I pull the hood to my sweatshirt higher over my head, and pull my sunglasses down over my eyes. I don't know what I'm trying to hide from because the only person I should be hiding from is myself.

After leaving Cal at the front of our building, I walked around the block three times until I was sure the coast was clear for me to enter the same building undetected. The entire stroll was filled with efforts to forget the feeling of his hands on my skin. An effort that has been failing me for months now.

If that wasn't bad enough, I spent the entire night dreaming of him. I can no longer be trusted inside my own head. And I have two more pregame rituals to experience with him for my next feature. At this moment, I have no idea how I'm going to remain unbiased as I write it, or how I'm ever going to make it to the end of this assignment without giving into the temptations that seem to follow Callan.

"Hey babe!" Jake's voice says from somewhere behind me. A second later he rounds the other side of the table, kissing me on my cheek before taking the seat opposite me. "Girls' night get a little wild?" he asks, waving a hand over my appearance.

I didn't want to lie to him again, but I figured no good could come from him knowing that I was continuing my story with Cal or that I'm basically using method acting as my way to write the piece.

He knows that I'm turning the article into a series, but wouldn't be on board if he knew it meant Cal and I spending one on one time together. It was bad enough to be at the training facility with Jake there, threatening to distract me. If he knew that I had a three day standing appointment with Cal he would probably show up.

Jake hasn't really ever been the jealous type when I get attention from other guys, but he is protective. It's the reason that he likes to have his hands on me whenever we're together, the same reason he's constantly touching me when we're around our friends. I've always just shrugged it off though. I used to think it was sexy as hell when we first started hanging out. The fact that he wanted to make sure that others knew we were together without coming out and saying it directly.

But for the sake of my journalism career, I can't have Jake sniffing around and threatening to pee on me to mark his territory over Cal.

Jake is still eyeing me as I push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose with one finger. "Uh, yeah. Too much wine," I say, only partially lying. I did feel drunk last night and feel hungover now, just not the type that comes from consuming alcohol.

I move my eyes back to my computer screen, attempting to focus on the notes I took during my lecture this morning. I could barely focus on the professor, so now I'm rereading to see if I can decipher any of them or if I'm going to have to beg Cynthia to share hers with me.

"So you'll come over before team dinner tonight?" Jake asks while he types on his phone.

My stomach drops at his words. I was so worried about Cal's pregame rituals that I forgot about Jake's. If only they were as intricate and well thought out like Cal's obviously are.

Instead, Jake's only ritual is to have sex the night before the game and the night after. Another thing about him that I used to love. The fact that he wanted me to be the last thing his body felt before a game and the first thing it felt after made me feel significant. Like a release brought on by me is his good luck charm and something that he couldn't fathom playing a down of football without.

"Yeah... but I have to leave by five. I have a thing for the paper," I say. Again, only partially lying. I do have a thing for the paper, but that thing involves meeting Cal at the hotel at eight o'clock for mystery ritual number two. And I'm going to need a few hours in between to gather myself, to pick myself off the floor of hell and claw my way back to the surface.

Jake stands again, once again bending towards me, but this time to plant a kiss to my lips before heading to his next class. He also doesn't leave without telling me that he loves me. Something I murmur back to him in a low voice.

If it's grown, Jake doesn't let on, but it doesn't stop me from reaching up and grabbing my nose. With the amount of lies told in such a short amount of time, I wouldn't be surprised if it had. Part of me wishes it would, because then maybe I would stop doing this to myself.

🏈🏈🏈

I'm waiting outside of the hotel on campus as the clock tower near the stadium begins to chime, signaling a new hour. The players all have dinner together in the banquet hall of the hotel before being locked into their rooms for the evening by the coaching staff. I assume it's so the coach can make sure his player's aren't doing anything to get themselves into trouble the night before the game, and to make sure they show up on time the next day. It's probably one of those rules that was only created because someone made a choice one time and ruined it for everyone else.

My phone begins to buzz from inside my crossbody bag. I fish it out and see Cal's name across the screen. I move out from behind the corner of the building where I've been hiding and attempting to avoid any unwanted eyes and attention. The last thing I need is for someone affiliated with the team to see me and report back to Jake that I've lost my mind.

When I emerge around the corner I see Cal, one hand shoved deep inside the pocket of his sweatpants, the other holding his phone to his ear.

"Pstttt," I whisper-yell towards him. His eyes whip around to mine. His laugh breaks through the sounds of cars passing by us. Cal comes over to where I'm standing and I quickly pull him back to the side of the building.

"Since when are you special forces?" he asks, pointing to my choice of attire tonight. All black seemed fitting considering I'm trying to go unseen, and that he mentioned tonight's ritual involved something that is technically illegal.

"It seemed fitting!". I give him a small twirl before placing my hands on my hips, waiting for him to tell me what the hell we're doing.

