First Flight, Final Fall

by C.W. Farnsworth

“If you’re doing the same as everyone else, you’re not going to be the best.”

I’m cycling through reasons why he could have possibly come here, and keep coming up with only one. Me.

“You, uh, saw the interview I did, then?” “After. They didn’t include it in the game coverage.” Game coverage? “Wait, you watched the game? My game?” “Yes.” He says it simply, like it should be no surprise. “Why?” “I wanted to see you play.”

“You watching me play, you following my career, you saying I inspired you—that’s different from millions of other people doing those things.”

“Otto hung a sign that says, ‘Saylor Scott’s Inspiration’ above my locker.”

“You asked me why I came—you didn’t need to. You know the answer. I came to see you, Saylor.”

“She is a striker, Beck.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know that. Should tell you everything you need to know.”

“Do you think I do this shit with other women, Saylor? Because I don’t.”

Saylor Scott is it for me. No other woman will ever compare. She’s been in my life for almost exactly a year, and I can barely remember what it looked like before we met.