GIN AND JUICE pt 19

His knee bounced rapidly up and down, heel tapping the wood floor of the massive locker room. He bit his fingernails, raked his fingers through his hair. The nervous habits had taken an upswing since he’d started drinking. He had never been good at coping mechanisms, but he needed to be right now.

Shawn took a deep breath and closed his eyes, regulating his inhales and exhales like his therapist had taught him. He felt the memories from weeks past, the whisper of her fingers gliding along his chest, felt the ends of her hair brush his face. He wondered if there would be a day when the thought of her wouldn’t calm him down, wouldn’t settle his heart better than any kind of pill they could put him on.

He didn’t want to admit how much he hoped she’d show up. There wasn’t even a guarantee that his letter made it to her in time, but he needed to believe it did. He needed to believe that she knew in this moment everything that she meant to him. How much she’d helped him even when she wasn’t there, even when she might never be there again.

Soon enough, her image dissipated and he was left alone with his breathing, calm and steady. This was what he had to focus on. Himself. The faith he had in himself to do what he needed to do. It had always been there, just deep and hidden. He didn’t need her or a bottle of gin to play football, he never had. The pressure to win, to be the best, would always be there, and he had to deal with it. One breath at a time.

“Are you ready?” A hand clapped his shoulder.

“Yeah, Coach,” Shawn smiled, a little tighter than he normally would.

“It’s okay to be nervous, kid,” Coach Bradford smiled back, chuckling just a little, “God knows, I am.” They nodded at each other knowingly. The pride in Coach’s eyes was so clear that it almost knocked Shawn over, unprepared for all the emotions he’d have to deal with today. Not that anyone could have dealt with it. He was playing on college football’s biggest stage. People all over the country would know his name and face tomorrow if they didn’t already, team allegiances be damned. Two months ago, the thought of that kind of exposure would have sent him swan-diving into the nearest bottle. Now, he just had to remember to breathe.

A flash of blue behind his eyelids forced them open. He stood up and walked to the center of the locker room, squeezing his fingernails into his palm to resist the temptation to go numb. It was time. He cleared his throat.

“CIRCLE UP, BOYS.”

The deafening roar that answered didn’t need a question or an answer to relay the message. They were ready.

——-

Speeding wasn’t the word. It was more like flying. Not just because your mom was driving 90 miles an hour down the freeway, but you felt like you were hovering three inches in the air. The floating sensation had started about three seconds after finishing Shawn’s letter and hadn’t stopped yet. Your mind was firing in a thousand directions. What if I’m too late? What if he regrets sending the letter? This is so crazy. I’m out of my mind. What if I can’t do this? All those people. As if she could sense your thoughts spiraling, your mom held her hand out over the center console. You grabbed at it, an anchor to bring you back to shore.

“Honey, I know I said you should start living,” her eyes crinkled when she smiled through the words, “but you don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.” She squeezed your hand, making you feel the pressure even though you held her hands between yours in a vice grip.

“I want to do this,” you looked at your clasped hands, the white knuckles betraying your words.

“I know, baby,” she smiled at the road. You could see the pride plain on her face at the progress you’d made, “and I think you can do whatever you want to do within reason, I’m just worried about going from googly eyes to 90,000 pairs of living, breathing eyes.”

Your breath hitched in your throat and you squeezed her hand a little tighter. She put it so bluntly. You hadn’t thought about it like that, in such transferrable terms. 90,000 pairs of eyes. You’d never seen that many people before. Never felt that much energy in one place. Your chest tightened at the thought. You closed your eyes and pictured his face, felt the tug between your ribs. Is he thinking about me right now?

“I have to try,” you exhaled in a rush, blinking rapidly, unable to clear him from your thoughts, “not for him, but for me. I need him to know that he helped me too.”

