Ohio to the Bayou

Chapter 8

The game day crowd was electric, the energy around the stadium crackling like the humidity in the Louisiana air. It was my first time on the sidelines for a home game, and the atmosphere was unlike anything I'd experienced. Fans were chanting, waving LSU flags, and the entire student section was buzzing, a sea of purple and gold. Being here, immersed in the anticipation and excitement, felt surreal.

I made my way along the sidelines, camera ready, trying to blend in and capture the magic without disturbing the moment. The team emerged from the tunnel to roaring cheers, Jamarr leading the charge, his face set with that familiar intensity. Even from a distance, I could see his focus, his determination.

Every snap of the camera felt vital, like I was capturing history. Jamarr was on fire—every catch was clean, every play calculated. He was in sync with the quarterback, and they moved as if they shared one mind, reading each other's moves perfectly. There was something poetic in the way he played, a mix of precision and raw energy. Watching him like this, so alive and in his element, made my heart race.

When halftime came, I was thrilled to get a quick break to review my shots. One image, in particular, stood out—a close-up of Jamarr mid-run, his gaze fierce, his muscles tense, like he was unstoppable. The photo seemed to radiate everything that made him special: the drive, the fearlessness, the sheer love of the game.

After the game, the team celebrated a hard-earned win, and I caught Jamarr's eye as he made his way to the locker room. He flashed me a quick grin, exhaustion and triumph written all over his face. I snapped a candid of that moment, capturing the mix of joy and relief in his expression. He held up two fingers in a peace sign, and I couldn't help but laugh.

"Good game, Chase!" I called, my voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

He gave me a wink. "Couldn't have done it without my lucky photographer on the sidelines."

The words sent a flutter through me, and I smiled, quickly lowering my camera to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks.

Back at my apartment that night, I couldn't resist sorting through the photos, reliving the game through each shot. I lingered over the ones of Jamarr, especially that post-game smile, and found myself smiling back at the screen like an idiot. I replayed our moments together in my head—his laughter, his encouragement, the way he'd invited me into this world of his.

I didn't know what to call the pull I felt toward him. Friendship? A connection? Maybe something more. I tried to push the thought away, focusing on editing, but my mind kept wandering back to him, to the way he'd looked at me tonight as if I were the only one on that field with him.

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The next day, I found a note taped to my door.

It read: *Emory—meet me by the river tonight?*

My heart skipped as I read the messy handwriting, instantly recognizing Jamarr's scrawl. I wondered what he wanted to talk about, or if it was just a spur-of-the-moment invitation. Either way, I was curious—and undeniably excited.

When I arrived by the Mississippi, the city lights reflected in the water, creating a dreamy glow over the river. Jamarr was already there, leaning against a bench, his hands tucked into his pockets. He turned when he saw me, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Hey," he greeted softly.

"Hey," I replied, walking over and feeling a sudden jolt of nerves.

We sat in silence for a moment, both of us watching the water. It was peaceful, the kind of calm that only came from being away from the noise of campus and the intensity of game days.

"So... how are you liking LSU?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"I'm loving it," I said honestly. "It's different than I expected, but in a good way. I feel... I don't know, like I'm finding my place here."

He nodded thoughtfully. "You're good at it, you know? This photography thing. It's like you see things we don't even see ourselves."

I looked down, feeling a rush of warmth. "I just try to capture the moments that matter. And... I guess I feel lucky I get to do that with this team. With you."

Our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us—a quiet understanding, maybe, or a shared feeling that neither of us wanted to put into words just yet.

He cleared his throat, glancing out at the river. "I wanted to ask you something," he said, his voice softer now. "Have you ever thought about going somewhere with your photography? You know, like making a career out of it?"

I hesitated. "Honestly? I don't know. It feels like a dream, but also like something too big to be real. I guess part of me wonders if I'm good enough to make it."

"You are," he said without hesitation, his gaze steady. "More than good enough."

The words made my heart skip. No one had ever believed in me like that—not in a way that felt so genuine. "Thank you," I whispered, barely able to find my voice.

For a while, we just sat there, the sounds of the river filling the silence between us. And then, slowly, he reached over, his hand brushing against mine. I didn't pull away. Instead, I let his hand settle in mine, warm and solid, grounding me in that moment.

It wasn't a grand gesture. Just a small, quiet act of connection. But somehow, it was perfect.