Flying 🏈
Chapter 37
SOPHIA
The coach's shrill whistle cuts through the humid air, but I barely hear it.
My eyes are glued to number 7.
It is the hottest day of the week, and Maria completely forced me to come watch practice with her. I couldn't say no. If I had, I would have had to explain the reason, and telling her about the kiss is something I absolutely refuse to do.
Because it... well, I don't know.
Let's just say I don't want to talk about it.
So, this is the easy option. Watching practice. Even though I understand absolutely nothing. Apparently, they just have to run with the football to the opposite end of the field. It is basically soccer but with your hands, a lot more collisions, and a hell of a lot more aggression.
And every single time my eyes land on Lorenzo, I remember the kiss. I can still feel the ghost of his lips against mine, which is annoying in a way I refuse to examine further. My heart does a treacherous, stupid little flip in my chest.
No. No. Absolutely not.
"...and if they don't reach that line, it's a turnover," Maria explains beside me, gesturing enthusiastically toward the field. She is completely in her element. "Does that make sense? Sophi? Are you even listening to me?"
"Yeah, totally. Turnover. Great," I murmur, forcing my eyes away from number 7.
I need a distraction. Right now.
I pull my backpack onto my lap and yank the zipper open. My fingers dig frantically through packs of gum, lip balms, and crumpled papers. I need to sketch. I am going to lose my mind if I don't give my hands something to do that isn't obsessing over him.
My hand grabs empty air.
Where is my sketchbook?
My breath hitches violently.
No. No, no, no.
I tilt the backpack forward in a panic, ripping open every single pocket. It's not there. My sketchbook is still sitting on the desk in the classroom. With Lorenzo's face drawn all over the page.
I forgot it.
I completely forgot about it because of the film night yesterday, the food, Clara, and everything else that finally made me feel human again for a few hours.
I want to scream. I can feel my heart beating entirely too fast against my ribs.
What if someone finds it? What if someone opens it?
"I have to go," I blurt out, jumping up so fast the bleachers rattle. I throw the strap over my shoulder.
"What? Now? He's about to..." Maria calls after me, but I am already turning my back on her.
Pure, unadulterated panic drives me forward.
I push past the students who have gathered to watch, squeezing apologetically through the crowded rows with murmured sorrys that nobody acknowledges.
I make my way down the bleacher steps, only now realizing how many people have shown up to watch practice today.
Far more than I expected.
I nearly trip over my own sneakers as I cross the grass beside the bleachers, taking what I think is the fastest shortcut toward the school building.
Which is, as it turns out, a really stupid idea.
A really, really stupid idea.
"Heads up! Look out!"
A raw, urgent shout cuts across the field. I freeze. I turn my head to the left, and the very next thing I see is a brown, spiraling blur flying through the air at a terrifying speed, aimed directly at my face.
The impact crashes violently against my temple.
Pain explodes behind my eyes like a firework. The sheer, brutal force knocks me clean off my feet. The next thing I know, the hard ground is rushing up to meet me, and everything goes completely black.
"Oh my God, did I kill her?"
"Shut up, you idiot."
"I think she's just sleeping."
"She's not sleeping, Nickson. She's unconscious."
"She lokks so familiar"
Voices. Too many of them. They layer over each other, arriving from somewhere far away, like they are trapped meters underwater and I am trying to listen from the surface.
My head feels like it has been filled with heavy, molten lead. I can't locate where my body is in relation to anything.
"Who did this?"
A deep male voice slices through the fog, sharp with authority.
Coach Backer.
"Sorry, Coach, I lost sight of it because of the sun..."
A few guys laugh from somewhere.
"Nickson, next time you can't see because of the sun, don't throw the damn ball."
"sorry Coach"
"Get away, get away...move!" A familiar female voice cuts in close, and then I can feel a pair of hands press against my shoulders, shaking me gently.
Maria.
"Oh my God, Sophia"
I want to respond. I want to tell her I'm fine. But nothing comes out of my mouth.
"What was she even doing on the field?"
"Nickson, stop blaming her for your terrible throw."
James.
That is definitely James's voice.
Slowly, unsteadily, I force my eyelids to part. The blinding afternoon sunlight hits my pupils like a physical blow, and I immediately squeeze them shut again with a groan.
"I'm okay," I manage to choke out, though I am entirely sure it's a lie.
"Thank goodness. Miss Miller, can you stand?" Coach asks.
I try to nod, but my entire vision blurs into a chaotic swirl of green and blue.
"I think she needs a doctor, Coach," James says, stepping closer. I immediately try to object. I'm fine , I don't need a doctor.
"Yes, a doctor," the coach agrees, sounding completely overwhelmed by the entire situation. He pauses, looking around. "Where's Calloway?"
"Don't worry, Coach, I can take her," James offers instantly.
"Thanks, Hayes. I appreciate it, but the captain should take her to the medical wing."
"No, really, I'm fine..." I protest, a spike of cold panic rising through the fog in my brain. I feel a supportive hand grip my arm. James.
"Lorenzo, get over here. Take her to the medical wing and report it to the director afterward. I don't need her fainting on my field."
"I really don't need him... Maria can help me" I try to argue, trying to ignore the violent, rhythmic throbbing that has taken up permanent residence behind my left eye. I don't even know if the words are actually leaving my lips or if I'm just screaming them inside my own mind.
"Step aside."
Lorenzo's voice. That dark, velvet Italian accent wraps around the words the way it always does, sending an involuntary shiver straight through my spine.
I can hear the crowded circle of football players instantly parting for him.
"I said move, Jason."
Jason ?
I hear a quiet, tense protest from James, and then the gentle pressure at my arm is violently ripped away. The temperature changes.
"Okay, the rest of you...back to your positions!" Coach's voice booms, cutting through my skull like a second impact.
I wince, burying my face away from the sound.
"Can you stand?"
I force my eyes open again.
Lorenzo is crouched directly in front of me at eye level, waiting.
His expression is completely unreadable,locked somewhere between deep annoyance and a dark, heavy concern that he is trying desperately to hide.
His jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks in his cheek.
Sweat still glitters at his temple from practice.
"Come on, Sophi, I'll help you up." Maria is at my left side.
Between the two of them, they haul me up onto my feet.
My legs feel like complete jelly. The ground sways beneath my sneakers.
"Give me a second," I breathe, blindly reaching out for something, anything to steady myself.
"Sorry, princess, but I don't have all day," Lorenzo murmurs.
Before I can process his words, before I can even draw a breath to protest, his massive arm slides beneath my knees and around my back. He pulls me entirely upright against his chest in one clean, effortless movement.
"Hey..." A breathless gasp escapes me as the world tilts. "Let me down. I can walk"
"Sure you can," he says, his voice completely dry, laced with absolutely no intention of letting me go.
"Wait, I'll carry her stuff!" Maria calls out from somewhere behind us.
The word stuff hits me like a lightning bolt. The fog in my head clears for one terrifying second.
My sketchbook. The art room. Lorenzo's drawing.
Panic flares hot in my chest. I try to speak. I can hear myself making desperate sounds, but the words refuse to connect to my tongue.
"What is she saying?" Lorenzo growls, his chest vibrating directly against my cheek.
"No idea," Maria answers, her voice fading as Lorenzo turns and starts walking.
"I'm just tired," I manage to whisper, the excuse tasting like ash.
"My head hurts."
But I refuse—I absolutely refuse—to let my head drop against the hard, warm muscle of Lorenzo's chest, even though the agonizing pain behind my eyes is doing its absolute best to drag me back down into the dark.
I force my neck straight. I hold my head up.
Barely.
But I hold it up.
At least... I think I do.