Chapter 12 #2
His brows pull in before he looks down at the note, which has a little drawing that I can’t make out since I can’t seem to get myself to focus.
“My full name is Dawson River Sinclair. I’m named after my mom’s favorite childhood TV show, which I’ll never publicly admit to, and my grandpa, who coaches for the Nashville Assassins. ”
I just blink.
“Is he serious?”
The guy nods, handing me the paper. I reluctantly take it. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Tell him to stop and that I’m not interested.”
He shrugs. “I will, but I don’t think he cares. He has a plan.”
“Jesus above,” I mutter, running my hands down my face. I know if I go to Dawson, I’ll be giving him what he wants.
I have to ignore him.
Yes. Ignore this stupid plan of his.
For the next two weeks of classes, there is always a football player waiting for me.
The first guy reads me my Post-it with the biggest grin. “I was born on July 5th, and my dad made sure to shoot off fireworks since my mom missed them when she was in labor with me.”
While the second guy didn’t want to read his note, he did after I refused to take it. “Louis is my brother and best friend. You can ask him if I’m cool and all. Here is his number.”
I almost text Louis to tell his brother to leave me the fuck alone, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I feel like any attention I give this will only encourage Dawson more. He loves the attention; he wants me to fawn over him, and I’m not doing it.
The wild thing is, our messages haven’t stopped.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Did you see that Cruz asked to be traded?
Me: I did. Are you surprised? He knows he won’t get his playtime with Odder being there.
DoesMyBreathStink60: True. He’s too damn talented to be a backup.
Me: Exactly.
DoesMyBreathStink60: How’s your day going?
Me: Just fine. Busy with classes, then I have some editing to do tonight.
DoesMyBreathStink60: You should invite me over to watch.
Me: Ew, no. You could be a murderer.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Man, that would be such a cool story. Podcast host killed by podcast listener.
Me: You’d get a cool name. The Podcast Butcher
DoesMyBreathStink60: No. The Dead-Air Killer
Me: Noooo, the Podcutter. We’d get you a cool knife.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Yessss… How about the Sound-Checking Slasher?
Me: Ooh, and your signature can be cutting a mic into the skin of your victims.
DoesMyBreathStink60: I should be terrified of you, right?
Me: No way. I wouldn’t kill a fly.
Me: But spiders are fair game
DoesMyBreathStink60: Fuck yeah, they are.
The ease of our conversations makes me forget there will be a football player waiting for me with another note that I won’t be able to read. When I get super overwhelmed or nervous, the words become one, and there is no reading them.
It’s super frustrating, but it’s my life.
I tuck my phone into my back pocket, trying to remind myself that Dawson and DoesMyBreathStink60 are the same person. That I can’t continue to enjoy the latter, but it’s difficult to want to cut it off when I find that I’ve been smiling more.
What does that mean?
Could Dawson be more than what I’ve experienced?
Why is my life hard?
The grin that DoesMyBreathStink60 put there vanishes the moment I step out of the building.
Four football players have huge smiles on their faces, excitement in their eyes, and each is holding a sign.
So many people have gathered, cheering me on and urging me to say yes, when I don’t even know what I would be saying yes to.
There is so much yelling, random squeals, and laughter.
Does someone have a cowbell? Why in the hell are people taking my picture? Shit, is she videoing me?
My whole body starts to vibrate, the embarrassment making me feel so small and worthless as they all grin widely at me.
That’s the problem with having a learning disability.
You instantly feel worthless after years of people telling you that you can’t do something or not helping you in the way you need.
Everyone is waiting for me, and I have no clue what the signs say. But everyone else does, leaving me to want to close in on myself and hide. I feel the tears prick my eyes as a guy I don’t know, since I don’t know shit about football or the team, tries to hand me the note.
I don’t take it. “Read it,” I say through clenched teeth, trying to hold back my tears.
He pauses, his brows pulling together tightly, but he does as I ask. “I have a ticket for my family’s box waiting for you at will call. I hope you can come to my game tomorrow.”
I swallow thickly, trying so hard to ignore all the people around us, watching and scrutinizing everything I’m doing. I can see the letters. I know they make words. But they may as well be in a different language since I can’t piece them together.
“What do the signs say?” I whisper, and I don’t know why, but compassion fills the dude’s face.
He isn’t the normal jock-looking type. He’s smaller than the rest, with dark-rimmed glasses making his eyes shine.
He has nice features and beautiful brown eyes.
Without looking back, he tells me, “Come watch me play.”
I nod and take the note before I turn so he doesn’t see the tears flowing down my cheeks.
The embarrassment is real, it’s overwhelming, and I know I said I wouldn’t give Dawson what he wants, but this can’t go on.
Dawson Sinclair is about to feel my wrath.
He thought I had balls to flick his nose.
Well, he has no clue how big my balls really are—and how soon he’ll be tasting his!