28 | Georgia
“HEY, EL?” I ask, knocking on the half-open door to her bedroom.
It's been nearly two weeks since she’s been home. She spent our recent fall break back home in Houston, and we'd barely talked the whole time. She’d invited me to go with her, but I figured my living in her parent’s house for nearly all of high school was intrusion enough. Besides, I could use a little alone time.
I lived with Patrick practically since the start of college – and Eleanor’s family before that. My lack of independence can be a bit of a sore subject for me. I mean, I never even got to get a driver’s license. Eleanor has never made me feel bad about that, or like a burden. But it doesn’t mean I don’t still feel that way sometimes.
“What’s up, Georgie?” she asks, looking up from her book.
“Nothing, really. I’ve just missed you. A lot.”
She smiles at me softly and pats the bed beside her.
“I’ve missed you, too. Come over here – I wanna know all about what you did over break.”
I sit down on the edge of the twin bed, leaning my head against her shoulder.
“I didn’t do much. A lot of thinking.”
“About that night with Henry?” she asks, smirking. “I never got a text back when I asked for all the details – did he seriously streak? Because of some dare?”
“It wasn’t really a dare. They have something called the ‘punishment wheel’ that they have to spin if they break the house rules.”
“God, men.” She rolls her eyes as she places a dog ear in the top corner of her book page.
“I know right.”
I sigh and allow her room to fill up with comfortable silence. Nobody makes me feel more at home than Eleanor. I mean, living with her was the first moment of peace I’d ever had in my life. When I lived with my mom, she was always in and out of jail, or on the streets – I could go days at a time having no idea where she was. But Eleanor was always there, always a constant. Like a sister.
A few minutes pass before Eleanor asks me what’s wrong. She isn’t wondering if something is upsetting me, she already knows something is. She can always tell.
“I just don’t know what to do.” I raise my thumbnail to my lips to bite it. “I think Henry really likes me. But… I’m scared.”
She turns to face me, her expression calm.
“Do you have feelings for him?”
“I don’t know if I should. I mean, I just broke up with Patrick, who I lived with, and who cheated on me and yelled at me and called me names…”
“But do you have feelings for Henry?” Her tone is serious, her words terse. She knows I’m trying to beat around the bush.
I pause for a moment to think. I recall how apologetic he was when he hurt my feelings one time by calling me a snitch. Patrick never apologized like that. I remember how he organized that game at Mason Field to help teach me about football, how willing he was to help me with my article, how he punched Patrick just because he hurt me. How he saved me from getting pummeled by their wide receiver, and tried to warn me that I could get hurt. How right it felt when he kissed me…
“Yes,” I squeak out, burying my head in my hands. “I do.”
“Eeeeeek!” she squeals. “You finally admitted it!”
“I–”
“You have to tell him, Georgie.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement as she speaks.
“No – definitely not.” I shake my head defiantly, hoping that’ll be the end of it.
It’s not.
“Girl. He kissed you. Twice! He punched Patrick for you and saved your life at a football game. He obviously feels the same way.”
“It’s not about that, El.” I lean my head back against the pillow, one arm slung over my eyes in defeat. “If I tell him I like him – then what? We become boyfriend and girlfriend? We move in together? I mean, he’s already been chosen by the Mavericks. Do I follow him there? What about my career as a journalist? What if I don’t want to be a football wife, carrying around his future football captain children?”
“Whoa,” she interjects, staring at me wide-eyed. “Nobody said you have to have his football babies, G. We’re talking about going on one date. Or just admitting to him that you think he’s fine, which he is.”
She raises one eyebrow dramatically at me, knowing she’s right.
“You could tell him after the big game,” she concludes. “Didn’t the Coach confirm he’ll be playing or whatever?”
“The physical therapist did, yeah. He’s officially playing this weekend.”
“That’s perfect! You can get the information you need for the Tribune, then run up to him on the field and kiss his perfect face. Like a rom com.” She sighs dreamily, blinking her eyes up at the ceiling and smiling.
“You’re crazy.” I laugh, pushing her to the side to break her out of her daydream.
“Hey!” She grins from ear-to-ear, pushing me back and knocking me straight onto the floor.
We crack up, and I can’t help but feel a sense of… relief? Calmness? Eleanor and I had shared a room in high school and spent more than our fair share of nights on the floor in tears from laughing so hard. This moment feels just like that – it’s nostalgic. Warm. Comforting.
After a minute or so, we finally manage to collect ourselves, and Eleanor reiterates her point while wiping away tears.
“I mean it, though, Georgie. After the game is the perfect time to tell him. He’ll have that post-game high that athletes get.”
“How would you know that athletes get that?”
“It’s in all the novels I read!”
“You mean the smut stories?”
She picks up her book and throws it at me, because she knows I’m right.
