16 | Georgia
IT’S 9 A.M. on the dot as I walk into the arena of Mason Field. The temperature inside the arena is low, much lower than our last session together. I look up to the visible sky, far above the empty seats and sturdy yellow goalposts. The clouds have covered every inch of blue, their coloring gray and hazy.
I glance across the field, my eyes scanning for any signs of life. In the silence, I recall how the meeting with Dr. Randie yesterday went about as well as it could, given the fact that she had scrapped nearly a week’s worth of my writing.
“I’d like Georgia to focus her remaining articles entirely on you.”
Henry had smirked with delight as Dr. Randie spoke those words, his lips curled at the edges in a frustratingly handsome curve, only to be met with a scowl as he looked in my direction. In that moment, his eyes suddenly softened, and for one instant I saw the same look of vulnerability and concern that he’d had when he stood in my doorway that morning.
I shudder, making a last-ditch effort to forget the memory of Henry’s inappropriately concerned gaze.
It’s 9:02. Where is he?
Eleanor had called me early this morning, when the sun was still barely rising above the horizon.
“Can I come to your apartment tomorrow afternoon?” she had asked, her voice speckled with worry. “Can you make sure we’re alone?”
I repeated her words again and again in my head, until they had morphed into meaningless noise. It wasn’t like Eleanor – the shaky voice, the uncertainty. She refused to tell me what was wrong on the phone, saying she’d explain everything when I see her. For now, I try to focus on the topic at hand: a headline piece about Henry Anderson, first draft pick for the Lone Star Mavericks.
If he ever shows up.
A few minutes pass before I notice him: completely across the field, leaning against the opposing goal post. His outline is barely visible under the darkened sky and I briefly wonder how long he’d been there without my seeing him.
“You’re late,” he smirks at me, boyish dimples adorning his cheeks.
“I couldn’t see you!” I reply, emphasizing my words with a frown. “Why are you all the way over here?”
“To set this up,” he states, his voice low and almost vulnerable.
He gestures towards the turf, where two football helmets and jerseys lay neatly. The fresh scent of leather, radiating off of the brand-new football placed gingerly between the two jerseys, engulfs us.
His eyes meet mine, and I’m taken aback by the tender look of concern that has returned to them with full force. The confident smirk he held in Dr. Randie’s office has faded, replaced by relaxed features and a delicate smile curving at the edge of his lips. Under the gentle light of the cloudy sky, his traits have softened completely. His green eyes, normally vivid under the blazing Texas sun, now burn with apprehension as dimly as embers. His stubble, normally illuminated into golden strands and sharp along each follicle, now resembles velvet. I glance at his body, still leaning against the yellow goal post, dressed simply in a gray t-shirt and maroon athletic shorts emblazoned with the TU Titans logo. A single beam of light, shining through the momentarily parted clouds, highlights the strong curve of his biceps and ignites something deep in my chest.
Heartburn, I reason, through slow and labored breaths.
“What are these for?” I manage to murmur, still distracted by the smoothness of his features under the gentle sunlight. The 6-foot-3 football captain, known by all accounts for the fortitude of his muscles, the roughness of his skin, the broadness of his frame, now appears in front of me as delicate as a summer breeze.
He answers me softly, his tone caring.
“I figured you could use a little fun,” he remarks, a playful smile forming on his lips.
“Fun? With you?” I scoff, ignoring the increased pounding of my heartbeat.
“Yes, with me.” His words are barely above a whisper, even in an empty arena. As I glance around the open field surrounding us, the quiet nature of his voice becomes raw and intimate.
Nobody can hear him but me.
In a school with the largest student population in the state, silent moments are rare – if not nonexistent. But, here, with Henry, the peacefulness of the moment overwhelms me. He begins to step forward, one hand reaching out as if he’s going to touch me – but he stops. His hand withdraws to his side, and I find myself wondering where he had planned to place it. My breath shakes.
This is too much. I’m just feeling sensitive because of the snitch thing. And because of Patrick. But why do I not want to say anything, ending the silence between us? Why do I feel like he’s reading my thoughts?
His eyes scan my own, as if he really can read my thoughts as plainly as a book laid in front of him.
He’s waiting for me to speak.
