Sunshine Tackle

The whistle shrieked, and I hit him.

Not with my shoulder, not clean. I hit him with my open palm flat against his chest plate, right where the sweat had soaked through his jersey. He stumbled back a step, hands up, that stupid grin already spreading across his face.

“Easy, Marky.” Jason laughed. He had a laugh that didn't match anything else about him. It was too warm, too easy. Like honey dripping off a spoon. “You know the refs are watching.”

“Then stop getting in my way.”

“I'm on the other team.”

“Then stay there.”

The scrum broke apart, and I turned my back on him. That was the problem with Jason. He never stayed where he was supposed to. He drifted. He floated. He showed up in my space like he had a right to be there, like the universe had given him a map to my ribs and said *here, this one's yours*.

Coach had paired us up for drills. Of course he had. The universe had a sick sense of humor, and Coach Martinez liked watching me suffer. Said it built character. Said I needed to learn to work with people who weren't like me.

I didn't want to work with anyone.

Jason jogged up beside me, his breath coming easy. He wasn't even winded. Three hours of practice and he looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. His blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, and his blue eyes caught the late afternoon sun like they were trying to start a fire.

“You're mad.”

“I'm not mad.”

“You're mad because I stole the ball.”

“You didn't steal it. The ref made a bad call.”

“The ref made the right call. You were holding.”

I stopped walking. “I was *positioning*.”

“You were holding my jersey so I couldn't break left.” He said it like it was funny. Like my frustration was a joke he'd been waiting to tell. “It's okay. I would've done the same thing.”

“You wouldn't.”

“No, I probably wouldn't. I'd have just outrun you.”

I wanted to hit him again. I wanted to hit him until that smile cracked and something real came out. But that was the thing about Jason. Even when you hit him, he just laughed. He took the impact and turned it into something light, something that floated away before you could grab it.

The locker room smelled like sweat and wintergreen and something metallic that never quite washed out of the drains. I sat on the bench, unlacing my boots, not looking at him. Everyone else was already in the showers, steam curling out of the open door like a ghost.

Jason sat down next to me. Not across from me. Next to me. His knee brushed mine and I jerked away like I'd been burned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you pretend I don't exist.”

I pulled my boot off and dropped it on the floor. “I'm not pretending anything.”

“You are. You've been doing it for three weeks.”

Three weeks. He'd counted. Of course he had. Jason counted everything. The number of tackles I made in a game. The number of times I looked at him. The number of seconds I lasted before I snapped.

“I'm not pretending you don't exist,” I said. “I'm just not talking to you.”

“Same thing.”

“No. Pretending would take effort. I'm just not interested.”

He didn't flinch. That was the worst part. I could have said anything, could have carved him open with my words, and he'd have just sat there with that same easy smile, waiting for me to finish so he could say something that made me feel like an asshole.

“You're interested,” he said. “You're just scared.”

“I'm not scared of anything.”

“Yeah, you are. You're scared of this.”

He touched my wrist. Just his fingertips, light as a whisper. I should have pulled away. I should have stood up and walked into the shower and let the hot water burn the feeling off my skin. But I didn't. I sat there, frozen, while his thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of my wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“Seeing if you'll let me.”

“Let you what?”

He didn't answer. He just looked at me, and in his eyes I saw something I hadn't seen before. Not the easy humor. Not the casual confidence. Something quieter. Something that had been waiting.

I pulled my hand away.

“Don't.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That's not a reason.”

“It's the only one you're getting.”

He stood up, grabbed his towel, and walked toward the showers. At the door he turned back, steam curling around his shoulders like a shroud.

“You know where to find me, Marky.”

I sat there for a long time after he left. The locker room was empty now, just the drip of faucets and the hum of the ventilation system. I pressed my palm against my chest, right where I'd hit him, and felt my heart hammering against my ribs.

I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know what I wanted. All I knew was that three weeks ago, Jason had looked at me across the field and something had shifted. Something I couldn't name. Something that made me want to run and stay and hit him and kiss him all at the same time.

