Chapter Four
Will
Part of being on a sports team means following rules that don't apply to anyone else. Coach forces us to go to the library at least five hours a week, every week school is in session. He makes us fill out a library log with the time we arrive, the time we leave, and what we worked on while there. We even have to sign an honesty agreement at the bottom swearing that we’re telling the truth.
I’ve only completed two of my five hours this week, and it's Thursday. So the rest of my night looks like it's dedicated to the library. I know I could lie and fudge the study log, but I also know it's the only reason I’ve maintained my GPA the past three years.
Bramwood’s library is in a huge six story building. The higher up you go, the quieter it gets. Floors five and six are considered silent floors. Not the floors for me. I prefer floors three and four. A good balance of focus and whispers, better for people watching.
My legs are sore from practice, and my knee is bothering me today so I take the elevator up instead of the stairs.
The doors open to a very full third floor, I don't see a single open table.
I walk along the perimeter of the floor hoping to find an open study desk tucked in between some book shelves.
Nothing. I weave in and around the shelves to discover every single spot on this floor is taken.
I debate taking the elevator up to the fourth floor and decide that even though I'm sore and my knee hurts, stairs will be faster. I jog up the stairs, taking two at a time and forcing myself to ignore the twinge in my left leg and walk without limping.
The stairwell opens up to a considerably less filled floor of the library.
Right away I spot at least four or five open seats.
When I’m actually studying and working, I like to find a seat that faces the wall and stops me from people watching.
If I face the room, I get distracted with all the movement in my peripheral vision.
I like seeing people do weird shit, I think it's funny. I also like seeing what someone will do in public when they think no one’s watching them.
I find a study desk in the back corner of the floor and pull out my laptop, setting it along with my textbook on the desk before me.
I open my study playlist and scroll through my socials for about ten minutes before I log into the physical therapist centralized application system.
The required materials screen taunts me with personal statement: incomplete.
I have everything else uploaded and ready to go.
I got my verified GRE scores back last week, a 157 in verbal and 166 in quantitative—hell yeah.
With these scores, I have a good shot of getting into all of the programs I’m interested in.
My GPA is a 3.6 and I have three letters of recommendation already submitted on my behalf from two professors and Coach.
I just need to write this damn personal statement and pass the interview process.
I lean back in my chair and glance around the floor hoping to maybe get some inspiration that's not “my experience with my own injuries being treated by a physical therapist is what inspires me to want to be a physical therapist” bullshit.
I shift in my chair, away from the wall.
So much for forcing myself to work and not people watch.
I’m running my eyes from person to person looking for someone doing anything interesting when I spot what looks to be a familiar head of red wavy hair leaning over an open text book with a pen in her mouth. Kennedy.
Will: Look to your right.
From here I can see her grab her phone and look at the message.
She looks up, phone still in her hand and starts slowly turning her head in my direction.
I watch her eyes lock onto every person and over every desk before she locks onto mine and smiles at me across the room.
She looks down at her phone, thumbs tapping on the screen.
Kennedy: Are you stalking me?
Will: I was about to ask you the same question
I hit send and look toward her. She looks down at her phone, looks back up at me and pretends to be fake offended. I tuck both my lips in between my teeth so that I don’t start laughing. She starts typing again then my phone vibrates in my hand.
Kennedy: You would try and twist it back on me
Kennedy: Sounds a lot like something a stalker would say
I smile down into my phone. I want to keep talking to her instead of typing my shitty personal statement.
Will: What are you working on?
I look back at her table, hoping to see her face, but she’s no longer turned around and facing me.
I’m a little disappointed she didn’t keep the game up, I kind of liked being able to see her reactions to my messages.
Bubbles pop up at the bottom of the screen and then disappear.
They pop up again, then my phone vibrates.
Kennedy: I’m annotating a global macro economics chapter. Then studying for the LSAT
I haven't told anyone that I’m applying to a physical therapy doctorate program.
I’m worried about looking stupid if I don’t get in.
Worried about disappointing my parents by not playing in the NHL and throwing away my pro career.
Hockey is different from a lot of other sports–I’ve been drafted to the Miami Panthers since I graduated high school.
Me and everyone I know have been operating under the impression that after I graduate college, I will move to Miami and play there professionally.
Thinking about telling my parents, my dad, “Actually, I’m not going to play in the league anymore, I’m going to grad school” makes me want to throw up.
I have no idea why, but I have a strong desire to tell Kennedy about it right now, to confess my secret to her, but I know if I do tell her, she’ll tell Miranda who’ll tell my parents. And I don’t want a disappointed dad phone call anytime soon.
Will: Disgusting! Good luck with that you giant nerd
I close my phone and place it face down on the desk in front of me.
I pull up two examples of physical therapy personal statements and reread them for about the tenth time.
I stare at a blank document for several minutes.
Why is this so hard? In a blatant attempt at procrastination, I turn my head away from the blank document on my screen and glance in Kennedy’s direction.