“Well, um, we have a lot of questions I need answered to write the piece on you and–”
“That can wait,” he interrupts, waving off my concern with a relaxed movement of his hand.
He reaches downward towards the turf, causing the hem of his sleeve to rise up his bicep and reveal a perfectly carved muscle. I catch my breath, noticing the veins along his arms strain as he places his hands around the jersey and helmet.
“These are for you.” He offers them to me, darting his eyes away from mine when I attempt to match his gaze.
What was that? Is he nervous?
I survey the items in my hands: a TU Titans football helmet – much too large for me – and a maroon and white football jersey, printed with the number “83” and, above that, “ANDERSON” in all capital letters.
“Conceited much?” I joke, attempting to break the confusing tension.
“Do you really think that?” His voice is tender and wounded, which takes me aback.
“No, uh, it’s fine. Thanks, Anderson.”
He smiles at me gently, accepting my response.
“Put it on.” His command is hushed as he grabs his own jersey from the grass and slips it effortlessly over his head.
I look at him skeptically, one eyebrow raised, as I hold the massive jersey out in front of me. It seemed to be one of his own, the fabric slightly worn with age. I pull it over my clothes, not intending to argue, as he watches me with a lazy smile.
“That looks perfect on you,” he says.
I snort, mumbling a ‘thank you’ as he gestures for me to join him along the 10-yard line.
“I thought the best way for you to understand the game of football, and my role as captain,” he looks at me, shooting me a devilish wink, “is to play the game of football.”
“Football has 11 players on either side, Anderson. You told me that. You can’t play with two–”
“We’ll manage,” he interjects, his smile warm and mischievous. He holds out the football, cradled in his left hand, towards me. The smell of leather fills my senses as he attempts to explain the game.
“I want you to throw this football,” he explains as he shakes it gently, “as far down the field as you can. I’m going to run and catch it. When I do, I want you to try and tag me before I get to the 50-yard line.”
I shoot him a judgmental look, like he’s crazy.
“There’s no way I can run as fast as you,” I admit, my voice slightly defeated.
Why do I care about this game?
He laughs. “I’ll go slow.”
I don’t have a chance to respond before the first heavy drops of rain land on our helmets.
“Or maybe fast. Throw it!” he exclaims, the rain quickly picking up in ferocity. He begins to run backwards into the field, his handsup to catch my non-existent throw. His smile beams at me through the grate of his helmet.
“Throw it, Campbell! You can do it!” he calls, his mood cheery and encouraging.
Screw it.
I pull back my arm, chuckling to myself at how ridiculous this is.
I can’t throw this thing further than ten feet.
With anyone else, I might be embarrassed by my lack of skill – but, somehow, I know Henry won’t judge me.
Releasing the ball, I twist my wrist in an effort to form the throw into a spiral. It travels between us, pelted by the rain and pushed from its course by forceful winds. The jersey feels 50 pounds heavier on my body as the rain drenches it and the clothing underneath, but I don’t care.
“Great throw!” he calls, effortlessly catching the ball in one hand. “Now come get me!”
He shoots me one more smile before turning around, attempting to make his way to the 50-yard line without getting tagged.
I lift up my heels, chasing after him as the storm blurs my vision. Raindrops stream down my cheeks as I run, the moist turf squishing beneath my sneakers with every step.
He looks back at me, dramatically dodging my every attempt to tag him. I laugh heartily for the first time in what feels like years as he jumps left, right, then left again to avoid my outstretched hand.
“Tag!” I exclaim, finally touching the edges of my fingertips to his shoulder as he attempts a spin maneuver.
“Damn,” he says, laughing and resting the football between his hip and wrist. I look at him, with the rain soaking his hair as he takes off his helmet and jersey. His chest heaves as he takes in breath after breath, recovering from the run.
My forehead begins to sweat as I notice how tight and damp his clothes have become. His t-shirt is drenched, clinging to every segment of his abdomen as if painted on. The soft outline of his six-pack, normally barely visible, was now on full display with each labored breath. His shoulders appear to stretch the fabric to its furthest limits, the seams practically bursting as they stick against his tanned skin.
A goofy smile forms across his lips, redirecting my attention.
“My turn.”