...The second half of the game was more of a blur. Three sacks. How did they get through his line three times? Two interceptions. He should have adjusted after the first interception, but then he was off-center, confused, his mind wasn’t in the game like it should have been.

And Eric knew better than to blow those chances. Cache had watched from the sidelines, helpless, as Eric orchestrated not one, not two, but three perfect drives. Perfect in every sense of the word. He called the right plays. He didn’t have a single missed pass. Eighteen completions for eighteen attempts in the second half. He had been magnificent. Beautiful, even. Cache had been jealous. He had been angry. He had been frustrated.

And he had been a little turned on. Just enough to be uncomfortable.

When the fans stormed the field to celebrate, Eric had been caught in the rush. The hero. The man of the hour. Cache knew that every talking head, every analyst, every sports writer, every coach, and every player would be talking about Eric Patton the next morning. Cache would be forgotten.

As he trudged into the locker room, he couldn’t help but think he’d be forgotten in more ways than one.

In perfect honesty, he had been looking forward to meeting Eric after the game. He knew that the thought of doing so hadn’t distracted him during the game. Cache was already a pro at blocking out unwanted thoughts and distractions. When he was on the field, he only thought about winning. He thought about the playbook. He thought about strategy.

But as the crowd’s cheers and shouts echoed in his ears, he thought about Eric. The loss hurt, but they would always have the next year. The possibility he had glimpsed with Eric—well, the loss of that possibility was far more painful. But there was no way Eric would be able to get away from the celebrations that night, and the next day, he would go east, and Eric would go north. And that would be it.

A few of his teammates tried to draw Cache into discussion, but the attempts were futile, and they realized it quickly. They backed off, giving him his space, and he wished he could rally them, cheer them up, be the right kind of leader. But his head was a muddle, and he barely heard anything the coach said in the post-game meeting. He just wanted to get back to his hotel and pass out and put the night behind him.

By eleven, he was in his hotel room. By eleven-thirty, he was stretched out in his shorts on the bed, grateful that on this trip, he didn’t have to bunk with anybody. He had the television on, but he found an old black-and-white movie. It might have been starring Humphrey Bogart. Cache wasn’t sure. All he knew was, it wouldn’t be interrupted with the Rose Bowl score.

The knock came just before midnight. Cache considered pretending to be asleep, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good to hide in his room and sulk. If somebody wanted to talk to him, then he’d be there to talk. That’s what a good leader did. And he did take that responsibility seriously, even if he didn’t have the heart or the energy.

But it wasn’t one of his players.

Eric stood in front of him, his hair mussed. The amiable boy who had found him in the park was gone, replaced by a man Cache almost didn’t recognize. He knew his surprise was evident on his face. He tried to form the words to invite Eric in, but Eric didn’t need the invitation. He pushed his way into the room, kicked the door shut behind him, grabbed Cache’s shoulders, and smashed their mouths together.

Cache barely had a chance to register the kiss before Eric spun them around and slammed him against the door. He used enough force to wake up every single bruise, every single cut, every single ache and pain in his exhausted body. And he was strong enough to hold Cache there. Cache realized that at his first weak attempt to struggle, and so he stopped trying to get away. But he didn’t let Eric have control of the kiss.