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You like the way English looks when he's concentrating, leaning forward with his hands on his knees and breathing hard, but not desperately. You like the way he handles the ball, not gracefully, but possessively, out-maneuvering everybody who tries to get in his way. You like the smile on his face when he scores, the way he doesn't hold back and doesn't reign his emotions in.
You like the way his hand feels on your back, in-between your shoulder blades as he congratulates you on a game well played, even when you let in three goals and you're blaming yourself for a game nearly lost.
For once you're grateful for the early September heat, because blushing just isn't a thing you do.
.
He isn't even in any of your classes, but sometimes he catches you in the hallway, at your locker.
And he's just barely able to sling an arm around your shoulder, knocking you off balance, causing you to almost drop your books, saying something stupid, like, "Are you quite ready for the game on Saturday?"
You swear you can feel your skin turn red where his fingertips touch you, right at the nape of your neck, and all you can do is nod.
His laughter echoes in your ears, but you don't bother looking to see what direction he's headed in–he's always lost in the crowds of students by the time the warning bell rings.
.
Away games are awful. Everyone hates playing on another team's field ("you mean pitch!" English will say, grinning unabashedly), and no one comes out to cheer for you when there's a forty mile drive involved, not when football season is in full gear.
Still, you revel in the late night drives home, when the team's star forward is half-asleep on your shoulder, mumbling pre-calc equations under his breath.
It's not too bad of a set-up, bus driving down a dusty side road, everyone quiet in the dim light, but for a few of the guys playing a card game a few rows up.
English will shift, his hand will fall on your thigh, and you'll press your forehead to the cold glass of the window next to your seat, memorizing the way he feels, so perfectly pressed against you in that moment.
.
An important mid-season win, and the party's at his house. Big old place on the outskirts of town, and easily half of the school is there. Any excuse to party, you guess. No one really says anything to you, because you're just the weird, tall goalie, the one who's banned from all school computer labs.
You find English in his backyard, alone and aiming a bb gun at empty beer cans on top of the rusty grill on the edge of the patio.
He hits every one as you stand there, arms crossed, grudgingly impressed at his ability to do so even when he's probably knocked back a few already.
"Pulled this beauty out of the attic earlier," he says with a grin so wide he's forced to squint. Your palms are sweaty, and you love the way he says that, beauty. "Haven't used it in probably going on seven years now, isn't that funny?"
You wish English would look at you the way he looks at his dusty, broken bb gun. You wish he'd hold you in the same way, too, like you're something deadly, but also something to be worshipped. You wish he'd talk about you in the same way, tell everyone about fond memories, words like wisps of smoke curling around you and cloaking you, making you his.
You want to tell him all this, so badly.
Instead you sit in one of the shitty plastic chairs on his lawn and watch him set up another row of cans, then raise his gun, tongue in cheek, and shoot them all down, a symphony of clattering cans, with a background melody of the bass from the music playing inside his house.
.
When you tell him, you make sure to be in complete control of the situation. It's just the two of you in the locker room after practice. You're still in uniform, leaning against your locker, and English is halfway through changing across the room. You tell him without breaking a sweat, without looking away and without any hesitation.
You say, "I like you," and, before he can stutter out anything, because his cheeks are already pink, you add, "Yes, English, I mean that in the way you think I do." And that's that, because now it's up to him. He can turn you down, and you won't hate him for it, you won't even be surprised.
Still, as you watch him take his sweet time, pulling a t-shirt over his head, worrying at his lip, you can't help but feel empty and dry inside, one step away from bursting into flames.
It feels like hours (days, weeks, months) before he walks towards you, places one hand on your shoulder, tentative, like testing open waters.
He says, "I wonder," and it feels like half of a sentence, as if there are other words waiting to be said, but it doesn't matter, because he kisses you, all teeth and tongues and smelling like sweat and grass.
You try to hold back, as best you can, kissing softly, hands placed on his hips, gently, instead of gripping him there.
English hardly does the same for you, and you think (hope), that it's because he's only just realized how much he wants this, too, as he bites hard enough to bruise your bottom lip, hands on your shoulders, now, knee between your legs, leaning into you so forcefully that you'd fall backwards if it weren't for the wall of lockers at your back.
He kisses like he does absolutely everything else, and that means there's no point in holding back, not really.
Gloved hands in his hair and you love the feel of it, the dip at the base of his skull and the skin of his neck, wet with sweat. You pull him towards you, like he can possibly be any closer, and he breathes hot on your skin, eyes hazy, unreal green.
One of his hands slips under the waistband of your shorts, resting there on your hip, and you covet the feeling, capture it and keep it in your mind, as he presses his lips to yours again.
His mouth isn't wet, but it's hot on yours, open and willing, not deft, but pliable, like he was made for you to mold into shape–and you keep him exactly the same.
.
His hand fits into yours easily the next morning, like it's the most natural thing in the world.