Possession: A Football Romance

Hey Liv, u got any mac n cheese? 

His texts come at all hours. He’s always hungry whenever practice lets out, and the dining halls are always closed by the time Coach lets the team go from evening practice. But does Baxter Morgan keep his cupboards stocked with snacks? No. No he does not. 

And I definitely enable him. I sigh. I tap back,

Of course I’ve got mac n cheese. 

UR a lifesaver. C u in 10.

I remember the first day I met Baxter Morgan. His family bought the house next to mine months prior, but my parents were never the type to bring over a casserole or welcome anyone to the neighborhood. I was 8 years old, and I didn’t really have the words to explain that my parents’ drunken arguments terrified me, but I knew I felt better when I climbed inside the forsythia hedge between our two properties and hid there until my parents screamed themselves to sleep. 

One night, I nearly peed my pants when I heard the leaves rustle and the branches parted to reveal a curly head in the dark. Wide brown eyes blinked at me. He looked like he’d been crying, too, but neither of us ever talked about that. 

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” I told him that night in the hedge. 

He shrugged and climbed in, sitting next to me in the dirt. “Yeah, well I’m not supposed to talk to anyone.” 

In the 12 years since, we’ve hardly been separated. Baxter Morgan is my best friend in the entire world, the only person I consider family. He comes to kill the spiders I find in my dorm, I buy him processed cheese pasta, and we look out for each other. 

There’s just one problem. 

I’m hopelessly, fully, desperately in love with him.

* * *

Bax taps on the glass window of my dorm room and I ease it open for him. We figured out that if I got a single room on the back side of the first floor of McPherson Hall, he could get around the visiting hours and “no male overnight guests” rules by climbing in and out as he pleased. 

The microwave beeps as I try not to stare at the exposed skin on his muscular back when his t-shirt catches on the window sill. This one-sided attraction I’ve got? It’s just something I have to deal with, something I have to figure out how to tamp down. He sinks into the couch beneath my loft bed, groaning in pleasure as I hand him the steaming bowl of microwaved noodles. “Fuck, Liv, this hits the spot.”

I have to choose, like always, if I’m going to sit at a safe distance, across the room from him in my computer chair…or curl up next to him on the loveseat, waiting for his silent signals that it’s ok to rest my head on his sweaty shoulder. I used to just enjoy being near Bax. Just felt warm and safe around him. I’m not sure when all that shifted so that my pulse races and I feel flutters deep in my belly just thinking about the scent of his soap. Jesus, I’m so far gone, I don’t even care that he smells like a shoe after practice. 

It’s sweet, agonizing torture to touch him and know that his soothing hugs mean something different to him. I’m the sister he never had. He’s told me so again and again, and it’s true. Bax is family to me. But my heart just hasn’t caught up with the rational part of my brain. It’ll happen. Eventually this lust I feel for him will pass and all that will remain is the deep bond of friendship. 

That happens, right? We grew up together. We went through some terrible shit together. We look out for each other. It’s not my fault he’s drop-dead gorgeous with the body of an elite college athlete. Baxter Morgan is objectively hot as sin. His light brown curls are always just the slightest bit overgrown. His deep brown eyes are always just the slightest bit puppy-dog. And that deep voice of his melts my bones as it vibrates through my body. 

“Hello? Liv?”

Shit. He’s talking to me and I drifted off again, obsessing about our relationship. “Sorry. What’s up, B?”

He talks with his mouth full, inhaling the bowl of noodles in just a few forkfuls. “I asked if you’re coming to my game on Saturday. We’re home this week.”

I grin and tousle his hair, still damp with sweat from practice. “And just when have I ever missed a home game?”

He nudges me with his elbow. “Um, hello? You missed the game against Ohio.”

“I was in the hospital with pneumonia, asshole.” He grins and reminds me that he tried to convince the coaching staff and the hospital to set me up in one of the executive suites in the stadium, IV pole and all. 

“I play better with you there,” he says, tossing the empty bowl on the milk crate I use for a coffee table. He belches and leans back in the seat with his hands clasped behind his head, stretching his long legs out and practically filling up my entire room. 

I wrap my arms around his broad chest for a hug and murmur into his shirt that I need to get back to my homework. “I’ve got an 8am class tomorrow,” I say, hoping but not actually daring to hope that he’ll lift my chin and kiss me until I don’t notice that I’m tired. 

I don’t want his usual peck on the cheek or the top of the head. That’s standard fare for us. No, I want Baxter Morgan to kiss me, like I see him doing to countless jersey chasers over the years. I want him to slam me against the wall during a party and roll his hips against mine, take me by the hand and lead me back to his room and destroy my body. 

But he doesn’t do any of those things. He stands and stretches, giving me another painful glimpse of his abs when that damn t-shirt rises up again. He leans down and pecks me on the top of my head and squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t work too late—you do your best thinking while you’re asleep anyway.”

“Who told you that?”

He lifts the window and starts climbing out, winking at me as he goes. “Smartest gal I know.” And then he’s gone into the night, leaving me to my essay.