10 | Georgia
I SHUT THE office door behind me and quickly step into the crowd, hoping to be camouflaged by the sea of students outside Coach Bryer’s door. I’ve elbowed my way about halfway down the hall before I hear the coach’s door open and close once more behind me.
“Georgia! Wait up!”
Anderson.
My cheeks flush red and, without thinking, I spin around with an angry huff.
“Did you do this on purpose or something?” I ask, my words sharp with irritation.
He towers over the mass of students surrounding us. They bump into my shoulders, knocking me off balance, but seem to have no effect on his sturdy frame. He looks down at me with a smirk, his eyes glistening beneath the messy strands of his overgrown hair.
“Would it be so bad if I did?” he asks, his voice low and calm.
I groan in disgust, rolling my eyes.
“It’s bad enough I have to tolerate you living next door to me–”
“You’re never even home–”
“Listen, Anderson,” I snap, grimly aware that my cheeks are glowing red. “Writing these articles is the only way I’ll be able to have my dream column in the newspaper, the one I’ve been working towards for years, and I’ll be damned if I let some self-obsessed football player screw it up for me.”
He’s quiet for a moment – a calm figure in a whirlwind of chaos as students brush past us laughing, talking, and yelling.
“Helping you with the newspaper is the only way I get to stay captain.” His tone is defeated and somber as he speaks, just loud enough to be heard above the roar of crowded students.
Why am I feeling bad for him? Jesus, Georgia, you really need to get it together. You’re seriously gonna let this self-absorbed jock–
“Will you please do this with me? I promise I’ll make it as painless as possible. I can’t lose my spot as captain, Georgia. Just… please understand.”
I sigh and press my fingertips to my forehead in frustration.
“Meet me on the field tomorrow morning,” I sneer, meeting his gaze reluctantly. “8 a.m. sharp.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
It’s already 7:30 a.m. as I rummage through the apartment, hastily packing all of my essentials for a day on the football field: granola bars, sugar-free sports drinks, sunscreen, and, of course, a novel from one of my newest courses.
“To Mason Field, Patrick. I told you all about it last night. Remember the articles Dr. Randie is making me write?”
He scoffs forcefully.
“What, so I’m supposed to let my girl surround herself with football players without my supervision? If you think I’m cool with that, you’re fucking crazy.”
I stop what I’m doing to thrust my arms down in silent exhaustion as he turns around, my scowling face looking upwards at the ceiling.
“You’re welcome to join me,” I offer, shooting him a small smile. But his glare continues, unphased.
“You think I have time to sit on a goddamn football field all day, Georgia? If I did, I’d play the game!” He gestures maniacally to the piles of study materials and textbooks in front of him.
A small tear forms along the brim of my eyes. Not from sadness, per se, but from frustration. I attempt, in vain, to wipe it away discreetly.
“Are you crying?” Patrick asks, his voice noticeably softened.
He stands, maneuvering around the coffee table to engulf me in a hug. “Baby, you know I don’t mean to hurt you. I’m just looking out for you. You never know what the intentions of these dudes are.”
I shuffle on my feet, uncomfortable with the physical contact.
Why do I feel this way about my own boyfriend?
“I get it,” I reply, sniffling quietly, allowing my weight to sink into his chest.
“That’s my girl,” he coos, before abruptly pulling me away from his chest and holding my shoulders at arm's length. I meet his gaze, his dark brown eyes shifting quickly between my own. His expression darkens.
“Just don’t act like a slut.”
It’s about 10,000 degrees outside when I make it onto Mason Field. With no trees in sight, the Texas sun blisters my skin with every movement. I squint, one hand against my brow to block the sunlight, and survey the quiet loneliness of the empty stands. A slight breeze blows through the dome of the arena, erupting the numerous Texas University flags into a soft and slow dance.
I sigh, realizing that the peaceful nature of the empty field does little to calm the sting of Patrick’s words which, despite my best efforts, are still ringing in my ears.
Just don’t act like a slut.
His hurtful demand replays again and again in my head as I stare up at the impossibly clear sky peeking through the top of the arena.
Just don’t act like a slut. Just don’t act like a slut. Just don’t act like a s–
“Hi, Georgia.”
I turn to face him, the glaring sun momentarily blinding me. Streams of morning light glimmer from behind Henry’s body, darkening his face while simultaneously illuminating his broad and muscular figure.
Was he this tall yesterday?
He’s dressed for a football practice: a tight t-shirt stretched over his taut abdomen, with the curvature of his muscles just barely visible through the fabric. His gray sweatpants cling tightly to his muscular thighs before tapering away into a loose bootcut near his ankles.
Eyes up, Georgia.
“Hi,” I reply curtly, working hard not to meet his gaze.
He smiles at me as he places his filthy duffle bag onto the turf, and it crosses my mind that he’s probably never washed it. His hands, calloused and muscular, pass through his messy hair absentmindedly. I notice in that moment just how tanned his arms are, no doubt from being on the practice field daily, as well as how crimson his cheeks flush in the summer heat.
“So… I saw your boyfriend leaving your apartment last night.”
Oh right, we’re neighbors.
“What’s his name again? I wanted to introduce myself but didn’t want to be rude.” He smirks at me, his jaw tightening slightly.
“Patrick. Don’t introduce yourself – he doesn’t need to know you.” I check my watch, noting the time as 8:11 a.m. “And by the way, you’re late.”
Henry chuckles softly.
“I had a late night. Football afterparty.” He winks at me, lifting his joined hands into the air above him to stretch the muscles in his arms and back. The hem of his t-shirt lifts with this movement, exposing a happy trail that perfectly outlines a deep “V” on along the edges of his abdomen…
EYES UP. You hate him, Georgia! Remember what he said about you?
I clear my throat.
“We should get into the questions now.” I sit down roughly on the turf, simultaneously digging in my bookbag for the pencil and brand-new journal I bought for notetaking.
“Okay,” he replies, sitting down across from me. “Shoot.”
“Question 1,” I announce, diligently opening my journal to the crisp first page. “How do you play football?”
He laughs, a raspy, rumbling laugh, while clutching his stomach for dramatics.
“What?!” I cry out, feeling my cheeks grow red once again.
“I’m sorry,” Henry says as he wipes an invisible tear from his eye. “I just wasn’t expecting that for some reason.”
“Sorry I don’t know everything about football, Joe Montana. If you aren’t going to answer my questions, I’ll find someone who will. And you can say goodbye to being captain.” The tone of my words is harsh, sending prickles across my skin as soon as I’ve said them.
He looks at me, his expression soft and content.
Why is he never angry? I just insulted him.
“I’m only kidding, Georgia. I’m happy to help you. I can’t think of a better way to mend things after that first day on campus.”
“Mend things? There’s nothing to mend, Anderson.” I close my journal, frustrated.
“Sure there is! We got off to a good start. I didn’t realize what I said would hurt you so much… Can we at least talk about it? Why does being called a sn–”
“Don’t say that!” I cut him off, my brows furrowing.
“I’m sorry. Why does that word upset you so much? What happened?”
“It’s none of your business. I’m here to write about the football team so that Dr. Randie will let me publish my literature column. Talking about anything else is a waste of my time.”
He pauses for a moment, his green eyes settling briefly just beneath my chin.
Is he checking me out?
Before I can finish the thought, his eyes meet mine again, and he lets out a slow breath.
“How do you play football?” he asks, glancing at me once more for confirmation.
I nod.
“Well, there’s a few basic rules…”