Chapter 2
Chapter two
Spinning Out
Jameson Sinclair
That did not go the way I planned it. Charlie was supposed to like my idea, agree that I shouldn’t be the one to write it, then give it to Marigold.
It would have meant maybe an interview or two with her, and pretending not to see her at games and practices while she took notes in her little brown notebook.
That would have been torture enough, but it was worth it to give her an article she would excel at.
Instead, I’m stuck working with the woman who hates me for the rest of the season.
I focus on my laptop, pretending to work when I know that Marigold is staring me down across the aisle.
Ten years from now, I’m convinced I’ll still feel her hazel gaze.
Even if we stay enemies or whatever it is we are in her eyes.
This sort of instinct doesn’t go away. It’s as much a part of me as my DNA.
My mind conjures up a depressing scene of us passing by one another in a bookstore.
Her with a stack of classics in her arms, me with a mystery tucked against my side.
I feel her stare and I just know. We lock eyes for a breath before she pretends she didn’t see me at all.
Maybe she rushes to leave, or maybe she hides within the shelves.
Either way, she’ll leave me spinning out like a car on black ice.
The same way she did the day she found out about the internship.
I close my eyes for a moment, willing myself to push away the pain.
To shove it down, only to let it out when I have a helmet on and a stick in my hand.
It’s not like I don't deserve to feel this way. After all, it’s my fault we’re in this situation.
I’m the one who betrayed her, though I know it’s deeper than that, whether Marigold will admit to it or not.
She didn’t push me away because I applied for the internship when we agreed not to.
That was the excuse. A good one, I’ll admit, but still an excuse nonetheless.
“You can’t ignore me forever,” Marigold says, forcing me to open my eyes and look at her.
She’s wearing a fitted black turtleneck today.
It makes her auburn hair stand out even more, despite that it’s piled on top of her head.
A matching black pencil sticks out of it.
I know her desk is hiding a plaid skirt and tights.
I got to the newsroom earlier than her—a feat, given that she’s determined to beat me here—and watched her walk in.
As always, I had to force myself not to stare.
She’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
“I wasn’t aware that I was ignoring you. Did you say something before now?” I ask.
She frowns. I’ve gotten used to seeing the expression on a daily basis.
“I need your schedule, so that I can know when practices are and when we can meet up to talk about the article.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms.
“Give me yours, and I’ll give you mine,” I reply.
She rolls her eyes. Another thing I’ve become accustomed to. Though that one I used to see even when we were friends. Marigold is fond of sarcasm and sass.
“I’m not the star of the article, so you don’t need my schedule.”
“I’m not the star either. It’s about the team, not me,” I retort.
Marigold leans forward over her desk. The newsroom is busy around us, as always after a pitch meeting. Unless someone chooses to listen in, it’s unlikely that anyone will know we’re arguing. Everyone is too preoccupied with their own articles or tasks.
“About the team that you play for. Was it not enough for you to have your name in the byline? Did you have to have it in the headline too?”
I scowl.
“You know me better than to think that.”
“I don’t know you at all,” she lies through her teeth.
I clench my jaw.
“If this is going to work, we’re going to need to be cordial,” I grit out.
“I disagree. I think I’ll accomplish the task just as well with hostility.” The smile she wears is in contrast to the barbs she throws. “Now, the schedule?”
“Yours first,” I demand in a cool tone.
“You don’t need mine. And if you won’t give me yours, I’ll simply look around for the first guy in a hockey sweatshirt and ask him for the practice schedule.” She stands up and smoothes her skirt. I avert my gaze from her legs.
Thinking about her seeking out one of my teammates has irrational anger coursing through my veins. They’re all good guys, but that doesn’t mean I want her asking for their schedule.
“I’ll email it to you.”
Marigold smiles, but there’s no warmth to it. She pulls her messenger bag onto her shoulder and tucks her notebook inside.
She quotes Austen: “There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”
I hate that she makes me want to smile even while she tap dances on my nerves. I bite the inside of my cheek. Marigold waves to Paisley, then slips out from behind her desk and walks a few steps.
“Pride and Prejudice.” I call out the reference because I can’t help myself. It used to be our game, back before everything came crashing down.
She falters for a step but continues down the aisle between desks, not saying anything in return or even glancing back. I sigh.
“James, James, James,” Paisley tsks from her desk.
I swing my head toward her, unamused. She knows I hate being called James.
But as Marigold’s partner in crime, the bright and bubbly woman insists on using the awful nickname every chance she gets.
It didn’t start happening until the beginning of this semester, which makes me think Marigold has only just recently trusted Paisley enough to open up to her.
“Can I help you, Polka Dots?”
She scrunches up her nose at my play on the meaning of her name.
“Maybe if you apologized to Marigold for ruining y’all’s friendship, she would hate you less,” she suggests cheerfully.
I snap my laptop shut.
“If you think I haven’t tried to apologize already, then you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”
Her mouth pops open in indignation.
“I should throw my matcha at you for that.”
I put my hands in the air to signal go ahead.
“It’s not like the day can get any worse,” I grouse.
“Your decisions led to this,” Paisley oh-so-helpfully reminds me.
“I’m aware.”
I shove my laptop into my navy-blue backpack, then zip it up and sling it over my shoulder. I can email Marigold once I’m back in my dorm. It’s not like I was getting much work done here anyway.
“Did you suggest the article so she could have it?” Paisley asks as I’m walking around my desk. I stop and meet her gaze. She’s looking at me like I’m the plot of a mystery novel she can’t quite piece together.
“Does it matter if I did?” I ask with a shrug. “She still hates me.”
“I don’t know about that.”
I shoot her an exasperated look.
“You just said—”
“I say a lot of things, James.” Paisley rolls her eyes. “So does Marigold. We don’t always mean them.”
My brow furrows.
“And what am I supposed to do with that information?”
“Consider it. Write it into one of your poems about Marigold’s eyes. Whatever will help you use a bit of critical thinking to clean up the mess you made.”
“Poems?” I shake my head, incredulous. “I don’t write poetry.”
Except for one time. But there’s no way Paisley knows about that.
“Men who pine like you don't go through life without writing at least one poem,” Paisley says, like her words hold some kind of philosophical truth.
I’m not pining. But I get the feeling that Paisley won’t accept that reply.
“You have issues.”
She shrugs. “Maybe so, but at least one of them isn’t betraying my best friend.”
I give her a flat look. She grants me a saccharine smile that explains how she’s friends with Marigold. They must feed off each other’s sass.
“I can’t tell whether you hate me or you want me to be friends with Marigold again.”
“I want whatever is best for Marigold. And I think you could be good for her, if you repair what you broke.”
My heart cracks at the implications of her words. I broke Marigold. My best friend. My person. I grip the strap of my backpack.
“I don’t want things to be this way,” I confess around the lump in my throat.
Paisley nods. “I know. So what are you going to do about it?”
If only I knew a good answer to her question.