I watch her for a second, the way she’s hunched over her text book.
How she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and nibbles on the end of her pen.
She turns her head subtly over her shoulder and catches me looking at her. I smile, then lift my hand and wave at her from my seat. She narrows her eyes then snaps her head forward, ignoring me. Three seconds later my phone vibrates.
Kennedy: Stop looking at me
Will: I’m not
Kennedy’s always been easy to rile up. I remember in middle school I used to call her John F Kennedy when she was annoying me. That one little name was all it took to get her flustered and red faced.
She glances back over her shoulder and sends me a look that I can only describe as devilish. I nearly laugh out loud at the daggers she’s sending over her shoulder to me.
Kennedy: Can I help you?
Will: Yes. Please Stop distracting me
The bubble pops up again, then disappears. She turns her body and now she’s facing me again, phone in her hands, typing, with a scowl on her face. I can’t stop myself from grinning.
Kennedy: ME distracting you?!?
Will: Yes. Please stop distracting me right this instant. I’m trying to get my work done. I have a GPA I need to maintain over here
Kennedy: If you kept your eyes on your laptop and stopped looking at me, you wouldn't find yourself being distracted
Will: Maybe if you weren't so distracting I’d be able to keep my eyes on my computer
Kennedy: I’m going to come over there and steal your laptop
This is fun. I look over to her to find she’s already looking in my direction. I lock eyes with her, lean back in my chair and put my hands behind my head. I nod my head at my laptop daring her to come try and take it from me. She makes a face at me, then stands up and stomps over.
She stands in front of me with her arms crossed over her chest and one hip kind of popped out.
She leans in close to me and I can smell her citrusy and vanilla scent.
She’s wearing jean shorts and a tank top.
The angle she’s at gives me a perfect line of sight down her shirt.
I feel like I’m fighting against gravity by keeping my eyes on her face and not looking down.
Her blue eyes dart between mine and she’s fighting a smile. Kennedy is really pretty. Wait, what the hell? Why did I just think that? It’s got to be like when recognizing a piece of art is pretty. Objectively, Kennedy is pretty. And sometimes, my brain notices it.
“Can you please move to another floor?” she whispers.
“You’re trying to kick me out of the library?” I fake gasp. I raise my voice and nearly yell, “Security! Security! Help she’s–”
Several heads snap up from their desks and look in our direction.
Kennedy’s eyes go huge, she reaches out and slams her hand over my mouth in an attempt to quiet me.
Her face and chest are red. She takes a step further into my space frantically shushing me, “Isweartogodiamgoingtokillyou” she mumbles out through clenched teeth.
I grab her wrist and pull her hand down from my face, grinning.
Her wrist is small in my hand and her skin is shockingly soft.
She looks at me, then flicks her eyes down to where my fingers are still circled around her wrist. I drop her hand and turn myself back toward my screen, my stomach strangely tightening and heart beating hard in my chest. I place my hands on the keyboard and straighten my spine as much as I can.
I raise my eyebrows and say in my best butler impression, “If you'll excuse me ma'am, I have work that needs to be done.”
She huffs. “I doubt that. What work are you doing?” She leans forward to look at my screen. Suddenly this isn't fun anymore. I reach out to close my laptop before she can see but it's too late.
“Wait, what is this? Are you applying to physical therapy school? As in after you graduate? When you’re supposed to be playing for the Panthers?”
Fuuuuck. I run my hands up over my eyes and through my hair. “I don’t know yet. Maybe. I’m thinking about it. But I haven't told anyone yet. I’m still figuring it out.”
She nods. Turns to me, tucks her lips in between her teeth and makes a locking motion with her hand. She then throws the key to the lock behind her shoulder and smiles.
“That’s really cool. I feel like you’d be good at that,” she says. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, your secret is safe with me.”
I’m a little lost for words. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t that. “Miranda doesn’t know,” I blurt out, trying to stress the fact that she can’t tell anyone.
A serious look crosses her face and she nods, “I won’t say anything.”
All of a sudden that strange feeling in my stomach tightens more, “Thanks.”
She looks down at me, smiling and cocks her head to one side. “Will,” she says in a whisper, then leans down so her mouth is next to my ear, sending chills down the side of my neck, “I’m for real asking you to stop distracting me. I’m taking my first LSAT next week so I need to study.”
She stands back up, hands crossed over her chest and looking at me.
“Okay,I won’t,” I say, still feeling that low place in my belly tightening and swooping.
She nods once and starts to turn away to go back to her desk.
“Wait,” I say, surprising myself a little.
She angles her body in my direction and raises her eyebrows on a silent question.
“Come study with me, we can do your weird timer method thing?”
“Fine,” she says, the corner of her lips tugging up, “but I’m serious, if you start distracting me too much, I will leave.”
“I would expect nothing less,” I say back.
She walks back to her study desk and gathers up her things before heading back toward me. I take a slow breath, feeling nervous, something I am not used to feeling around Kennedy at all.