Page 23

Lyla

G rowing up in Miami, I’ve always been a latent Dolphins fan—but I’ve never felt a loss like this. It’s just football. That’s what I keep telling myself. But watching Drake trudge off the field, shoulders low and jaw tight, it doesn’t feel like just football.

I’m sitting beside LJ’s mom, Christina, and her three sons in the owner’s box.

LJ is at the end of the row, scrolling his phone.

He’s here—which is a miracle in and of itself—but he didn’t glance up, not once, the entire game.

His two older brothers are busy dissecting all the ways the game went wrong.

“The Dolphins ran it too much on first down,” the oldest brother, Xander, says. “They should have used play action more.”

“Yeah, for sure,” LJ’s middle brother, Damian, says. “And they blitzed too much.”

The boys go back and forth, with LJ occasionally scoffing or rolling his eyes. I might have to tell Drake that LJ’s demeanor isn’t personal—he’s even like this with his brothers.

“So,” I lean toward Christina, dropping my voice, “has LJ said anything to you about being mentored by Drake Blythe?”

Christina glances down the row at her youngest son. “He actually didn’t even say he was being mentored by him. All I got from him is that it’s some ‘cocky NFL player.’”

“Sounds about right.” I chuckle, thinking of the interactions I’d overseen between Drake and LJ.

“You know, his dad was in the NFL.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t know that.” I try to withhold my shock, but it is shocking to find this out.

“He’s not really present in the boys’ lives,” she confides. “The older two play football, I think, as a way to get his attention but LJ always went in the opposite direction. My little rebel,” she says with a small smile.

My eyes seek out LJ of their own accord.

I take in his ever-present clenched jaw, and the way he’s constantly trying to lose himself in his iPhone.

My heart pulls just thinking about all the disappointment he’s trying to hide.

“An outside-the-box thinker,” I say, an attempt at levity. “I can respect that.”

She gives a little laugh. “I try to spin it in a positive way, but it can be hard sometimes.”

“I can imagine.” I want to give Christina a hug—she certainly seems like she needs one, raising three teenage boys on her own—but I don’t know her well enough to invade her personal space.

So I do what I can do: encourage her. “You’re doing a great job with the boys.

I know it’s challenging. Whatever support we can give you, please let me know. ”

Christina pats my arm, offering me a quiet smile. “I appreciate that. I’m grateful for the mentoring for the boys, it’s been helpful.”

“It might have started out rocky with LJ and Drake, but I do think that Drake could be a good fit for him.” I can’t believe those words are coming out of my mouth—but as I say them, I find that I actually believe them.

Can people truly change? I’m not so sure, but Drake is making me believe that perhaps some people really do deserve a second chance.

“Let’s hope so.” Christina’s words seem to fit into my inner dialogue a little too perfectly, and it takes me a moment to re-orient myself to the conversation at hand.

“Trust me, Drake is just as bull-headed as LJ.” Truer words were never spoken. “They’re a good match.”

She laughs and our conversation is interrupted when one of the younger kids asks—quite loudly—if his mom can afford to get more ice cream.

I stand up, telling the parents and kids to help themselves to any of the snacks in the owner’s box, including the frozen yogurt machine.

The kids let out a happy squeal—though I can’t say the parents look very excited about the prospect of taking home sugared-up children.

A few minutes later, there’s another cheer from the entrance of the box. I turn to see Drake Blythe. He’s still in uniform, shoulder pads off, Dolphins hat on backward. He looks exhausted but he’s smiling at the kids.

After the loss, I assumed Drake would do what athletes usually do after a loss: disappear.

“Hey, y’all,” he says, lifting a hand like he’s interrupting class.

“Just wanted to say thanks for coming. I’m sorry it wasn’t .

. . better. I wanted it to be.” His Southern accent is coming in thick today and the apology is sincere and, shockingly, humble.

Whoever thought I’d live to see a contrite Drake Blythe?

The kids swarm him, asking questions, offering him Cheetos, asking if he’s okay.

He kneels down to their level, signing hats, answering every question like it’s the only one he’s gotten all day.

That’s when I notice Drake’s ditched his cleats for a pair of Nike slides—in Dolphins’ colors, of course—his sweat-stained socks still on display.

I press my lips together, holding back a laugh. Drake Blythe may be human after all.

Despite the crowd around him, Drake’s eyes eventually make their way to mine. His eyes roam over me and his smirk returns—right as I remember: I’m wearing his jersey. I wrap my arms around my waist as if I could possibly hide whose number is on my chest, but it’s too late. He knows.

Several hours ago, when I got dressed, this seemed like a halfway good idea. At least it did when Hazel was behind me, egging me on. But right now, with Drake’s hungry eyes taking me in, I’m regretting it. Deeply.

The other thing I’m regretting? How easily my fair skin blushes. But when Drake notices my red cheeks, his smile turns earnest and I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve seen cocky Drake, I’ve (recently) seen humbled Drake . . . But earnest, sweet Drake? He’s a sight to behold.

Thankfully, Drake’s attention shifts as Christina and her sons greet him. LJ hangs back, hands in his pockets. Drake notices and tosses a football toward him. He catches it easily, betraying his athleticism. “You think you could’ve done better?”

LJ snorts, rolling his eyes.

“How about this,” Drake says, crossing his arms and showing off his massive biceps with all their ink. “You came to my game, so how about you take me to skate this week?

LJ’s eyes widen. For all his hardened teenage exterior, he wasn’t expecting Drake to offer that. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a friend who said we can use the Panthers’ arena. Some friends might join us, if that’s okay.”

LJ eyes him warily—but even I can see through the facade. He’s excited and attempting to bluff. “What kind of friends?”

Drake shrugs, his telltale cocky smile back in full force. “You’ll see.”

I watch the whole exchange in stunned silence, glancing at Christina, who’s also watching with interest.

And that’s when I really believe it. Maybe this guy—this version of Drake Blythe—isn’t just a phase.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s the real thing. And for the first time since seeing Drake again, I don’t want to fight it. I want to believe it.