She nodded her head, pressing her lips together to fight back the tears that threatened to spill over. You gave her hand back and stretched out the tension in your own, pulling your legs up against the dashboard. Placing your palms over the tops of your knees, you drummed out a slow, calming rhythm, and tried to remember everything that Dr. Michaels had said about negative thoughts. They act as terrorists in your mind, keeping you from living a full life. The idea that 90,000 people would be looking at you instead of watching the football game they came to see was illogical. You focused on your breathing, tried to match your heartbeat to the steady tapping of your fingers. The game had started by now, you just hoped you could make it with enough time to see him play.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

——-

Sweat streamed down the side of Shawn’s face, salty sweet and collecting at the base of his jaw. He could scarcely hear the sound of his own breathing above the roar of the crowd. In the bowl of the stadium all those voices seemed laser focused on him, the wall of sound enough to leave him winded after one play. Usually in a game there was ebb and flow, moments of silence mixed with moments of pandemonium, but this game had been wall-to-wall cheering and jeering, making it almost impossible to think straight.

It was the second quarter, near halftime, and so far it had been a struggle. The opposing team, the number one ranked team in the country leading up to the game, had come to play. Every hit, play, and touchdown had been answered, sweat for sweat, blood for blood. No one was holding back. Shawn needed to make a touchdown before the half to tie.

Third and fourteen. He bent below his center and bellowed the play, receiving the snap from Geoff and handing off to Zubin. Z sped off to the right outside, zipping through linemen. He spun out of a tackle and broke free to sprint towards the goal line. The seconds ticked by, feeling like hours. Zubin hit a raised piece of turf and stumbled, falling to the ground in slow motion at the eight yard line.

Shawn hustled to the eight, setting up the play quick with no huddle to keep up the tempo. He was still running when he started to call the play. Geoff snapped the ball back and it sailed up, up almost out of Shawn’s reach. He scrambled, trying to get control of the error, rushing backward to get a good read. He didn’t see the flash of red to his left until it was too late.

The wind left his lungs in a rush, an audible ooof! escaping him. He hadn’t been sacked in such a long time he’d forgotten how disorienting it was. He sat up coughing, looking to the sideline, trying to gauge how bad this one error had set them back.

Second and twenty. ****!

“Come on, guys!” he shouted above the line, “settle the **** down and FINISH STRONG.” He looked dead into the eyes of the defensive lineman across from him and caught the fucker grinning. They knew they’d exposed a nerve, shaken them up. Shawn had to regain his tempo. Setting up the line again, he read the play from the sidelines and rattled off the call.

This time he had room to breathe. He exhaled and shifted on his feet, trying to block out the defensive press while he read the screen. His eyes narrowed, zoning in on Mike, ready and waiting in the endzone, somehow devoid of defenders. Shawn pulled back, inhaled, took aim.

A flash of cerulean caught the corner of his eye.

The ball went flying somewhere ten feet above Mike’s head. The collective groan in the crowd was earsplitting. He could feel them deflate, feel them sink back in their chairs. It was that game all over again. Shawn’s legs shook and his heart rate kicked up. No, no, no, not here. Not now. He folded in on himself, unable to hear the voices of his teammates crowded around him. The phantom rattling of the armor he used to surround himself with was the only thing he could hear.

I don’t need it. I never did.

He stood back up straight to a wave of cheers from the crowd. They couldn’t have known what was actually happening, probably thought it was just some cramp or wave of disappointment. He closed his eyes against the moment, listening to the sound of his body working, pumping blood overquick to all of the extremities he was forcing to work. Blocking out the pain, he focused again on his breathing, the inhale and the exhale, and matched the heartbeat that he could feel as sure as his own. The one that belonged to the blue eyes he longed to see.

When he opened them, the play clock was counting down. There were just seconds left in the half. It was third and twenty. He hurried to the line, locking eyes with every member of his team as he called the next play. His cleats ground into the turf. The musky scent of sweat and rubber and leather filled his nose. He let go of one more burst of air and clapped his hands.

“Hut, hut, hut!”

Ever since pee-wee football, when a play went right, Shawn could almost see what happened before it played out. Even with all of the intangibles, the many variables, it was a feeling that swept his whole body before the ball even snapped into his hands. A calming forced that whispered into his ear that everything was going to go exactly how he wanted it to go. That peace, that silence, filled him then, practically lifted him off the ground. It shifted his body around, allowed him to dodge a missed defender, roll out of a block and, with just a second to spare, release the ball.

Right into Mike’s hands.

