It was November 1990, the week of Blaire’s fifteenth birthday. She was two months older, but that never mattered. We’d been together a little over a month, long enough for the newness to settle into something real, something I wanted to mark without making a spectacle of myself. I’d spent days looking for the right bracelets, simple, woven, purple, and blue. Her favorite, my favorite.
By lunch, I was wired with nerves, the kind that sit low in your stomach. Wyatt and Liam had been on me all morning, telling me to quit overthinking it. So I set the roses and the card on our table, two cans of Mountain Dew beside them, and tried to breathe through the noise of the cafeteria.
She walked in around 11:38 with Megan and a few of the softball girls. The room was loud, sunlight cutting across the tables. Blaire stopped when she saw the roses. Confused at first. Then searching for me.
I stepped up behind her and tapped her shoulder.
“Chris,” she said, her voice catching as she hugged me. “They’re beautiful.”
We sat, and for a second, the whole room felt far away. My heart was thudding, but not in that fluttery, boyish way, more like a steady push forward, a choice I’d already made.
“Blaire,” I said, standing again. “I want us to be official.”
I opened my hand. The bracelets lay there, woven tight.
Her face softened. A blush, a breath, her eyes shining in a way that made the cafeteria fade even more.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” I asked.
She nodded, laughing under her breath as she wiped her eyes. I tied the bracelet around her wrist. She tied mine with hands that shook only a little.
Coach Smith stuck his head in, grinning. “Bigun, don’t you go proposing at lunch.”
“No, sir,” I said. “Not today.”
He clapped my shoulder and disappeared. Blaire handed me a Mountain Dew, her thumb brushing mine, and for a moment, everything felt simple in a way life rarely stayed.
“Wanna go to the movies tonight?” I asked.
“Yes!” she said, her face lighting up. “Can we see Home Alone?”
“Of course,” I said, smiling.
Wyatt leaned in. “I’ll drive….if Megan and I can double with you?”
I looked at Blaire, and she nodded with a grin. “Sounds fun,” she said.
The bell rang, and I walked Blaire to her locker. She carefully tucked the roses inside, and I gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before heading off to P.E. She smiled and waved as she turned down the hall toward English.
The bracelet on my wrist felt like a quiet promise, a small but steady reminder of her. It was a welcome distraction.
By seventh period, I spotted Mr. Rourke in the hallway outside his classroom, animated as ever, chatting with Blaire and a few of the softball girls. His voice carried, raspy and full of energy, as if he were telling the greatest story ever told.
“Hells bells!” Mr. Rourke shouted, looking up at me through his thick, oversized glasses. “Dowling, you’ve got a lot of nerve, young man!” he added with a wide grin beneath his walrus mustache.
The softball girls giggled as they filed into the classroom, sneaking glances at Blaire and me. My face burned red as Blaire kissed my cheek, and we walked in together, trying to play it cool.
That evening, Wyatt picked me up around 6:45 in his family’s old Caprice wagon. The air was crisp with that unmistakable scent of fall, and the city had already started putting up holiday decorations on the light poles. We cruised through town on our way to Megan’s house to pick up the girls.
The conversation drifted into easy, mindless chatter. Bubba the Love Sponge’s voice was cutting through the static just as Wyatt turned off the ignition in Megan’s driveway.
The soft yellow glow of the porch light lit the path to the brick-lined steps. Before we could even knock, Megan opened the door and greeted Wyatt with a quick kiss on the cheek.
The girls stood side by side at the door. Blaire had curled her hair in short, tight ringlets, and she wasn’t wearing her glasses tonight. She was wearing a loose, soft white cashmere sweater, faded purple shorts, and Adidas shell-toe shoes. Her green eyes made my stomach flip as I swallowed my smile.
“Hey, you.” I sighed as I took her hand and kissed her lips. I held my kiss for longer than usual and felt her hand touch my bicep.
“Hey,” She replied as she nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and ducked her head, blushing softly.