"It's cute...you're cute." Cal's wink is barely visible in the poor lighting.

"We cannot start every single mission with flirting!" I say, returning to whisper shouting now that we've begun to attract the attention of a few students across the street. I say we, when really they are probably just noticing Callan. Everyone always notices Callan. He would turn heads based on looks alone, but people always recognize him for football right away. I almost feel sorry for him, the fact that he can't walk around this campus freely without someone thinking he owes them something.

"Now it's a mission? You know Alyssa, you're not doing anything to kill the image I already have of you up here," he begins tapping a finger to his temple. "If anything, you're only making it hotter, kinkier." Cal pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and I'm tempted to pull it back out.

"Stop...or I'm going home to change into the baggiest clothes I own!" I also add that I'll make sure they belong to Jake. The last part does the trick just like I was hoping it would. Cal doesn't say anything back, instead he rolls his eyes and begins walking away from me, telling me to follow him.

"Where are we going?!" I ask, rushing to catch up.

"You'll see. But I need you to be quiet until we get there. We don't need anyone's attention on us," he commands. I stop talking, and don't start again until he stops us outside the north side of the stadium.

Cal pulls a key out of his pocket and begins messing with a lock on one of the tall black gates along the entrance.

"We're breaking into the stadium?!" I whisper between us.

"It's technically not breaking in if you have a key, right?" He questions, but before I can answer, the lock makes a clicking sound allowing Cal to easily push open the gate. He ushers me inside before removing the key and pushing the black metal closed again.

Too many questions enter my head at one time, leaving me unable to verbalize any of them or move forward. This doesn't stop Cal though, he only grabs my hand and pulls me behind him.

After a few steps I regain feeling in my body and allow my fingers to slide through his, lacing them together. Cal looks back at me for a split second, then to our hands before continuing our trek.

He leads me along the corridors of the horseshoe shaped stadium. I watch as the section numbers hanging on red placards above us begin to get bigger and bigger indicating that we're walking to the south end of the stadium.

Cal stops outside of section thirty before using my hand to pull me through the entrance. The field comes into view as we cross the threshold for the section. I'm nearly blinded by the stadium lights already shining, like they always are. It's the one part of the campus that never seems to sleep. As if it knows just how important this half acre is to the university and so many people who live here. People like Cal, who spend all of his time just waiting until the next time he gets to step into it, and onto its field.

Cal walks to the edge of the railing, the same way Grey did when he led me here to watch a practice and to pitch his idea for the original article. But instead of stopping, Cal begins to push himself up on the metal. He swings his body to the other side until his feet are planted on the concrete edge of the turf, leaving me safely behind the railing and towering over him.

Cal raises his hands above his head, signaling that he will catch me when I mimic the move he just made.

"I know for a fact there are other less dangerous, and less criminal ways to get down there," I point out.

"But this is more fun!" He's finally talking above a whisper now that it's evident we're alone. "I promise not to enjoy getting to touch you too much," he teases.

The smirk on his face is the driving force behind me hiking one foot up onto the bar, and swinging the other leg behind it until my butt is sitting on the railing and my legs are dangling towards Cal.

He calls back to me, telling me to jump to him. The drop is only about six feet, I could jump just fine and land on my feet like a cat, but I still didn't tell him to move. Instead I push off the rail and wait to feel his hands dig into my hips and the contracted muscles of his arms underneath my palms as he guides me down to the ground. He doesn't move his hands for a few seconds, forcing me to move mine first.

"What now?" I ask.

Cal turns towards the field, his profile illuminated by the bright lights ahead. I can already picture him standing here tomorrow, the manufactured light replaced by the sun. His sweatpants and t-shirt will be replaced by the red jersey he wears for every home game. I let myself imagine him looking up into the stands the way he is now, but tomorrow the sound of his name being chanted will be reverberated back to him.

"What's it like?" I ask. "To stand out here and know that one hundred thousand people are counting on you as if your choices determine whether they live or die?"

I didn't understand what football meant to some people until last year, my first season at State, experiencing it first hand. I grew up participating in Friday Night Lights, but because it was what you did in high school. Our team wasn't great, but my friends and I used it as an excuse to secretly get drunk out of a plastic water bottle in front of our teachers.

But being on this campus it's like football is their religion—one where Cal's routes and the coaches' playbooks are their bible. The words of which rule their lives for about five months of the year. The fans ceremoniously devote their Saturday's to watching and praying for a win.

Cal leads me to the edge of the field where he stops to remove his shoes and socks, signaling for me to do the same. And I do, before following him to where he stands in the middle of the field. Our feet melt into the giant bulldog painted onto the field.

"It's one of the greatest feelings ever," he says. "But honestly, I don't even really hear them. When I step onto the field I lock into the game. Nothing else matters. Not until the clock runs out, anyways. Then I stop to think about it, if I let them down or not, and what I can change to make sure I don't again."

