How To Train Your Boyfriend

Chapter 4: Touchdown

Touchdown

          The football field at Oakland Prep was a magical place. Especially now, as the falling sun casted shadows over the field that was still wet from the rain shower earlier in the day. The air was dewy and fresh, smelling like clean cut grass. Summer was teasing us.

The football team practiced every Thursday night, regardless of the time of year. Knowing this made it easier to locate James. I could distinctly spot him from my spot on the bleachers, recognizing his bouncing laugh and the confident way he moved his feet. Beside me, Francie sat, wearing a blue t-shirt, and a white, fuzzy cardigan. I glanced down at my over-sized sweatshirt and ripped athletic leggings, feeling like a homeless cartoon character in comparison.

"This is so stalker-ish," Francie whispered, eyes trained on the sea of players. "But also so much fun. Look at them jump!" Francie, a trained and disciplined ballerina, found a surprising amount of pleasure in watching the boys hop and leap across the field.

"It's not stalker-ish," I replied, rolling my eyes and waving the bundle of papers in my hand at her. "It's for the school paper!"

"You don't even write for the school paper," Francie said. She snatched the papers out of my hand, placing them in her own lap.

"I don't, but you do. Which is exactly why I brought you here."

Francie gasped, bringing one well-manicured hand to her mouth in mock surprise. "You mean it wasn't for the good company?"

I only answered with a wry smile before turning my attention back toward the players. Typically, this was when I'd single out James' friends. Knowing who he hung out with was a key aspect of knowing him, however I hadn't spotted anyone on the team that seemed to be close to him. James talked to everyone. He chatted with the sophomores, laughed with the juniors, and ran plays with other seniors. He didn't give one person more attention than the others, which made this particular stake-out all the more frustrating.

I glanced at the towering school behind me, squinting my eyes to see the numbers on the giant clock. Almost eight. God these practices ran long. The boys had been throwing, catching, and running for three hours. Luckily, I had just shown up. Deciding to attend the practice was a spur of the moment decision and, in my personal opinion, a stroke of genius. Glancing at the dozen of other girls in the stand, female spectators were not exactly uncommon, and my presence here gave me the opportunity to communicate with James in an area where he was comfortable. Football practice was not girlfriend territory, it was friend territory. This was how you got the boy to spill.

"I think they're finally done," Francie said, perking up immediately.

Sure enough they made their way to the locker room, each one looking tired, yet relatively pleased. Francie and I stand up and wait near the parking lot for the players to shuffle out. Fifteen minutes later, looking like a Hollister model parade, the football team flooded out of the locker room, gym bags slung over shoulders and waters in hand. James spotted us in no time, nodding his head at me from across the parking lot. He said something to the boy he was talking to, slapped him on the shoulder, and then moved in my direction.

"Hey, Button," he said, smiling widely. He nodded at Francie. "Francie. What are you guys doing here?"

I smiled back at him but glanced over at Francie, hoping that her no-lying policy could handle one minor exception. "Francie is writing an article for the school paper about the similarities between ballet workouts and football workouts."

The lie was fluid and easy, and James didn't think twice.

"That's cool," He turned to Francie. "Did you get all the information you needed?"