Wyatt and Megan sat in the front seat, tightly together, and Blaire and I had the back seat. Her head was on my shoulder as I held her hand. Her hair smelled of Tresume, and a hint of Lavender lingered on her shoulders. I put my arm around her and squeezed her tight as the Bubba the Love Sponge show played on the car radio. The instrumental ‘The Caper’ by 2 Live Crew played as Bubba chatted about the show.
I rolled Blaire’s wrist and looked at the bracelet as she caught on to what I was doing and touched mine. I kissed her, feeling her tongue touch my lips. I was nervous, but I let it happen.
The movie theatre was packed when we got there. Popcorn, drinks, and some rasinettes, and we were set. The floor in the theater was sticky, but it didn’t matter. The movie started, and we laughed at the same scenes. We were halfway through Home Alone, right at the part where Kevin sets the paint cans swinging down the staircase. The whole theater laughed as the burglars got knocked flat.
Blaire leaned close and whispered, “You’d totally do that.”
I smirked. “Set traps for burglars?”
“No,” she said, nudging my shoulder. “Jump in front of something stupid without thinking.”
“That’s not true,” I whispered back.
She raised an eyebrow. “Chris….”
“Okay, maybe.”
She snorted, covering her mouth to keep from laughing too loud.
I bumped her knee with mine. Her smile faltered for half a second, but she tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned into me again.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just thought I recognized someone.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. Forget it. Watch the movie.”
Kevin screamed on-screen. The burglars slipped on the ice. The theater roared.
Blaire rested her head on my shoulder, but her fingers tightened around mine in a way that didn’t match the joke she’d made a minute earlier. I noticed it, but I didn’t know what to do with it.
The movie was released around 11:48. We stepped into the dim corridor leading to the lobby, the air thick with old popcorn and cleaning chemicals. The A/C was off again, leaving the place warm despite the cold night outside.
The lobby was its usual strange mix of pink and avocado tile, shaped like an octagon with glass walls facing the parking lot. A circular snack bar sat in the center under a high ceiling. Blaire and I waited near the video‑game wall while Wyatt and Megan ducked into the bathrooms.
I sat at one of the small tables. Blaire stood between my knees, her arms resting on my shoulders, fingers brushing the back of my neck in that absentminded way she had when she was thinking too hard. I was watching her eyes when a voice cut through the noise.
“Yo! Williams.”
Blaire tensed before she even turned. Her eyes rolled, her jaw tightened. Whoever it was, she didn’t want him here. Wyatt stepped out of the bathroom, already watching.
A short, broad guy walked up. Stocky, no neck, and a grin that didn’t fit his face. Blaire squeezed my hand.
“Don’t get up,” she whispered. I didn’t like it, but I stayed seated.
“Damn, you’re gonna act like you don’t know me?” he said.
“Hey, Frank,” Blaire replied, giving him a stiff, obligatory side hug.
He turned to me and stuck out his hand. “Frank Hodges.” His grip was too tight, his smile empty.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“This is my boyfriend, Chris,” Blaire added, her tone firm.
Against my better judgment, I stood to shake his hand properly. That’s when everything shifted. His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. Blaire’s posture snapped tight, like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.
I let go first.
Frank stepped in closer, breath sharp with whatever he’d been drinking. His voice dropped low.
“You think you’re something now? Big for nothing.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t even know what he meant.
Blaire tugged my arm. “Frank, stop.”
He ignored her.
Wyatt moved in, hands half‑raised. Megan hovered behind him, eyes darting.
Frank’s jaw twitched. “What are you gonna do? Faggot.”
“I don’t even know you,” I said, steady.
That was enough.
His fist came in fast, a heavy shot to my ribs, and a leaping jab to my jaw. The sound was a dull thud. My breath vanished. He hit me again in the same spot, harder, and my knees buckled. The world narrowed to a bright, stabbing point. My jaw was throbbing, and I tasted blood on my tongue.
