Chapter 9 #2
Anyway, it was kind of nice not to be running on my own, to hear the rugby guys yelling.
Especially since that video call with Mum, after which I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my dad and Mr. Ward.
I tried calling Isi to take my mind off it.
Since I’ve been in Scotland, we’ve only messaged a couple of times.
She declined my WhatsApp video call—she was out somewhere at the time.
I’m probably reading too much into it, but it feels kind of weird that my best friend is being snippy.
If I were her, I’d want to know every last detail, however tiny, about the new school.
But I haven’t had a chance to tell her anything—not about boarding-school life and not about Henry either.
And I really wouldn’t mind talking through this whole thing about him with someone.
Not that there even is a thing, really, but .
. . I’d still like to tell someone. And Tori doesn’t seem to be the right person.
I really like her a lot, but she’s been friends with Grace, Olive, and everyone for years.
So I do the only sensible thing: I don’t talk, I run. After forty-five minutes of tempo runs, I can hardly feel my legs, but that’s fine, because it means I’m too dead for my brain to keep churning. It’s a simple equation. If you run until you can’t think straight, you can’t stay moody either.
But it doesn’t seem to have worked on Henry, even though he was sprinting and catching that ball every time I happened to glance his way.
His chest is heaving and he drops onto the bench like a sack of potatoes, propping his elbows on his knees. I want to tell him he needs to keep moving, even if his body is demanding the exact opposite, but unfortunately, I’m on the wrong side of the track just now, doing my cooldown routine.
There are only a few players still on the pitch as I finally stop and pick up my stuff, which I left on the edge of the stands. Henry’s gone, and I shouldn’t be so disappointed about that. I wish I could ask him how the tryout went, though. It seems like he cares a lot about getting onto the team.
I’m still really warm, but I pull my hoodie on before I start stretching. I’m just straightening up from a hip flexor stretch when he’s suddenly standing in front of me.
“Hi.” His cheeks are still red, and I smile slightly as I straighten. “Saw you running.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know what else to say. My heart’s pounding again. Does he think I was watching him? I hope not. “I needed to clear my head a bit.” I can see exactly what Henry’s thinking, but before he can ask, I hurry on, “How did it go?”
A shadow crosses his face and he shrugs his shoulders. “Honestly? It was shit.” He laughs, but I can hear his frustration. “The idea of getting onto the team was clearly a bit overambitious.”
“It looked good to me,” I say, instantly regretting it. Great! Now he knows I was watching the whole thing.
But Henry just shrugs again. “Mr. Cormack doesn’t think so. I’ve got a month to prove myself, but I might as well save myself the pain.”
“Hey, what kind of attitude is that?” Henry looks startled as I frown at him. “Giving up before you’ve even really started? Is that the school-captain spirit?”
He has to smile, but only for a moment. Then his face is serious again. “I just really underestimated this whole thing. I’d have training four times a week, and I need to work on my fitness on top of that. And even then, there’s no guarantee that I’d make it.”
“If you don’t, you’d have had a month’s fitness training,” I point out. There it is, that freaking smile again.
“I like the way you think,” he says, and my cheeks, which are still flushed from training, burn even hotter.
I hurriedly bend down for my bag so that Henry won’t see my face.
We’re practically the last people off the field.
As we walk back to school, all I can hear is the gravel crunching under our feet.
“Did Grace ask you about the track team, by the way?” Henry says at some point.
I raise my head. “No, not yet. Why?”
“Oh, she said she would. Maybe she forgot.”
“Maybe,” I repeat. “Will you be at hers over the weekend?”
God, Wiley. What the hell has that got to do with you?
Henry looks a little confused. “No. Why d’you ask?”
“I was just wondering. Never mind. Forget it.”
“I’m here almost every weekend,” he says. “I sometimes go to my grandparents, but they live in Cheshire, which is a bit south of Manchester. We used to spend most of our summer holidays there too.”
Oh, is that where his accent is from? It’s incredibly hot. Oh, God, what’s wrong with me?
“Do you visit them often?” I ask, just for something to say.
“Not as often as I should,” he admits. “It’s five hours by train. Sometimes my brother drives me—he’s got a car.”
I’m about to ask him about his brother, but almost the moment we step through the gate, a man approaches us. He taps his watch with his index finger.
“Ten o’clock. Wing time,” he calls out.
“We’re practically there,” Henry replies. He turns back to me. “Are you here this weekend?”
“Yes.” I don’t know where else I’d be.
He smiles. “Good.” He leans forward. He hugs me. Breathe, breathe. “See you around, then. Sleep well, Emma from Germany.”