“This is fantastic, Georgia. Truly a great background on Mr. Anderson here.”
Dr. Randie gazes at me warmly, her signature half-smile on full display.
“Really?”
My tone is hopeful, excited. I had been working to perfect this article about Henry’s history with football for weeks. It’s gone through 3 or 4 revisions with Dr. Randie, plus approval from Coach Bryer. I swear, I’ve never put more work into an article in my life. I mean, it helps when you get to make out with the hot interviewee.
It’s October now, and the TU Titans are approaching the playoffs. Coach Bryer has been promoting the Tribune in nearly every interaction with students he has, in hopes that learning more about the shining captain of the team will encourage student support for the Titans. Buying tickets to the games, purchasing TU Titans-themed gear, etc., all in pursuit of the NCAA championship this winter.
“Yes, it’s wonderful! It gives a great picture of Mr. Anderson’s history with the sport of football. Speaking of which – Henry, I had no idea your father was a TU Titans captain, too.”
Henry smiles from the chair beside me, his dimples on full display.
“Yes ma’am,” he drawls, leaning forward in his chair, “Best captain we ever had.”
Henry’s shoulder is almost fully healed now, with the once dark purple bruise now completely faded. To prepare for the qualifying game this weekend, he’d been in physical therapy and practice every day of the fall break. This is the first time I’ve been able to see him since the ‘punishment wheel’ incident.
He always dressed nicely for our meetings with Dr. Randie; I reason that it must be the southern upbringing in him. He’s clad in dark wash jeans and a pressed button-up shirt, the light blue sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his tanned and muscular forearms. His hair has been styled, instead of being left half-wet and tousled like he would after a practice. He’s a few feet away from me, but I can still smell the comforting scent of his lavender and sage cologne.
God, he’s beautiful.
Dr. Randie begins to ask Henry more questions about himself. What years his father was captain, how he feels about being chosen by the Mavericks, and more, but I’m not paying any attention to his responses. My heart is pounding just looking at him, and I can’t help but wonder if Eleanor was right.
Should I tell him how I feel after the game? If not, when? Or should I not tell him at all? Surely, after these articles are complete, this whole thing will blow over. He’ll be too busy as an NFL player to remember me, or reach out to me–
My thoughts are interrupted when Henry looks over at me and winks, so quickly and smoothly that only I would ever notice.
I have to tell him.
It’s almost lunchtime when Dr. Randie dismisses us from her office with a promise that my column will be printed in the next day’s edition of the Texas University Tribune. Not only that, but a copy will be passed out to every student entering Mason Field for the qualifying game.
“I’m so proud of you, Georgia,” Henry whispers, leaning close to me as we enter the crowded hallway.
“You are?” I blurt, my cheeks flushing from the compliment – and from how good he looks.
I trail my eyes from his plush lips down to his chest, where the top few buttons of his shirt lay open, taunting me.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Henry Anderson naked since the night he streaked across campus. He’d had nothing on but his boxer briefs – and I swear I’d give anything to have seen what was beneath them.
As I watched him run, I could not stop thinking about our earlier kiss. By the time he made it to the Quad, a nagging desire to go back to his house and continue our “interview" had begun to cloud my thoughts entirely. But he ran into a teammate of his on his way back, the same one that had been dancing with Natalia Bryer at that party earlier this year, and it seemed to have altered his mood. By the time he made it back to the statue of Ole Donny, his punishment complete, he was unsettled and distant. I wanted to ask him what was wrong – more than anything – but it didn’t seem right to prod as he busily put on his clothes in the cold, his cheeks bright red from the freezing air.
“Of course I’m proud! Listen, Georgia – can I talk to you?” He places a hand gently on my arm, and I’m suddenly ripped back into reality, standing in a crowded hall of the Liberal Arts building.
“Sure,” I respond, attempting to seem casual and like I wasn’t just mentally undressing him. “What’s up?”
“Dr. Randie told me you have tickets to sit in the stands at the game tomorrow. You can absolutely say no, but I wanted to ask if you’d sit on the sidelines for me… and if you’d wear this.”
He pulls a neatly folded football jersey from his backpack, the number “83” and “ANDERSON” emblazoned boldly across each side.
“I know you might be a little scared after what happened before, but I swear it’s safe. As long as you don’t stand right next to Coach.”
He clears his throat and looks at me, his expression vulnerable and almost nervous. “It would mean a lot to me.”
I look up at him in disbelief.
Henry Anderson, captain of the TU football team and every girl at this school’s wet dream, is asking me to wear his jersey and stand on the sidelines for him. What is happening?
“Sure, um, I’d love to,” I stutter, taking the jersey from his outstretched hand. My fingers brush against his as I do so, and my heart practically leaps out of my chest.
“Great,” he whispers, his captivating smile warming the space between us. “Then I’ll see you at the game.”