Blaire screamed his name. Wyatt lunged, grabbing Frank’s shoulder, but Frank threw him off with a wild swing that sent Wyatt into the video‑game cabinet.
I covered up as Frank kept swinging. Short, frantic punches, more panic than power. His face wasn’t triumphant. It was cornered.
The tile felt slick under my shoes. A single drop of blood, my blood, hit the floor. The lights buzzed overhead. Someone yelled for security. Someone else shouted for him to stop.
Then something in me locked into place.
I saw Wyatt on the floor, pushing himself up. I saw Blaire crying, hands shaking. I saw Frank’s fist coming again.
“Enough.”
I stepped in and caught him clean on the chin. He dropped. I stood over him, not angry, protective. I grabbed his shirt and lifted. His feet left the ground, but it was enough. His eyes went wide. The fight drained out of him.
“Chris, please!” Blaire cried. “Put him down.”
Frank swung once more, weak and close. His face changed, fear replacing whatever he’d walked in with.
That’s when I smelled it. Panic. Sweat. Humiliation. The fight was over.
He mouthed, “Fuck you.”
I set him down. His legs wobbled. He didn’t look at any of us. He bolted through the glass doors into the night.
The lobby went quiet except for Blaire’s shaky breathing and the hum of the snack bar lights.
Frank was the first of many, as I came to learn, being over six feet six, guys with a point to prove, wanted to fight me for no reason. They wanted to "try me" just to see if "big man" had hands. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it happened more than I care to admit.
Then the pain hit.
Blaire smacked my arm, furious and terrified all at once. The shock of it made the real breakthrough. My ribs lit up; I could feel my pulse in my lip.
“Come on, let’s go,” Megan said, urgency sharp in her voice.
We rushed to the old wagon. Sirens wailed somewhere across the mall. Wyatt turned the key, and the big block engine rumbled to life.
We should’ve stayed and gotten medical help, but we were teenagers. That kind of logic didn’t always win out.
Wyatt drove calmly, hands locked at ten and two, eyes fixed on the road.
“Baby, what the hell?” Blaire said through tears. “I told you not to stand up.”
“I’m sorry,” I coughed. “Next time one of your goons tries to jump me, I’ll be sure to take notes,” I added with a pained laugh.
“Damn it, Chris. That’s not funny,” she snapped, wiping her cheeks. “He was a bully. I was going to handle it.”
“I’m sorry….,” I said, catching my breath. “But I’m not sorry I made him piss his pants.”
Wyatt and Megan burst out laughing as we turned onto 98. Even Blaire cracked a smile, leaning into me gently. I winced, but her warmth against my side was worth it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, kissing me softly.
“Dude,” Wyatt yelped, grinning. “You should’ve seen his face when you picked him up. You had him at least eight inches off the ground. Holding his shirt like a rag doll!”
Every time the story got retold, the number went up. Eventually, I lifted Frank 20 inches off the ground. It became a legend. But one thing stayed true: Frank Hodges became my nemesis that night.
“Thank you,” Blaire said jokingly, stroking my chin. “My big, strong man.”
I winced, my broken lip throbbing as I dabbed it with a McDonald’s napkin.
We laughed the rest of the way home. I crashed at Wyatt’s house that night. By morning, my whole left side was sore and bruised. His dad, a physical therapist, took one look and gave his verdict.
“Bruised ribs,” he said. “Not much you can do. Rest, ice, and absolutely no football!!”
“No football?” I thought, panic setting in. “Coach is going to kill me. The Bishop Moore game is this Friday.”
Then I moved, and pain shot through my side like lightning.
“Shit,” I muttered. I sank back down onto the couch.
Wyatt’s dad tossed me a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a towel. “Here. Keep that on it.”
Then he gave us both a look. “You boys, be safe.”
“Yes, sir,” we said in unison, trying not to sound like we were still just kids.
That Monday came faster than I’d hoped. Coach Smith was already in the cafeteria that morning, scanning the crowd. He’d heard the story and was looking for me.
