steering me down the hill. “Come on, foot fetishist. Let’s get you to the bleachers in one piece.”

“I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Absolutely not.”

The metal bleachers are determined to cook the bottom half of my body alive.

They radiate trapped sunlight, burning lines into my thighs through my shorts when I shift.

The football field isn’t faring much better.

It simmers under an intense August sun that’s making the players’ water bottles deflate in real time.

From where I sit, I have a bird’s-eye view of the full spectacle that is football practice at Arcadia High.

The players are in matching mesh jerseys, moving with a kind of collective choreography that resembles a swarm of beefy bees.

They shout at each other constantly, things like “Go wide!” and “Eyes up!” The coaches prowl the sidelines, clipboards in their hands and whistles around their necks, and the few parents who bothered showing up are hunched over their phones.

I spot Adam running drills. The ball leaves his hand without issue, hitting receivers right in the chest. Coach Potter nods approvingly after each throw. My brother makes it seem effortless, but I know he spent half the spring in our backyard perfecting that release.