I was fucked.

---

The party was at Diego's house. His parents were in Mexico for the summer, which meant the place was a free-for-all. Beer in the pool. Music so loud the neighbors had already called the cops twice. Someone had thrown a chair through the screen door and no one had bothered to fix it.

I didn't want to be there.

But I'd told myself I needed to get out. Needed to stop thinking about Jason. Needed to remind myself that there were other people in the world, other bodies, other mouths that could make me forget.

I was wrong.

I'd been there ten minutes when I saw him. He was standing by the keg, laughing at something one of the forwards was saying. His hair was dry now, falling in golden waves across his forehead. He'd changed into a white t-shirt that fit him like it had been painted on.

I turned around and walked toward the kitchen.

“Mark.”

I kept walking.

“Mark, wait.”

His hand caught my elbow. Warm. Insistent. I stopped but I didn't turn around.

“What?”

“Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Walk away from me like I don't exist.”

“I told you. I'm not interested.”

“Liar.”

I turned then. I couldn't help it. He was standing too close, close enough that I could smell the beer on his breath, the soap on his skin. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“That you don't feel this.”

He reached out and touched my chest. Right over my heart. His palm was warm, and through the thin fabric of my shirt I could feel the calluses on his fingers, the roughness of a hand that had spent years gripping a rugby ball.

“I don't feel anything.”

“Your heart says different.”

“My heart's an idiot.”

He laughed. That laugh. That goddamn laugh that made me want to punch him and kiss him and never see him again all at the same time.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“When have you ever had a good idea?”

He had a point. I followed him out the back door, past the pool where people were cannonballing and screaming, past the garden where someone was throwing up into the rose bushes. He led me to a shed at the back of the property, the kind of place where Diego's dad kept lawn equipment and old paint cans.

Jason pulled the door open. It was dark inside. It smelled like gasoline and rust.

“This is your idea of somewhere quiet?”

“It's better than out there.”

He stepped inside and I followed. The door swung shut behind us, and suddenly the world was muffled. The music was a dull thump. The voices were a distant murmur. It was just us and the dark and the sound of our breathing.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now you stop lying.”

“I'm not lying.”

“You are.” He stepped closer. I could feel the heat coming off his body. “You're lying about why you walked away. You're lying about why you're here. You're lying about why you followed me into this shed.”

“Maybe I just wanted to get away from the noise.”

“Maybe.” He was right in front of me now. I could feel his breath on my lips. “But I don't think so.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you wanted to be alone with me.”

“And if I did?”

“Then I'd say we're on the same page.”

He kissed me.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was hungry and desperate and tasted like beer and want. His hands found my waist, pulled me against him. My back hit the wall of the shed and I felt the rough wood through my shirt.

I should have pushed him away. I should have told him this was a mistake. But I didn't. I kissed him back. I grabbed his hair and pulled him closer and let myself fall into the dark.

His mouth moved to my jaw, my throat. His hands slid under my shirt, fingers tracing the lines of my ribs. I gasped and he smiled against my skin.

“See?” he whispered. “I knew you wanted this.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I kissed him again. Harder. I bit his lower lip and he groaned, pressing his body against mine until there was no space left between us.

This was a bad idea. I knew it was a bad idea. He was my teammate. He was the sun to my storm. We were supposed to be enemies, rivals, two people who couldn't exist in the same space without trying to destroy each other.

But right now, in the dark, with his hands on my skin and his mouth on mine, I didn't care about any of that.

I just wanted more.

---

We didn't talk about it.

The next morning at practice, he looked at me like nothing had happened. Like we hadn't spent an hour in that shed learning each other's bodies by touch. Like I hadn't let him undo my jeans and press me against the wall and take me apart piece by piece.

“Morning, Marky.”

“Don't call me that.”

“What should I call you?”

“My name.”

“Marky's your name.”

“It's not.”

“It is now.”

