23 | Henry
GEORGIA CAMPBELL KISSED me. And now she’s snuggled into my chest, breathing deeply and holding her slender arms around my waist.
Georgia's vanilla scent overpowers my thoughts as she holds me close. I wrap my good arm around her, pulling her nearer to me, and trail my eyes over her petite features. Her pouty pink lips are still swollen from our kiss, her eyes and cheeks reddened from her tears.
I called her my friend?
I didn’t know what else to call her in that moment. Just last week, she couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me. But now she’s confessing her deepest secrets to me. She trusts me. And I can still taste the sweet flavor of her strawberry lip gloss…
“Is that your phone?” Georgia asks, her voice muffled as her face presses into my chest.
“Oh, shit. It’s my physical therapy reminder. My appointment is in 5 minutes at Mason Field–”
She scrambles off my lap, wiping her eyes and straightening her clothes.
“Um, yeah – okay. I’ll see you later.” She shoots me a half-smile, closing her scribbled-up journal and placing it in her bookbag.
“We didn’t finish our interview,” I reply, rising from Eleanor’s chair slowly. My arm and shoulder ache, but I try not to wince at the pain.
“Oh, um, well… another time. You really need therapy for that shoulder, Anderson.”
She slings her heavy backpack around herself, knocking her body slightly off balance.
“Why don’t you come over tonight?” I offer. “To my place. We can finish then.”
“Don’t you think all the party people might be a little distracting?” she remarks, a slight harshness to her voice.
“We don’t have parties every night, Campbell.” I laugh. “Danny and Jonah are gonna be out on Greek Row tonight. There won’t be any distractions. Promise.”
She thinks for a moment, a crease between her brows.
“Okay. I can be there at 8. Does that work?”
I smile at her and nod. “Can’t wait.”
PT fucking sucks.
It’s bad enough that I’m benched for the next few games, but Coach Bryer also demanded that I have physical therapy sessions while the team practices.
The physical therapy room adjacent to Mason Field is sterile and white, with a few light weights and stretch machines scattered around. Our team physical therapist, a 75-year old woman named Ms. Gretchen, is nowhere to be seen and, in her absence, I take a moment to analyze the framed photos along the walls.
The pictures range from black-and-white to modern-day color, with the smiling faces of nearly every TU Titans captain staring confidently into the camera, dressed in their full gear. My eyes scan along the printed dates beneath the pictures until I find the one I’m searching for: “1996, James Anderson.”
I’ve stared at my dad’s photograph in this room hundreds of times over my years with the TU Titans, thinking about how it must have felt for him to sit in this room just like I am, analyzing the photos of the captains before him. When I was growing up, my dad always talked about how proud he was to lead this team; he never took the opportunity for granted and considered his teammates family.
I look so much like him. The same eyes, the same jawline, the same smile. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my mom had no part in my genetic makeup at all. Like me, my dad stood at 6 foot 3 inches, with chestnut brown hair and freckled skin. His smile in the photo is so wide that his eyes are practically closed, his deep dimples carving craters into the sides of his cheeks. I scan my eyes further down the wall until I reach my own photo, still glossy from the printer.
I'm dressed in the same maroon and white gear as my Dad, wearing the same dimpled smile – but something is missing. I don’t look truly happy like he was. Probably because, when my picture was taken, my dad was already gone.
“Knock, knock.”
I glance up at the sound of the woman’s voice, instantly recognizing that it doesn’t belong to Ms. Gretchen.
“Natalia? What are you doing here?”
I shift in my seat uncomfortably as Natalia Bryer saunters into the room. Her dark brown hair is curled and pinned halfway back with some sort of clip. She’s dressed in burgundy scrubs, if you can even call them that, given that they’re so tight they’re practically bursting at the seams.
“What do you mean?” she asks innocently, her big blue eyes blinking in confusion. “I’m your physical therapist, silly.”
She walks over to me, bending down to place her clipboard on the table in front of me and flashing her ample cleavage in my direction.
“The fuck you are. Where’s Ms. Gretchen?”
“Why all the hostility, Henry?” She shoots me a deviant smile. “Ms. Gretchen is out today. I’m a PT student, remember? Daddy – I mean, Coach Bryer – said I could take over for her as part of my training. Now let me take a look at that shoulder.”
She lifts up a manicured hand and gently grazes it along my injured arm, her touch uncomfortably intimate and soft. The smell of her cheap cherry perfume is nauseating, and I groan from discomfort.
“Does that hurt?” She whispers, her lips curling into a half smile.
“No.”
“Why don’t you take off your shirt for me, Henry?”
“I know what you’re doing, Natalia, and I already told you – I’m not interested.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she coos, smiling, and attempts to lift the hem of my shirt sleeve.
“I know you’re treating Watson like you’re fucking lackey and told him to hurt Georgia. I swear to God, Natalia, if I wasn’t captain of the team–”
“You’d what, big boy? Spank me for being a bad girl?”
I roll my eyes and yank my sling back over my head, standing up quickly to leave.
“Excuse me for wanting what’s mine!” she calls after me, just before I reach the door. “You know she couldn’t handle you, Henry.”
Her tone is condescending and her eyes glimmer with malevolence. My stomach churns just looking at her.
Why did I ever let this girl touch me?
“I’m not yours, Natalia. And I’m never going to be.”