The crowd exploded. Shawn ran all the way into the endzone with the rest of his team and jumped on Mike in celebration. After the kick, they filed into the locker room, amped for the possibilities coming in the next two quarters. Shawn trailed his teammates, made sure everyone hustled in. He took one look back to the field before he rounded the corner.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

——-

You weren’t sure what time it was when your mom finally pulled up to the stadium. It was technically night time, pretty late actually, but the area around the huge event was so full of lights and tailgaters and watch parties that you felt like it was a midday carnival. Your mom put the car in park and turned to look at you.

“Whatever happens,” she tucked a lock of loose hair behind your ear, “I’m so very proud of you.” You could see the tears well in her eyes again. In normal circumstances, the sight would have made you cry too but with all the adrenaline coursing through you, it just made you antsy. A loud boom echoed off the cars in the parking lot, another touchdown for the other team, the radio yelled. You could feel the cacophony from the stadium rattle the ground through the car. It only made your heart beat faster.

“I have to go,” you squeezed her hand one more time before you opened the car door. She nodded, swiping a lone tear from her eye, “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

You closed the car door, turned, and sprinted. It was the middle of the fourth quarter and Shawn was down by nine points. You knew he wouldn’t be able to tell if you were here or not. You knew the idea of supporting him from the stands was moot at this point. But this was his moment, what he’d worked so hard for, gotten better for. You wanted, needed, to be here for him. He wanted you to be there. Of that, you were sure from the letter.

The crowd grew dense the closer you got to the stadium. There was a giant screen outside with what seemed like a thousand people just wanting to be near this place when their team won, even if they couldn’t be inside to watch it. You fought against them, trying to keep that floating feeling alive instead of sinking and drowning in the ocean of people. There were so many of them. So many bodies. Mumbled excuses and thank yous didn’t seem to matter to them. Your heart was racing, hammering against your chest.

Somewhere in the chaos, you heard the loudspeakers announce a field goal kick. Some of the crowd, the ones wearing your school’s jerseys burst into cheers. Just a touchdown behind now.

An errant elbow in the crowd came down hard on your shoulder, making you swerve and gasp for air. Your flight path disrupted, you came down hard on the ground, no longer able to feel the airy buoyancy that had gotten you here. The atmosphere was suddenly oversaturated. You blinked against the brightness, felt the bodies press against you. Your vision blurred at the edges. You tried to breathe through it but the pressure was like a hand around your throat.

No one is looking. No one is here to look at me. The pressure I’m feeling is all in my mind.

You struggled to make it through the crowd, niceties sacrificed for survival, arms pushing and threading through tightly packed humanity. Gasping for each ragged breath, you could see a break in the crowd, a small alcove open for food carts and the copious amounts of trash this amount of people could generate. The people parted and you sucked in the first lung-full of air you’d had in more than five minutes. You bent at the waist, doubled over.

In through the nose; out through the mouth.

The strategies you’d learned were failing you. Trying to grab onto them now felt like catching smoke. The moment you thought you’d remembered something Dr. Michaels said, it disintegrated, leaving you heaving, stuck to the ground like you were ankle deep in poured concrete. You closed your eyes against the tears that flowed freely down your cheeks. The amplified speakers called his name over and over again, summoning his image behind your eyelids. A memory returned, long lost, one that felt years old instead of weeks or months.

At one point that night he woke again, jostling you from sleep. Shawn’s honey brown eyes bored into yours, glassy but intent and unspeaking. The weight of his body leaned over, still propped halfway up against the bathtub, and it was comforting, shockingly, given that most physical touch caused the panic to rise to breaking levels. But this pressure on your side was nice, warm. His whole body was warm, still radiating an alcohol-fueled heat that made his face flush and his palms sweat. He was barely holding on to consciousness when you looked at him. You watched his eyelids flutter, confused about why he’d struggle so hard to keep looking at you. When he couldn’t hold them open anymore, he drifted again, little snores escaping his lips every few seconds. Without moving you slowly raised a hand and pushed an errant curl back from his forehead and let his head rest heavy on your shoulder. You exhaled and pressed your cheek to his damp hair and let yourself relax into him and drift off into a peaceful sleep.

You bent your knees and sat heavily on a curb, still unable to move your feet. Lacing your fingers around your shins, you could almost feel a bubbling laugh at the memory. What a chance meeting between two people who couldn’t be more perfect and yet so terribly wrong for each other.