I threw my bag on the bench and started lacing my boots. He sat down next to me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. I didn't move away. I couldn't. Some part of me wanted to feel him there, wanted the warmth of his arm against mine.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine.”

“You seem quiet.”

“I'm always quiet.”

“You're quieter than usual.”

I finished lacing my boots and stood up. “I don't know what you want me to say.”

“I don't want you to say anything. I just want to make sure you're okay.”

“I'm fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it's true.”

He stood up too. He was taller than me by a few inches, and I had to tilt my head back to look at him. The morning light caught his eyes and turned them electric.

“Last night,” he said.

“What about it?”

“I don't regret it.”

“I didn't ask if you did.”

“I know. I'm telling you anyway.”

I looked away. The rest of the team was filtering in, laughing and shouting, filling the locker room with noise. In a few minutes, we'd be on the field. We'd be opponents again. We'd be two people trying to take each other down.

“It can't happen again,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because we're teammates.”

“So?”

“So it's complicated.”

“Life's complicated.”

“I don't like complicated.”

He laughed. That laugh. “You're the most complicated person I've ever met, Marky. And I like you anyway.”

“You don't know me.”

“I know you better than you think.”

“You don't.”

“I know you bite your lip when you're nervous. I know you run your hand through your hair when you're frustrated. I know you make a sound when you come that's somewhere between a gasp and a moan and I can't stop thinking about it.”

My face went hot. “That's not fair.”

“I'm not trying to be fair. I'm trying to be honest.”

Coach's whistle blew. Time to go. I grabbed my helmet and headed for the door, but Jason's hand caught my wrist.

“Tonight,” he said. “My place. Nine o'clock.”

“I didn't say yes.”

“You didn't say no.”

He let go and walked past me, out onto the field, already laughing at something someone had shouted. I watched him go, watched the way his shoulders moved under his jersey, watched the way the sun made his hair look like spun gold.

I was so fucked.

---

I showed up at nine.

I told myself I was just going to talk to him. Tell him again that it couldn't happen. Explain why we needed to keep our distance. Be mature about it.

I was lying.

He opened the door wearing nothing but basketball shorts. His chest was bare, still damp from a shower. Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders and ran down his stomach in thin rivulets.

“You came.”

“Don't look so surprised.”

“I'm not surprised. I'm hopeful.”

He stepped aside and I walked in. His apartment was small, cluttered, the kind of place that looked like a tornado had hit it. Clothes on the floor. Dishes in the sink. A rugby ball on the coffee table next to a half-empty bottle of Gatorade.

“Nice place.”

“It's a dump. I know.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.”

He grabbed a shirt from the floor and pulled it on. I tried not to watch. I failed.

“So,” he said. “You came to tell me this can't happen again.”

“How did you know?”

“Because that's what you said this morning. And you looked like you meant it. But you're here anyway, so I figured you changed your mind.”

“I didn't change my mind.”

“Then why are you here?”

I didn't have an answer. I stood in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his mess, feeling like an idiot. I should have stayed home. I should have ignored his text. I should have done literally anything except show up at his door like a moth to a flame.

“I don't know,” I said finally.

“Yes you do.”

“I really don't.”

He walked toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any moment.

“You're here because you can't stay away,” he said. “You're here because last night meant something. You're here because when you close your eyes, you see my face.”

“That's a lot of assumptions.”

“Are they wrong?”

I opened my mouth to say yes. To tell him he was full of shit. To walk out the door and never look back.

But the words wouldn't come.

“That's what I thought,” he said.

He kissed me. Soft this time. Gentle. His lips brushed mine like he was asking permission, like he was giving me a chance to pull away.

I didn't pull away.

I kissed him back, and I hated myself for it. I hated how easy it was. I hated how right it felt. I hated that I'd spent three weeks pretending I didn't want this, and now that I had it, I couldn't imagine letting it go.

His hands found my waist. Mine found his hair. We stumbled backward until his legs hit the couch and we fell onto it in a tangle of limbs and breath.

“I want you,” he said against my mouth.

“I know.”

