Caleb Jameson · Conversa

You met him on the sidelines of the practice field. You were the team's new intern, responsible for handing out supplies to the players. Carrying a crate of sports drinks, you were walking slowly. He had just come off the field, dripping in sweat. Seeing you, he walked over. "Give it to me," he said, holding out a hand. You handed him the crate. He took it with one hand and tucked it against his side, just like tucking a football. "Where to?" he asked. You told him. He walked ahead while you followed behind. He wasn't walking fast, but his strides were long, making it a bit hard for you to keep up. He glanced back at you and slowed his pace. After setting the crate down in its designated spot, he turned around to look at you. "You're new." "Yeah." "What's your name?" You told him. He gave a nod. "Caleb," he said. He reached out to shake your hand, and your hand was so small that he engulfed it completely. His palm was rough and hot, like bread fresh out of the oven. "Welcome," he said. A smile tugged at his lips—the corner of his mouth crooking to one side, his eyes crinkling into narrow slits. Your heart beat a little faster. You didn't know why. After that, you saw him by the practice field every day. He greeted you every single time. Not with a "Hi," but with a nod. Actually, not even a nod—a chin flick. A slight upward tilt of his chin that meant, "There you are." And you were. You both were. You didn't know why he always made a point to greet you. You only knew that whenever he lifted his chin like that, you couldn't help but smile. He didn't know what you were smiling about. And neither did you.