You couldn’t count the number of times you’d thought back to those early days and wondered how in the **** you’d gotten here, but the truth was that it was exactly what you’d needed. You wouldn’t be in therapy, wouldn’t have survived a run through a crowd that size without everything you’d been through with him. It was like he’d said in his letter, maybe we’re both getting better somehow. You could never have broken if it hadn’t been for him, but you couldn’t have put yourself together without him either. He was as destructive as he was restorative. It was easy to think that he was the reason you laid on the floor that night with an anvil on your chest, but the truth was that the anvil had always been there. He showed you how to set yourself free of it.

A sudden roar came from the stadium above you, something had happened. You stood slowly, looking to the big screen still showing the game. There was just forty-five seconds left and Shawn was running onto the field after an interception.

You were never going to make it inside. It was too late. The clock was ticking. Reaching into your back pocket that held both the letter and the now folded and useless ticket, you worried at the corners of the envelope and watched him. God, he’s still so beautiful. You saw him close his eyes at the line and you did the same, whispering a silent prayer for him, that pinch between your ribs growing with every passing second.

Shawn, I did the best that I could. Now, it’s your turn. I know you can do this.

——-

The pull he felt beneath his sternum took his breath away.

She’s here.

He could feel it in his bones. He didn’t know where and he didn’t have time to try and figure it out but the hook pierced his heart and somehow he knew she was close. Closer than she’d been in months.

He opened his eyes. The clock read forty-five seconds. Forty-five seconds to become a national champion. His breathing leveled out, his body coursing with extreme adrenaline. This was his moment. The moment he’d worked his entire life for. All he had in the moment was clarity, no taste for the darkness, no void behind his eyes. He had passion and work ethic and the will to realize his dreams.

He called the play.

The ball felt heavy in his hands, like he was seven years-old again. He shot back from the pocket and swerved immediately, faking to Zubin and instead darting to the left. His feet moved in slow motion. It gave him time to think. He stepped to the right and bobbed to the left, narrowly escaping a lineman. The seconds ticked loud in his head, blocking out every other sound. He had to throw the ball. He broke into a run, gaining ten yards to give his receivers some time. Mike was double-covered, but Dave was mismatched, his cornerback a head shorter. Shawn pumped once, twice.

He let it fly.

Shawn could have heard a pin drop in the stadium if only he’d been able to silence the sound of his heartbeating. The ball seemed to hang in the air for hours. Inching toward his victory or demise, the arc took a downward turn, aimed directly into Shawn’s waiting target. He could see Dave fighting the corner, just barely avoiding an offensive interference call. Dave stretched out, leaving the ground, with his fingers spread wide. Just tipping the ball toward him, he was able to slam it into his chest before hitting the ground, his knee just millimeters inside the goal line.

The line ref held both hands in the air and the crowd erupted. Shawn rushed to the fifteen yard line, just one kick left to make his team champions. Eddy, the number one kicker in the country marched out onto the field. Shawn could hear him whispering prayers to himself. He clapped his kicker on the shoulder, knocking their helmets together.

“I believe in you,” Shawn looked him dead in the eye with complete trust, “just kick the ball as hard as you can over that goal post. Like you’ve done a million times.” Eddy visibly relaxed. Shawn knew what he was feeling, had felt it so many times before. He wished Eddy didn’t have to go through it now.

Shawn knelt at the fifteen, screaming the easy play call to Geoff and thanking God that the other team had run out of timeouts. When the ball hiked back and Shawn caught it, he couldn’t watch as Eddy kicked it through his fingers. He could only place both hands on the ground and wait.

1….2….3…..

The sound was so loud it blurred his vision. All he could see was white. He only knew the ball had gone through when his teammates piled on top of him. They screamed unintelligible congratulations. Clapped him on the back. Felt the ground shake as students and parents and fans rushed onto the field. Confetti rained from the heavens in the colors he’d bled for two years.

We did it.

He got up off the ground and finally shed his helmet, swiping tears he didn’t remember letting fall off of his face. Stumbling around, he spoke to press, he hugged his coach, he kissed his mother. It was all such a blur.

I did it.

He lifted up a trophy that had his team’s name on it.

But where…?

