11. Cecelia #2
My normal reaction would be to laugh it off. To acknowledge that he’s hot and fun to look at. I’m not the kind of girl who gets all shy or can’t be honest about what she’s into.
But for some reason, I can’t make myself do that with Solomon. Instead, I jump up from the grass, putting some much-needed space between us. I figure he’s going to tell me that we haven’t stretched nearly enough, but he stays quiet while he climbs to his feet and goes to collect the ball.
“You want offense or defense?” he asks and I give him a look that makes him laugh. “I take it that means you want the ball. So I’ll defend.”
I take the ball and start to move it between my feet, getting a feel for it. “Rules?”
He shrugs. “Let’s try to keep things mainly around the penalty box. Definitely this side of the center line.”
I grin at him as I start to dribble. “What, you don’t feel like running tonight?”
“Fuck no,” he says. “You kick it to the other end and you’re the one going to get it.”
“Don’t worry.” I move past him. “I plan to only kick it into the net.”
He laughs and moves in to defend the goal.
I figured Solomon was at least somewhat athletic—most of the students I know who go into sports medicine are former athletes.
But I hadn’t expected him to be quite so good.
He definitely makes me work for the first goal, getting up in my space with his big, lanky body.
I’m faster though, and I use that to my advantage.
I fake left, then cut hard to the right, grinning when Solomon actually takes the bait for half a second. Most people do. Most people also underestimate how fast I am.
Not him.
His hip nudges mine as I blow past, not enough to stop me, just enough to let me know he’s there.
“Thought you were supposed to be defending me,” I shoot over my shoulder, breathless and laughing.
“I am defending you.”
I snort at that and tap the ball forward, sprinting for the edge of the box. The evening air feels good in my lungs, the setting sun warm on my arms and legs. My feet dig into the turf as I push harder but he stays right with me, long strides easy and unfairly effortless.
The competitive part of me lights up hot in my chest.
I drop my shoulder and try another move, my feet quick as I control the ball. It’s the kind of play that usually leaves defenders stumbling but Solomon recovers instantly, stepping into my path at the last second. I barely keep possession.
“You this annoying with everybody?” I ask.
“Only the stubborn ones.”
I laugh again before I can stop myself.
It goes on like that, me trying to outrun and outmaneuver him, Solomon doing a damn good job of keeping up. We play until my lungs are burning, until I’m panting, the two of us chasing each other across the field while the sun dips low behind the athletic complex
I’m about to score—again—but Solomon swings his leg out at the last second and blasts the ball clear across the turf and out of the zone.
“Are you kidding me?” I shout. “Who’s kicking the ball out of the zone now?”
He bends over, resting his hands on his knees, breathing hard. “If you weren’t such a little chaos demon I wouldn’t have had to.”
That, of course, makes me inordinately happy. Chaos demon. I love it.
I pat his shoulder as I pass. “Don’t worry, I’ll go get it. You take a breather.”
“Such a brat,” he mutters as I start to jog down the field.
I’m pretty sure I’m grinning like an idiot.
When I get back with the ball, he’s standing there with two water bottles. He hands one to me and I try not to notice the way his fingers brush against mine.
“Did you play in high school?” I ask after I’ve sucked down some water.
“Yeah. I was on a travel team.”
“You didn’t want to play in college?”
He shrugs. “I was recruited by a few schools. Mostly D2, one division one school out east. But I knew I wouldn’t be playing after college, and I wanted to stick around here.
” I’m not sure what he sees in my face, but he chuckles.
“That horrifies you, doesn’t it? That someone would choose not to play soccer. ”
“I wouldn’t say it horrifies me,” I argue, figuring I should at least try to be polite. “I mean, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me…”
He laughs. “When did you start playing?”
“God, I can’t remember a time I didn’t play. My older brothers all played and I was basically always following around behind them. My mom plays too—she’s amazing.”
“You’re close with your family,” he says. A statement, not a question. “I mean, that’s pretty obvious. You spend, what, ninety percent of your time on this campus with one of your cousins?”
“Not ninety,” I argue. I shrug at his disbelieving look. “Maybe eighty.” There’s a beat of silence. “Eighty-five.”
He laughs. “Sure. We’ll go with that.”
“We’ve always been like that. The five of us are just a few months apart in age, and our families were always together, so naturally we were, too.” I’m not sure why I’m opening up about my family, but I can’t deny I feel more comfortable talking to him than I have since we met.