“Damn it, Bigun,” he barked in his usual Southern drawl, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You can’t go around kicking the hell outta half the town.”
He pulled me aside, lowering his voice. “Twelve inches in the air, huh?”
I shrugged, eyes down. “I guess.”
Coach’s smile faded. “What’s wrong, Chris?”
“I bruised my ribs,” I said quietly. “Doctor says no contact.”
The weight of it hit him square in the face. He blinked, sighed, then said, “Let me see.”
I lifted my shirt, revealing the dark bruise across my left side. He let out a low whistle.
“You’re in the training room every day after school. Ice baths, compression. No practice. We’ll see where you’re at by Thursday,” he said, already recalculating his defensive plan for the Bishop Moore game. “I’m not gonna pressure you to play, but damn it…” His voice softened. He squeezed my shoulder and tipped his cap back. “We need you, son.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, just as Blaire walked up, took my backpack, and kissed my cheek.
“I really am sorry,” she whispered as we walked to class after the first bell rang.
By midweek, the story had spread across campus. By Thursday, I’d become something of a legend. Half hero, half myth. Some kids were already joking about canonizing me. My side was a mess of purple and green, but my mobility was decent. Still, coach Smith wasn’t taking chances. He wanted the team trainer and doctor to check me out before making any decisions.
After school came faster than I expected. I sat shivering in the ice bath, my breath fogging in the chilled air of the training room, when Dr. G walked in.
“How are you feeling, Chris?” he asked, his voice calm but curious. Blaire was sitting nearby, flipping through a clipboard. She looked up as Dr. G entered.
“Can you dry off and meet me in the office?” he asked politely.
I nodded, teeth chattering. Blaire tossed me a towel, and I stood, wrapping it around my waist over my bike shorts. I pulled on a loose tank top and made my way to the training office, still dripping. Inside, Coach Smith and Dr. G were examining a strange-looking piece of gear, an inflatable rib pad. I had a feeling it was meant for me.
“Bigun!” Coach called out with a grin. “We might have a solution for you.”
I was skeptical, but I stepped forward and tried it on. The cool, felted rubber pressed against my stomach and lower chest, snug but not restrictive.
“What do you think?” Dr. G asked, tapping the inflated ridges that hovered protectively over my bruised rib.
“Shit,” I muttered, bracing for pain, but there wasn’t any. The padding had stabilized the area perfectly. I twisted a little, testing my range of motion. “Does this mean I can play?”
Smith crossed his arms, watching me carefully. “That’s up to you, Bigun. But I’d like you to suit up today, just a helmet and shoulder pads. Try it out. See how it feels.”
I nodded, already feeling the adrenaline kick in. “I’m there,” I said, heading to the locker room.
As I pulled on my jersey and pads, Blaire walked over, worry written all over her face.
“Chris, please be careful,” she said softly, brushing her fingers against my arm.
I gave her a crooked grin. “Babe, let me try.”
Practice went better than expected. I was stiff, sure, but I kept up. The pad held firm, and I moved with enough confidence to feel like myself again. I was ready, at least, I hoped I was, for Friday night.
The Bishop Moore game was the last of the season. Win or lose, we’d finish with a winning record, but a win meant regionals. For Tim and the seniors, it was his final game at Jesuit Catholic, and the whole team was fired up to send the seniors off with a statement.
The buses loaded around 4:30 for the hour-and-twenty-minute ride to Bishop Moore. Blaire, Megan, and Leslie rode up front with the equipment crew on the first bus. I was on the last one with Wyatt, Tim, and Liam. The energy was electric. Nervous laughter, music playing low, guys tapping out beats on the seatbacks. My ribs still ached, but not as much as they had the week before. I thought it was manageable.
Dad and Bruce were coming to the game. I hadn’t told Blaire yet. She knew my parents were divorced, but not about Dad’s relationship with Bruce. I wasn’t sure how or when to bring it up.