Shawn had been so sure she was there. Sometime between feeling her pull and hoisting the trophy he’d imagined her running to him on the field. Embracing her. Letting the world know that she was what brought him here to this moment. She made him a champion. But she wasn’t there.

Maybe he imagined it. Maybe it was his mind manifesting what he needed most to win the game. That one last push to get him over the mental stress. Adrenaline was a crazy chemical, it was possible. By the time he was showered and outfitted in his brand-new NATIONAL CHAMPIONS t-shirt waiting to board the bus, he’d convinced himself that he’d experienced adrenaline overdose and had a moment of extreme hallucinatory euphoria.

Most of the fans had gone, just a few stragglers waited to see them off back to their hotel, their cheers practically a whisper compared to the decibels he’d experienced on the field. Hanging his head, he mulled over the soreness still clinging to his chest. He thought it would have dissipated with the rush of adrenaline by now. He raked a hand through his tousled curls and yanked to snap himself out of it. Ouch. The bus roared to life. He just needed to sleep on it. He’d wake up in the morning and it would be gone again, waiting for the next time he closed his eyes or felt her heart. Too soon, but not soon enough. He shook his head and tried not to think about it.

A flash of blue, deep as the ocean.

“Shawn?”

——-

He was right there. All the visualizations couldn’t have prepared you for standing in front of him again. Shawn whipped his head around at your voice and stared wide, shaking it again to make sure you weren’t an illusion. He dropped his duffel bag and made quick work of the distance between you. Stopping short, a few yards, he put his hands up as if approaching a scared and wild animal.

“Hi,” he said, quiet and soothing, too afraid you’d run away if he spoke in a normal voice. You smiled at his reserve, knowing that he was probably holding back just as much as you were at this moment. Closing the distance, you nudged his Nikes with your Chucks.

“You won,” you said.

“You came,” he said.

Neither of you were concerned with logical thoughts or complete sentences. The electricity that was always there crackled, that fishing line tugging so hard between your ribs that you were sure it was going to snap. You looked past him to see the team boarding the bus.

“Are you going to get in trouble?” you asked, hoping you’d have more time with him. Reaching out tentatively, you ran your fingers down the front of his t-shirt, stopping to trace the letters C-H-A-M-P-I-O-N. He closed his eyes and you felt him tremble, grabbing your hand to still it.

“They can fucking wait,” he closed his eyes and took another step forward, wrapping you delicately in his arms. At first, you tensed but then as he squeezed, you relaxed into him. The desire, the need, to be held by him outweighed any feeling of stress over googly eyes. He was here. You’d waited so long.

“You came,” he said again, like a prayer or a realization of something he’d convinced himself couldn’t have actually happened.

“I couldn’t enter the stadium,” you backed away, tears gathering in your eyes, “I wanted to but I couldn’t. The crowd was too much, too deep. I panicked.” You hung your head as if you’d failed him, as if you weren’t standing there right in front of him.

“Hey,” he pushed your chin up to look at him, “it’s okay.” He put a hand over his heart, “it doesn’t matter because I could feel it. I knew you were close.”

The tears spilled over and he wiped them away with his thumb, fresh callouses from the game rough on your cheek. You leaned into his hand.

“I can feel it too,” you whispered, mirroring his position, your hand over your own heart, “when I read your letter, that’s when I knew I had to come. I’ve been trying to get better too.”

Shawn’s strong arms embraced you again, squeezing tighter than before. Months ago, you would have thought he was trying press you inside of himself, to make room for you inside his protective layer, make real the wish you desperately longed for. Now, you recognized the instinct, to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze to rid yourself of doubt, to make sure that this was real and present and not going anywhere.

“Shawn?” He stepped back and looked at you, his own eyes filled with emotion that he hadn’t yet exhausted even after the big win.

“Yeah?”

“I love you, too.”

Bracing yourself on his biceps and raising up on your tiptoes, you pressed a single kiss to his lips. When you tried to lower yourself back to the ground, you shrieked a laugh when he caught you, lifting you up in his arms to kiss you again. His lips were warm and wet and familiar. You tilted your head and opened for him, weaving your fingers into the curls at the back of his neck. He moaned into your mouth, familiarizing himself again with the taste of you, the feel of your tongue against his. Boisterous hollering came from inside the bus, fifty pairs of hands pounding on the windows. You’d been seen. Your secret was no longer a secret. He released you, throwing his head back and laughed as you buried your head in his shoulder, embarrassed but not afraid.