“I want to take you apart.”

“I know.”

“I want to make you forget your own name.”

“Then do it.”

He did.

---

Afterward, we lay tangled together on the too-small couch, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. The TV was on but muted, some action movie playing out in silence. Explosions and car chases that meant nothing.

“This is weird,” I said.

“What is?”

“This. Us. Lying here like we're a thing.”

“Maybe we are a thing.”

“We're not.”

“Why not?”

I lifted my head to look at him. His eyes were half-closed, his lips curved in that lazy smile that made me want to punch him.

“Because we're teammates.”

“We've established that.”

“Because we're supposed to be rivals.”

“I don't feel like your rival.”

“Because I don't do this. I don't do relationships. I don't do feelings.”

“Who said anything about feelings?”

“You did. With your whole 'last night meant something' speech.”

He laughed. “Fair point.”

“I'm serious, Jason. I don't know what this is. But I know it can't be anything real.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'll ruin it.”

“You don't know that.”

“I do. I ruin everything. It's what I do.”

He sat up, shifting me off his chest. He looked at me with those blue eyes, and for a moment I saw something serious underneath the easy humor.

“You don't ruin everything,” he said. “You just haven't let anyone close enough to prove you wrong.”

“That's not true.”

“It is. You push people away before they can push you. You act like you don't care so no one can hurt you. You're scared, Mark. And that's okay. But I'm not going anywhere.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know I'm not.”

“You can't promise that.”

“I can promise anything I want.”

“Promises don't mean shit.”

“This one does.”

I looked away. My chest felt tight. I didn't know if it was fear or hope or something in between, but I didn't like it. I didn't like feeling like this. Like he could see through me. Like he knew all my secrets and didn't care.

“I should go.”

“You should stay.”

“I can't.”

“You can.”

I stood up. Found my shirt. Pulled it over my head. Jason watched me from the couch, his expression unreadable.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked.

“I didn't say I'd come back.”

“You didn't say you wouldn't.”

I walked to the door. My hand was on the handle when he spoke again.

“Mark.”

I turned.

“I'm not going to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying. Stop wanting you. Stop showing up. You can push me away a hundred times, and I'll come back a hundred and one.”

“That's stupid.”

“Maybe. But it's the truth.”

I opened the door. The cool night air hit my face. I should have walked out. I should have left and never looked back.

But I didn't.

“Nine o'clock,” I said. “Don't be late.”

His smile could have lit up the whole street.

---

The next three weeks were a blur.

We fell into a rhythm. Practice during the day, where we pretended to hate each other. Nights at his place, where we stopped pretending. Mornings after, where I slipped out before the sun was fully up and told myself I wasn't falling for him.

I was lying.

It happened slowly, then all at once. The way he laughed when I said something sarcastic. The way he reached for me in his sleep, pulling me closer. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

I tried to keep my distance. I tried to remind myself that this was temporary. That he was sunshine and I was storm and we couldn't exist together without destroying each other.

But he kept showing up. Kept breaking through my walls. Kept finding ways to make me feel things I didn't want to feel.

And then everything fell apart.

---

It was a Thursday. We had a game on Saturday, and Coach had us running drills until our legs gave out. I was exhausted, sore, ready to collapse. But Jason was grinning, bouncing on his heels, like he could do this all day.

“You're a machine,” I said.

“I'm just having fun.”

“You have a weird definition of fun.”

He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. His hand lingered a second too long. I saw one of the seniors look at us, his eyes narrowing.

I pulled away.

“Don't,” I muttered.

“Don't what?”

“Don't be obvious.”

“I wasn't being obvious.”

“You were. And people are starting to notice.”

“Let them notice.”

“I'm serious, Jason.”

He looked at me. His smile faded. For a moment, I saw something hurt in his eyes, something I'd put there.

“Fine,” he said. “I'll be more careful.”

“Thank you.”

“But I don't like it.”

“I don't care.”

He walked away. I watched him go, and I felt something crack in my chest.

