Then he kissed my cheek—quick, public, perfect—and ran back to the huddle.
"Because you're Dallas Fielder. And I'm nobody." Searching For- Sidelined The QB And Me In-
He sat on the edge of the treatment table, one leg dangling, the other—his throwing-side knee—wrapped in a brace the size of a small car. His practice jersey was off, leaving him in black compression shorts and a sleeveless hoodie. His jaw was set so tight I could see the muscle ticking beneath his stubble. Then he kissed my cheek—quick, public, perfect—and ran
"It might."
Dallas went very still.
He didn't move. But he didn't tell me to leave, either. Then he kissed my cheek—quick
I paused. "You remembered that?"