Instead of feeling the crushing weight of eyes or an anvil come to press against your chest, you’d never felt more free.

——- THREE MONTHS LATER ——-

Shawn: Are sure you’re ready?

You: I think so. Are you almost here?

Shawn: Around the corner. I promise not to scare you. Please control your attack dog.

You: Will do. I love you ❤

Shawn: 😘

You sighed, leaning back and relaxing against your backpack to take in the sun. Caroline was a few feet away, filing her nails and examining them every so often to make sure they were short enough. Both of you had taken to spending Friday afternoons on the quad in the grass when it turned warm. You’d found a little spot, mostly hidden from view where you could rest between your library time and class. It was the Friday before spring break though, so you were feeling a little extra adventurous.

In your last session with Dr. Michaels, some three weeks ago, you had decided to try something new, something you’d thought about for a really long time. Shawn had agreed, more like giddy about it actually. He’d asked you everyday if you were sure, if you were ready, pretty much every day for three weeks. He’d asked you this morning when you’d woken up against his chest for the third day in a row before you’d even had a chance to nuzzle his chest hair.

“Hey, stand down, C,” you dipped your sunglasses down your nose to give her direct eye contact when you finally saw him, “Shawn’s coming by to pick me up.” She grumbled into her mini nail file. She’d been obsessive about that damn thing ever since she’d finally told you her and Naomi had been hooking up for like four months. Well, told is a bit of an understatement. You’d walked in on the two of them making out topless. Thank God for quick reflexes or Shawn would have gotten an eyeful that night.

“As long as he brings you back to me for dinner, it’s roommate pizza and movie night.” You hummed in agreement just as two massive arms reached down to grab your hands and haul you off the ground.

He hugged you quick and left a kiss on your neck, making up for the four hours since he walked you out his front door this morning. You giggled, still not used to public displays of affection, even in a not secret but still kinda private area of the quad. Caroline rolled her eyes and readjusted her sunglasses.

“8 PM sharp, Mendes. No boyfriends, no girlfriends,” maximum sternness in her voice. No questions, no negotiations.

“Roger that, Caroline,” he waved her a mock salute and turned his attention back to you. Grabbing your backpack, he held out his hand.

“We’re really doing this.”

“Yep,” you nodded, “we’re really doing this.” His excitement was thinly veiled. You could practically see him vibrating just underneath the surface.

“Goodness, Shawn,” you snorted, “calm down. It’s just across campus to the English building.”

“I know but just think of all the places we could go,” he looked at you, the sun reflecting off the green flecks in his eyes, “you could walk me to practice, we could walk to the library.”

“So much walking…” you took his hand, feeling that familiar calm settle over you when his skin was pressed to yours. You took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, “okay, I think I’m ready.”

“You think? Or you know? I want you to be sure.” He pulsed your fingers with his own, a reminder that he wasn’t letting go.

“Let’s go before I change my mind,” you ruffled his hair with your other hand to diffuse some of the tension in his face.

He led you out of the alcove, your little secret garden, and out into the public eye of the quad. There were a lot of people out in the pleasant early-April weather. Forty or so eyes turned like they always did. It was a poorly-hidden rumor that Shawn Mendes had a girlfriend. You didn’t ask him to hide it anymore. But you’d never been quite so public before either. This, your little experiment, was more a public declaration than a trial. He was yours and you wanted everyone to see finally. You wanted your moment in the sun.

People you didn’t know tracked you both across the lawn, whispering behind their hands and into each other’s ears. That’s Shawn’s girlfriend, you imagined them saying, but instead of hiding or running or lying, you squeezed his hand a little tighter, stopping him just in front of the library. He looked at you, a question between his eyebrows, surprised you weren’t trying to hurry them along past all the wondering looks. You smiled up at him and tugged a little on his t-shirt. He widened his eyes, catching your meaning, and leaned down. It wasn’t groundbreaking, it wasn’t newsworthy, Twitter didn’t blow up, and a million eyes didn’t turn to look.

It was just a boy kissing a girl in the sunlight.

the end. 

OR SO YOU THOUGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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