“The Littles, right?”
I look up at him in surprise and his expression turns sheepish. “I overheard Ash calling you guys that once.”
“Yeah. The rest of the family has always referred to our group as the Littles. We spent a lot of time trying to come up with alternatives when we were kids, because we thought it made us sound like babies.” I shrug.
“Now we embrace it. If they want to tease us by calling us the Littles, we’ll just make sure the Littles are the coolest, most bad-ass people in the entire family. ”
He grins. “It must be nice to be in such a close-knit group,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that gets my attention. But he quickly changes the subject, holding out his hand. “Done with your water?”
I pass my bottle back. This time our fingers brush for even longer. Of course, our eyes have to meet at the same time and I feel stuck there for a moment, just looking up at him. He really does look amazing in glasses.
Then I realize what I’m doing and jerk back. “You want to go another round?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice light and cheery. “Or did I wear you out already?”
His grin sends little buzzes of warmth cascading through me. “I think I can handle another round. Do your worst, Ransome.”
So I do. My play gets a little more aggressive and he matches me, his defense turning physical. It sparks something in my chest, some gooey feeling of satisfaction. There’s nothing I hate more than a guy treating me like I’m fragile on the soccer field.
But a few minutes later, I realize I don’t need any help looking fragile. I’m capable of doing that all on my own.
Solomon blocks my shot, sending the ball careening to the goal post. My mind immediately calculates what I need to do to score.
I’m closer and it should only take me a few strides to reach it and knock it into the net.
I move to do just that, hurrying to get around him.
I succeed—but his foot is in my way. Now I have to pivot a little, extend my left leg farther and come in off a more awkward angle.
And I…hesitate. I just completely freeze, right there in the middle of the play.
It’s only a split second, but my hesitation allows Solomon to move in for the ball, ending my chance at scoring.
I curse under my breath, heart pounding ridiculously hard all of a sudden.
My mouth feels dry and my stomach churns as sweat breaks out on my forehead.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Solomon doesn’t take control of the ball like I expected. Instead, he stops and looks at me, a questioning expression on his face.
“What?” I snap, wiping my forehead.
“I should be asking you that.” He tilts his head, studying me. “What just happened?”
“Nothing.” The answer comes too fast. Too defensive.
He’s looking at me so intently I have to duck my head just to avoid his gaze.
Why the hell is my heart pounding so hard?
It’s like I’ve just been playing a full ninety minutes of a real game, rather than messing around with one other player for a few minutes.
“You had me,” he presses. “You totally beat me for that ball. And then you stopped.”
“I didn’t stop.”
I totally stopped. He clearly isn’t buying it, anyhow. “My angle was off, okay? I messed up.”
There’s something knowing in his eyes and I don’t like it one bit. But he keeps his mouth shut. He also moves away from the net. “I think we can be done,” he says, picking up the ball. “Hungry?”
I gape at him. “You want to be done?”
“We’ve been at it for almost forty-five minutes.”
Oh. I had no idea it had already been that long. “Come on,” he encourages. “Let’s eat. We have those noodles, remember?”
All it takes is the mention of the noodles from my favorite restaurant for me to realize that I’m starving. I follow Solomon over to where we left our bags and we both sit on the grass.
“You really didn’t have to buy dinner,” I say as he hands me a white cardboard container.
I’m about to offer to pay for my share when he hands me a familiar can of melon soda.
My eyebrows go up. “How did you know this is my favorite?” I ask.
My suspicion grows when he won’t meet my eyes.
My favorite noodle place is one thing, but my favorite obscure Japanese soda? That’s way too much of a coincidence.
He sees the expression on my face and rolls his eyes as he hands over a set of chopsticks. “It was a lucky guess. Eat your noodles.”
I want to argue with him—I’m pretty sure someone must have told him what I would want to eat—but my stomach wins out and I dig into the food.
“Fuck,” I mutter into my noodles. “So good.”
When I look up, I see he’s staring at me, but he looks away immediately. Is he blushing?
It’s quiet for a few minutes while we both shovel food into our mouths. I’m struck by the feeling I had earlier—Solomon Barnes is a good person to sit in comfortable silence with.
“Did you play any other sports besides soccer?” he eventually asks. I make a face and he snorts. “I guess that answers that question.”