a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s sweaty and happy, and he doesn’t hesitate to grab me around the waist and pull me right up against him in all his gear. “You see that?” he asks. “I told you I made better passes. A 71-yard touchdown pass to win the game? Not too shabby, right?” His enthusiasm is catching and I can’t help grinning up at him. “You might as well be speaking in Latin, but I’m glad you won.”
