12 | Georgia
MY LIMBS ARE painfully sore from the cramped cushions of the living room couch, where I’ve been sleeping for days now. Patrick has asked me numerous times to share the bedroom, but I’ve refused. I haven’t spoken to him since Friday, when he lost his temper in the parking lot of Mason Field.
“Ugh,” I groan, bringing my arm to my forehead in a futile attempt to block the sunlight. I inhale sharply as the purple bruising on my wrist collides with my skin.
I can’t believe he grabbed me that hard.
With my eyes still closed, I start to flail my arm around aimlessly across the wooden coffee table, aiming to locate my phone through touch alone.
3 new text messages from HENRY ANDERSON.
1 new email from ELEANOR ADLER.
I sigh, rubbing the remaining sleep from my itching eyes, and glance quickly in the direction of the bedroom door which, at 8:32 a.m., still remains closed.
Great.
I dial her number, clearing my throat from the grogginess of the night before.
“Hello?” I hear the murmurs of other people around her – she must be on campus already.
“Hey, El, I got your email. Randie’s scrapping my piece?” I sit up gingerly, my back aching.
“Yeah, dude. She said most TU students are already football experts and you need to focus on individuals. She asked that you do a piece all about Henry Anderson. He made a deal with the Lone Star Mavericks to be drafted, you know. First round pick – I think. I don’t know, but I’ve heard that term on the news before.”
“What I’m hearing is you’ve been stalking him,” I respond, ignoring the throbbing headache gnawing at my temples.
She chuckles. “Like it’s my job. Listen, I’m heading over to your place right now to drop off some of Randie’s notes. See you in 5?”
“Sure,” I reply, hanging up the call and standing up, barely holding onto my balance. I adjust my oversized t-shirt, embossed across the chest with a faded Texas University Titans logo. I bought it from a local thrift store years ago, the cotton already effortlessly worn in for maximum comfort, and it quickly became my favorite sleep shirt.
He responds, almost instantly, asking if I’m okay.
No.
I groan, discarding my phone onto my makeshift bed. I’m taking the morning slow – knowing that Patrick was up late last night, I don’t expect him to exit the bedroom until early afternoon. I tiptoe quietly around the apartment, careful not to wake Patrick earlier than I need to, and decide to tune into the newest episode of Jujitsu Kaisha – my all-time favorite anime. As softly as I can, I plop myself on the couch with a cozy blanket and heave a massive sigh.
Time to relax and–
My thoughts are interrupted by a gentle knock on the door.
“Eleanor?” I speak as lightly as possible to avoid waking Patrick.
No answer.
I groan, reluctantly pausing the anime action and dragging my feet to the door.
“You know you can just walk in–” I scold, flailing open the door to reveal the 6-foot-3 captain of the Texas University football team.
I inhale sharply, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest.
“What are you doing here, Henry?” My eyes meet his, their emerald hue darkened with worry. “You can’t be here. I-I thought you were Eleanor.”
He bears a dimpled and gentle smile, his cheeks rosy from the heat. His eyes, which normally boast a devilish sparkle, now appear anxious and vulnerable.
“Hi, Georgia. You look beautiful.”
I scoff and instantly become aware that I’m still wearing the giant TU Titans t-shirt – only the TU Titans shirt. Henry doesn’t seem to notice.
He clears his throat. “I’ve been worried about you. You haven’t answered my texts.”
His hands rest in the pockets of his dark wash jeans, one shoulder pressed against the doorframe. His body language screams “casual,” but his eyes and expression tell me his every move is carefully calculated – like he’s approaching a stray puppy in the street.
Henry’s plump lips are set in a miniscule pout, and I suddenly realize how the lack of a wide smile on his face changes his features entirely. The confident D1 team captain, the one with the cocky smirk constantly plastered across his face, now appears softened by concern.
“I’ve been busy,” I lie, forcing a casual shrug to legitimize my words.
His gaze, which had previously been towards the floor, makes its way slowly upward to match my own, lingering briefly on the deep purple bruising lining my wrist. Without a word, he removes his hands from his pockets, ever so slowly, and gently places them against either edge of the doorframe. I notice the pronounced veins along the tops of his hands, which have been calloused and roughened by years of athleticism. He steps forward ever so slightly, leaning his chest towards my own. I smell his cologne again for the first time since the day we met – clary sage and sweet lavender – and find myself distracted by the freshness of the scent.
“Georgia,” he says, his voice a gravelly whisper, “he shouldn’t speak to you that way.”
I dart my gaze to his face, startled by his boldness. His dark green eyes survey my own with deep focus, patiently awaiting a response. He appears to be in no hurry, as if there is nothing more important than standing in my door frame and listening to my thoughts.
I must be imagining it, I reason. He only cares because he needs my ass in gear for these articles, or else his time as captain is kaput.
“That’s none of your business,” I retort, averting my eyes from his. “I already told you that I’ll see you later today – professionally. Don’t make me regret my decision.”
Before he can respond, I step back from the frame of the door and close it softly. A few beats of silence pass before his footsteps retreat down the hallway – where they belong.