"You know that win or lose, they still love you right?" I say to reassure him, even if he doesn't need to hear it.

"People get crazy about it. Our kicker has received death threats for missing field goals before. It's insane." Cal sits down and lies back. His own version of my starfish pose, but instead of his hands at his sides he folds them underneath his head.

I move to join him, moving my body to mimic his.

"No more football talk," he says.

"No more game talk," I compromise, given that football is the reason I'm here. "What's the purpose of this ritual? When did it start?"

Cal pauses for a second, his eyes looking directly into the sky even though it reveals nothing on account of the too bright lights around us. It has always been my least favorite thing about living in the city, especially as a little kid. Knowing that the stars exist out there, but never being able to actually see them or wish upon them.

"When I was in highschool I would do it on Friday mornings. I would get to school extra early and watch the sunrise on the field. I would allow my body to feel the grass underneath me. I would sometimes even talk to it, to ask it to work with me during the gamesI know it's weird, but I just needed myself and my team to be able to move around in a way that would help us win."

I can't help the giggle that escapes my mouth, which I quickly apologize for when Cal's head snaps to me. "Oh my gosh I didn't mean to laugh! It wasn't a, you're so sad laugh. It was a you're so cute laugh. The thought of you practically begging blades of grass to be your friend for the night," I say to try and argue my case, to avoid him regretting sharing with me.

Cal surprises me when he begins to laugh too. "It's pathetic I know, but I just feel like the field knows, like it predetermines who is going to win. No matter who plays better, it's just my way of making sure I've covered every angle of the game before I actually play it."

"If you smooth talk to the grass, do you make love to the balls?" I tease him.

"If I say yes, will you print that?" he asks, biting his lip. A habit I've noticed he does too often for my liking because every single time it takes my focus directly to it. Forcing me to acknowledge his lips and what else I know they can do.

"Your secret would be safe with me." I force my eyes back to his. "If I wasn't here tonight, what would you ask the grass for?"

Cal looks away from me and back into the sky. I let my eyes follow his. The purple-pink shades of the sky that were still present when we first got here have been replaced by a deep navy.

"Same thing as always—help me find my footing, let the lineman plant themselves to make their tackles, let the receivers remain upright long enough to pick up yards... I'd also ask it to move you closer to me since I know you won't do it yourself."

"No flirting!" I command. "You're only going to torture yourself further if you keep talking like that every time we're together.

"You keep telling yourself that Alyssa, but I think you're being just as tortured by pretending you don't feel it too. I can see your body begging for you to lean into it too." He's so sure of himself. I crave it, but reject it simultaneously.

I can turn him down again and again, but it only makes him more persistent to recreate our only night together.

I don't answer him, but I let myself keep staring at him, willing my eyes to tell him what I can't. We lie like this for a short time, until an alarm on his phone begins to sound off. Cal announces he has to get back to the hotel for bed checks before someone notices that he's gone.

It makes me wonder if anyone else on the team, players or coaches, fully understands him. If they know just how much of himself he puts into the game not just for himself, but them as well.

As we walk back towards our shoes Cal remains a few steps ahead of me. He doesn't even take us back the way we came just so he has an excuse to touch me. Instead he takes us up the stairs leading into a different section.

When we reach the black gate again I finally break the silence. "What's tomorrow's ritual? I know I can't do it with you, but for research purposes for the article?" I ask.

Cal pulls out his phone, tapping on the screen a few times. I feel my phone buzz in my hand and I turn it over to find a message from him with a link to a recipe.

"This is the oldest ritual. Ever since my very first game when I was five, my mom would make me this pancake recipe every single Saturday morning. And then when I started to play on Friday's it would be part of my dinner after school. So now I have the team cook make them for me before the team meets," he says.

My heart aches for him, knowing that it's a tradition that his mom was only able to carry out until he was fourteen. That she probably only made them as a Friday night dinner a few times before she passed away his freshman year of high school.

I've never heard him talk about their mom, everything I know about her I've learned through Camryn. This very topic is one of the biggest reasons they had such a falling out, and the very thing that has brought them back together recently. So I know it's a big deal that he's talking about her, to share any memories that include her. It makes me wonder if Camryn knows about this ritual, that even when she didn't feel it from him, he carried this piece of their mom with him on the most important days.

When we reach the hotel, he again leads me to the corner we first met at. Campus is remotely dead now. There are no students walking by, and the only sound surrounding us are the buzzing of air conditioners from nearby buildings.

I turn to face him, grabbing his hand in mine as I do. The blue of his eyes disappears for a second as he looks down to see the contact. "Thanks for sharing so much with me, for trusting me with all these pieces of you. I promise to try to do them justice when I write about them, about you," I say, squeezing his hand gently.

"And I hope you trust me too, that when I say things to you, you know I mean them." He says before pulling his hand from mine and disappearing around the corner. I let my back fall against the brick of the building, and force myself to find my breath.