Chapter 24
“FEELS LIKE” BY GRACIE AbrAMS
After Spirit Hunter practice, I walked down the hallway and tried to wrap my head around my best friends possibly being in love with each other.
I’d had suspicions for a while, but it felt almost like a relief to know all this dancing around talking about it might finally be over.
If I could see how much they enjoyed each other’s company, I was sure other people did as well.
“You’re not seriously trying out again.”
I slowed my steps when I heard a familiar voice drip from the copy room behind me. My combat boots rocked back, and I inched to the open door, where a flash of pink grabbed my attention.
“You’re wasting your time.” A football player, Zeek, towered behind Quinntessa as she worked the copy machine. “We have a team. We don’t need you.”
“You have a bunch of blubbering idiots trying to learn how to spell their own name,” she shot back, seemingly unbothered by his words.
“Just stay off the field. None of us want you there.”
Quinntessa turned around and glared at Zeek. She took a small step back, bumping into the copier when the boy showed no plans to move out of her way.
“No one wants me anywhere, Zeek. Get in line. This isn’t news to me. It’s my life.” She flexed her jaw. “I have every right to be down on the field that you do. I’m a player. I’m interested in advancing my skills toward a career in?—”
“Then find a career that fits you! The NFL would never take a girl.”
“This girl beat your butt on that field, and that’s the only reason you’re upset.
I’m faster and have a better reaction time than you boys.
” Quinntessa surprised me by snapping at him, taking a step forward and throwing out her hands to his chest. She scrunched her arms into her stomach quick afterward, a soft shake to her fingers.
“Get away from me. I have personal space, and if you’re in it again, I’ll hit you with this stapler. ”
“Oh? You’re gonna hit me? You girls are too damn moo—” He took a threatening step toward Quinntessa, towering over her.
“Didn’t she tell you to get the fuck out of her space?” I spoke up from the doorway. “Because I think you’re too steps from me ripping off your balls and shoving them down your throat.”
Zeek flew multiple feet back at the sight of me. He groaned like a little child, stomping his feet all the way out the doorway.
“Stay off the football field, Dawson!” he shouted behind him.
I chuckled and threw my thumb in the direction he stormed off.
“Fucking, bastard. You deal with that a lot?” I asked, smiling in amusement. “All these boys acting like childish little?—”
Quinntessa wheezed quietly. Her strength washed out of her, and every ounce of impressive confidence I just witnessed oozed away. She shakily lowered the stapler and let the color return to her knuckles.
“Hey…” I carefully approached. “Are you okay?”
“Ye-yeah,” she choked out.
Her fake smile struggled to stay afloat. Her eyes filled with tears, magnifying all the shades I was coming to enjoy. I stood there, heart aching for her, and watched Quinntessa try to laugh it off.
“It happens. They eventually get over it for a while.” Her voice cracked. “It’s just something that happens. It’s . . . It’ my normal.”
Her stuttering was physically agonizing. She was struggling to breathe without sobbing. The thought of hitting Zeek over the head with a baseball bat shot across my mind.
“Mustang…” I stepped forward and offered her my hand. “Just because it happens in our world doesn’t mean it should. No one gets to treat you like that.”
She accepted my hand, then took my other. We remained a considerable distance apart. I offered my support through the light brush of my thumbs over her knuckles and waited for the devastation in her eyes to melt.
We stood in silence until the bell rang. Her breathing eventually evened out. Her make up never smeared, even with the threat of her tears. It was both impressive and heartbreaking. She was obviously experienced with this situation.
I hated the world for making her believe this was normal. There was nothing normal about making a strong woman like Quinntessa Dawson feel so fucking miserable for being herself.
When she finally released my hands, I stepped back with the intention of letting her have a moment to herself.
I couldn’t stand still. Maybe it was my impatience to hear her voice, or possibly it was the rage boiling me alive from the inside out. I turned and headed for the hallway.
“Quinn?” she spoke up.
I stopped in the doorway and looked over my shoulder. My lip ring snagged between my teeth when she ran her fingers through her wild mane of curls to find my eyes.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
The pain in my heart—the pain that was always there, burning me alive—gave way to a new type of pleasure. It ignited something inside me, seeing her come down from a panic attack and reach for my hand. She needed me. I meant something to her.
And that felt so damn good.
I fucking hated it.
“Thank me over dinner one day.” I numbly nodded and rushed out the door before the unfamiliar sensation Yankee Doodle infected me with spread any further into my cold heart.