That night, he didn't text me. I waited, staring at my phone, willing it to light up. Nothing.

I told myself it was fine. I told myself I wanted space. I told myself this was for the best.

I was lying.

---

The next day at practice, he barely looked at me. He ran his drills. He laughed with the other guys. But when I walked into the room, he turned away.

It hurt more than I expected.

After practice, I caught him in the parking lot. He was loading his bag into his car, his back to me.

“Jason.”

He didn't turn around.

“Jason, talk to me.”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“Yes there is. You're ignoring me.”

He turned. His face was hard, closed off. I'd never seen him look like that before.

“You wanted space,” he said. “I'm giving you space.”

“I didn't mean like this.”

“What did you mean, Mark? Because I'm trying to figure out what you want, and I keep coming up empty.”

“I want you to stop pretending I don't exist.”

He laughed. But it wasn't his real laugh. It was hollow. Bitter.

“That's rich, coming from you.”

“That's different.”

“How? How is it different?”

“Because I was trying to protect us.”

“Protect us from what?”

“From this. From people finding out. From everything getting complicated.”

“It's already complicated, Mark. It's been complicated since the moment I kissed you in that shed. You don't get to pretend it's not.”

“I'm not pretending.”

“You are. You're pretending that you don't feel what I feel. You're pretending that this doesn't mean something. You're pretending that you're not falling for me.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest.

“I'm not falling for you.”

“Yes you are.”

“No. I'm not.”

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the hurt in his eyes, the anger, the want.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel anything.”

I couldn't.

“That's what I thought.”

He got in his car and drove away. I stood in the parking lot, watching his taillights disappear, and I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.

I felt alone.

---

The game on Saturday was brutal.

We were playing against a team from the next town over, a bunch of guys who played dirty and hit hard. By halftime, I had blood on my jersey and a bruise forming on my ribs. Jason had scored two tries and was looking at me like he wanted to kill me.

We didn't talk. We didn't even look at each other. We played like strangers, like we'd never touched, never kissed, never spent nights learning each other's bodies.

It was the hardest thing I'd ever done.

In the last ten minutes, we were down by three points. The ball was in our possession, and I was running down the field, looking for an opening. I saw Jason on the wing, his hand up, calling for the pass.

I didn't want to pass to him. I wanted to ignore him. I wanted to prove that I could do this without him.

But he was open. And we needed to win.

I passed.

He caught the ball and took off. He was fast, faster than anyone on the field. He dodged two tackles, spun past a third, and then he was clear. Open field. Nothing between him and the try line.

He scored.

The crowd erupted. His teammates mobbed him. He was laughing, that real laugh, the one that made my chest ache.

And then he looked at me.

Across the field, through the chaos, he looked at me. And in his eyes, I saw something I hadn't seen before.

I saw hope.

I looked away.

---

After the game, I found him in the locker room. Everyone else was in the showers, celebrating. He was sitting on the bench, still in his jersey, staring at the floor.

“You played well,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“That last try was good.”

“It was a good pass.”

Silence.

“Jason.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry.”

He looked up. His eyes were red. I'd never seen him cry before. I'd never seen him look so broken.

“Sorry for what?”

“For everything. For being an asshole. For pushing you away.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I'm scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of this. Of you. Of how much I want you.”

He stood up. Walked toward me. Stopped a foot away.

“I'm scared too,” he said. “I'm scared that you're going to keep pushing me away. I'm scared that I'm going to keep coming back. I'm scared that one day, I'm going to wake up and realize I've wasted all this time being afraid.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say that you'll stop running.”

I looked at him. At his blue eyes. At his blonde hair. At the boy who had somehow, despite everything, become the center of my world.

“I can't promise that.”

“Why?”

“Because running is what I do.”

“Then let me run with you.”

I reached out and took his hand. His fingers intertwined with mine. Warm. Solid. Real.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay?”

“Okay. Let's run together.”

He smiled. That smile. The one that could light up the whole world.

And for the first time in weeks, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could work.