We arrived around 6:00 and hit the locker room by 6:15. The stadium was already alive with the sound of bands, cheerleaders, and the roar of the crowd. At 6:50, we took the field. The coin toss was at 7:00 sharp. Jesuit won and chose to defer to the second half.
I stood on the sideline, adjusting my jersey and shoulder straps, my ribs throbbing beneath the inflatable pad. Blaire and the girls were filling Gatorade bottles nearby. She caught my eye and waved. I gave her a nod, trying to steady my breathing.
“Damn it,” I thought, feeling the weight of the moment. My hands trembled. I clenched my fists, trying to shake it off as the whistle blew and the kickoff sailed downfield.
Helmet on. Game time.
I lined up at defensive tackle, next to Liam, with Jason behind us at linebacker. The quarterback barked the count. The ball snapped. The offense shifted right. I collided with the tackle and guard, feeling a sharp pressure in my left side. Still, we pushed them back, three-yard loss.
Second and 13.
The next snap came fast. The offensive line surged forward. I got pinched between the tackle and guard, and everything went white. My lungs burned. I hit the turf, dazed, breathless. I tried to get up, but it felt like moving through cement.
Coach Smith called a timeout and sprinted out with the trainer.
“Is it your rib, Bigun?” he asked, unsnapping my helmet. I nodded, tears stinging my eyes as the trainer pressed gently on my side. I winced hard.
“That’s it. Let’s sit it out. Get you right, son,” Coach said, helping me to my feet.
Furious, I stormed to the bench, unsnapped my pads, and threw my helmet down. My face was red with frustration. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad and Bruce making their way to the fence.
“Chris,” Coach barked. “Take a breather. Get yourself together. And don’t throw stuff on my sideline.” He slapped my shoulder pads and forced me to sit.
I knew he wasn’t mad, just disappointed. And I was too.
Blaire appeared a moment later, handing me a Gatorade. Her face was scrunched with worry.
She mouthed “I’m sorry” as she handed me the cup and briefly rubbed my neck.
“It’s ok,” I whispered as I nodded my head. Each breath hurt as I sat there. My ribs throbbed.
I sat out until the half, and the coach had me pull my pads off for the trainer in the locker room.
“Fuck,!” I exclaimed.
“How do you feel, Bigun?” Coach asked as I leaned over and turned, the pain still there. Coach only nodded his head as the trainer checked me..
We were down by 14 at halftime, and Jesuit was set to receive the kickoff at the start of the 3rd quarter. Blaire came up to me and hugged me as we made our way to the field.
“Be careful,” she whispered as I put my helmet on and got into the groove. We played hard, and the score was 21-14 at the start of the fourth quarter. Bishop Moore had the ball and was in range for a field goal when I took the defensive end position on the play.
The snap was good, and the Bishop Moore offense pushed the line up 4 yards for a 3rd and 2. The kicking team came in and put 3 more on the board, making the score 24 to 14.
I was feeling winded as the offense took the field and pushed the play to put 3 more on the board, making it 24 to 17 with three minutes left in the quarter.
The defense was back in, I was on the bench, and we held them to four downs and kicked. Jesuit took the ball on the 24-yard line and pushed the ball to put 3 more on the board, making the score 24 to 20 with a minute left in the quarter.
Bishop Moore ran the clock and took a timeout as we waited. The play started, and they ran the clock down again, then called a timeout, their last one.
Coach Smith called us all together. “Boys, they're playing mind games with us. This is their last timeout, so we are going to own the last minute. Play strong, and no matter what, we’re coming away with a winning schedule. So go out there and have fun.” He croaked as we made our way back to the field. The offense drove the ball down to the 3rd yard line, and it was 1st and goal with 2 seconds left. Bishop snapped and put 3 on the board, making it 27-20. The team limped off the field. The clock read 0:00, and the game was over. Our chance at regionals was over. The coach made his way around the locker room, comforting the seniors.
Tim came up to me and sat on the bench, shirtless, with his football pants and cleats on. We just sat there in silence as the rest of the team milled around the locker room.
