I step onto the empty bus and take a seat towards the back, pulling out my notebook as I do. I scribble a few more notes for myself then begin to reread everything from the day.

Cal surprised me, not because he is actually taking my assignment seriously and agreed to everything I laid out, but because the version of himself inside that facility isn't the one I know.

From the moment his coach began speaking this morning, he was locked-in—intently listening to the words being spoken to him, but also giving input. Not just about his game, but the game of the other quarterbacks. I expected him to point out all of their flaws, the ways they would need to improve in order to ever have a chance to be as successful as him. I waited for the comments about how they would never even see playing time as long as he's around. But it didn't. He complimented aspects of their games, pointing out little pieces that could be used to not his advantage, but the advantage of the team as a whole.

That was the theme of the entire day, Cal's comments never once focused on the things he was doing well, only ways that he could improve for the team's sake. The ways that as their leader, he needed to step up or fix in order to help them be their best.

I could tell the behavior wasn't new to him either, with the way that all the other players seem to provide him with the same respect he was giving them. That they truly look to him for guidance and feedback. They trust him to not only critique their mistakes, but that he wants to help them improve.

I was sure that he would show off, that he would use my appearance as an excuse to prove just how much power he can wield or at the very least to prove just how many push ups he can do. But it wasn't like that. Moving through his day it was evident that he sees football as his career, that he treats that facility as his workplace and his coaches and teammates as bosses and coworkers.

If anything it was Jake that was the one using my presence as a chance to prove his masculinity to me. At the end of their physical practice he engaged some of the other tackles in a challenge, one where they repeatedly ran a drill to see who could make the most successful tackles against one another. I don't think it was a new behavior, considering the way the other players and coaches circled around the other lineman, hooting and hollering, making their verbal wagers with one another. If I were writing a story about the entire team, I might compare it to what I imagine underground cockrings look like in Mexico. But regardless, Jake made sure to run over and kiss me in front of everyone as soon as he won.

I pushed him back though, and reminded him that I was working, even suggesting that he was too. I hoped that he could understand that, and that his behavior could be a reflection of what Cal was giving me. But then again, Cal's eyes barely found mine the entire day. It was as if I was reduced to a vapor lingering around their practice. The only time he acknowledged me was to update me on the next phase of the day.

Jake huffed when I told him he couldn't drive me back to my place because if Cal's day wasn't over, it meant mine wasn't either. I did, however, wait for him to leave the locker room after his shower to give him a real kiss now that the eyes of the coaching staff and players weren't around. I also needed a chance to remind him how important the success of this story is to me. He said he understood, but I made sure to promise him that once it's over, I'm all his again.

I stand and pull the stop request bell on the bus as it nears the corner of my street. It comes to a stop and deposits me at the nearest stop, leaving me to walk the last block to my building.

🏈🏈🏈

I settle into one of the chairs on my balcony. One hand on a mug of tea, the other scrolling through the pages of my document.

I wasn't planning on writing the story until tomorrow morning considering it was nine by the time I finally made it home. But the thoughts and ideas swirled around my head in a haze, one that threatened to consume me until I exhaled it—blowing it onto the word document like a cloud of smoke. Before I knew it, I had written nearly fifteen hundred words recounting the day I spent with Callan.

As I typed, I relived the day imagining that I was Callan and was undergoing the extensive preparations for the upcoming season. I initially didn't want to write the story without having the chance to ask him a few clarification questions, but now that I'm rereading the draft I don't know that I need them.

As I reread my notes and my article so far, I can't help the idea forming in my head. I wish it wasn't, because if Grey goes for it, it would mean spending a lot more time with Callan. But I think this is what I find most fulfilling about journalism. The feeling I get when one lead ricochets into something more, something that consumes me is a high that I continue to chase. The proposal has written itself in my head before I can even manage to get it typed into my notes app.

I hear the glass patio door slide open and turn to look at Julia. When she isn't there, I realize it wasn't our door, but the one leading to the balcony right below me.

Cal's voice carries from his balcony below to my ears. I can't hear him clearly because his volume is low. It is nearly midnight now, so I assume most of our neighbors are asleep.

He continues to talk though, probably to an overnight guest. I roll my eyes and begin to move myself, needing to get back inside of my apartment. I don't want to hear whatever bull shit he tells her, or the blowjob she's probably going to give him while he enjoys the view of the city in front of us.

As I stand though, I can finally hear him more clearly. He's not talking to anyone or about anything. He's singing. His voice is soft and off key, singing the chorus to a song I recognize almost immediately. It's a Harry Styles song, and just so happens to be my favorite.

I hinge my hips, leaning myself forward as if it would somehow remove the wooden boards between us so I could hear him even better. When it doesn't I simply return to my seat. I think about calling down to him, to let him know I'm up here. I could tease him about the little cracks his voice makes as he sings the melody.

I don't speak up though. Instead I bring my mug to my lips and sip the now lukewarm tea. I listen to him until I hear the door slide open once more,depositing him back into his space. Only then, do I begin to sing the song right where he left off.