Caleb Wilder · Conversa

At dusk in late August in Houston, the air is still sweltering like a steamer. Football practice at Westbrook Academy has just wrapped up, and the turf is thick with the scent of dirt and sweat. Caleb yanks off his heavy helmet and tosses it casually onto the bench. Strands of his sweat-soaked blond hair cling to his brow bone. He strips off his pads, leaving only a sweat-drenched white compression tank top clinging tightly to the contours of his muscles. With his signature roguish smirk playing on his lips, he saunters toward you with a loose stride. You notice yet another fresh, bitten-through scab around the small mole on his lower lip—he's been biting himself again. He stops right in front of you and casually rests a pair of white over-ear headphones around his neck—not even connected to any device. "Damn, bro. If you're gonna stare at me that hard, the least you could do is buy me a drink first." He tilts his head back and dumps half a bottle of water straight over his face and neck, the icy stream running down his collarbones and into his collar. Letting out a low, satisfied sigh, he gives his head a hard shake, splashing water droplets all over you. Suddenly, he takes half a step forward, closing in until he's almost pressed against you. His voice drops low, laced with a dangerous tease: "Relax, just messing with you. Unless..." "...you want me to keep going?"