“Thank you,” Tim said as he sat there, his forearms on his knees and his fingers interlaced in his lap. He just stared off into the distance and repeated his statement. “Thank you, Chris, for making this a great season,” Tim mumbled, his voice cracking as he looked at me. The weight of the end of the football is clearly visible in his eyes.
“Anyway, we are having a get-together at the grove when we get back, and I won’t take no for an answer,” Tim said with a smile creeping up over the tears in his eyes.
“ I wouldn’t miss it, bro,” I replied as I threw my arm around his shoulder, slapping his back.
My dad stuck his head in the locker room. “Chris,” he shouted. I looked at him, tears in my eyes. Dad crossed the locker room and sat next to Tim.
“You boys did your best,” Dad said as he hugged me. “I’m proud of you, Son,” he whispered through a catch breath.
“Thanks, Dad,” I replied as I wiped my eyes.
“See you tomorrow for breakfast,” Dad said as he brushed his pants off and looked at me.
I nodded,” I’ll be ready about 8. Ok?”
“Sounds good, you boys be safe,” Dad said as he clapped me on the shoulder, slid me a twenty, and walked out, winking at me with a smile and a nod.
Tim picked his bag up and made his way to the shower. “Your Dad's a good one, bro, bro. My dad would never.” Tim said as he slipped into the shower stall.
I wasn’t in the greatest of moods when Blaire came up to me that night, and I tried not to take it out on her.
“Babe, I’m sorry about tonight.” She whispered as she held my head against her shoulder. I just stood there, stunned at the game, my ribs, and just life in general.
I looked up and kissed her, fighting back a tear. “Stop…. Blaire,” I said, her eyes and smile so warm and welcoming. “The seniors are having a thing at the Grove, do you want to go?” I asked, hoping she would say yes.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” She replied with a grin.
I grabbed her and pulled her close, “Dad gave me some money, so drinks are on me.” I joked as she giggled and kissed my cheek.
“You’re my person, Christopher James Dowling.”
“I know,” we bantered playfully.
The buses got back to the school around 11 PM, and we unpacked by 11:30 PM. Blaire and I jumped in Wyatt's wagon around 11:35, and we hit the BLVD to the grove. We made it to the Grove around 11:45, and I dropped my twenty off with Davis and grabbed two cups for the keg.
I held Blaire’s hand as the music pumped from Kyle’s truck, and Tim was doing back flips off the tailgate of Davis’s jacked-up pickup. I leaned in, hugged her neck, and kissed her forehead. We filled our cups up and circled the bonfire. Wyatt and Megan were off in the Caprice, and we found a log to sit on and watch the fire.
“I want to spend every second I can with you,” I whispered in Blaire’s ear. She turned towards me, smiling with a playful grin in her eyes.
“Well, we can have a few tonight,” as she leaned in, kissing my neck and blowing a raspberry on my collarbone. We laughed as Tim came over and flopped down next to us. He was clearly already drunk and just looked at us, wobbling and smiling. I felt sorry for him. Tonight was his last football game as a player; he wasn’t planning to go to college but had given the Marines some consideration.
“You two,” Tim began as he lost balance and fell off the stump.
“Oh shit,” I chuckled as I helped him lie on his side. “Get some rest, Bro,” I whispered as I took his empty cup, turned it over, and placed it on his forehead as a joke.
I plopped down next to Blaire, looking at her eyes, and leaned in. Laughing, we lay down by the stump, and I held her as the fire roared in the distance.
“Who was the guy with your dad tonight?” Blaire asked.
“That’s my Dad’s partner,” I replied, not giving it much thought.
“What do you mean?” she quizzed me, the noise and commotion around us fading away.
“His partner,” I repeated. “Blaire, my father is gay.” There, I said it. Put in her lap, a little abruptly, but it was the truth.
“Shut up!” she exclaimed, her mouth drooping. She giggled at the lighthearted response. “Can we hang out with them?”
“Soon,” I whispered.