20 | Georgia
I re-read Coach Bryer’s email, a headache pounding in my temples.
“Can you believe this?” I ask Eleanor, turning my phone towards her. “I can’t believe Dr. Randie agreed to it. How can he force me to go to a football game?”
“Coach Bryer is like Jesus on this campus, Georgie,” Eleanor jokes, her smile soft and playful.
I roll my eyes.
It’s been two weeks since I last spoke to Henry Anderson. I’ve taken a different route to my classes each day, making sure I don’t run into him. I actively avoid the section of campus that houses my old apartment complex, too worried we’ll cross paths. Through sheer willpower, I’ve almost completely forgotten all details about him. How his blonde stubble looks in the morning light, the sweet smell of his clary sage cologne, the way a wet t-shirt clings to his firm muscles…
“You should call him,” Eleanor remarks, as if she can read my thoughts.
“No way,” I reply, shaking my head and quickly re-opening a tattered copy of The Moonstone, my newest assigned reading.
“Georgie, he didn’t mean to hurt you–”
She pauses as she registers my glare in her direction. Her expression softens.
“He only punched Patrick because he caught him cheating on you, red-handed. He was angry because Patrick was cruel to you.” A coy smile forms across her lips. “I think it’s kind of sexy.”
I raise a judgmental eyebrow. “You think a man with violent tendencies is sexy?”
“He doesn’t have violent tendencies, Georgie. He did what any man would do to protect his girl.”
“I am not his girl,” I mutter, my face buried in my novel.
“Well, not anymore,” Eleanor reasons casually. “I mean, you shouldn’t be worried about mixed signals with him going forward. I heard he ‘went upstairs’ with Natalia Bryer at a party a few weeks back. Apparently, they’ve gone together for years now, off-and-on. So, you can call him strictly professionally, to work on the articles.”
My cheeks grow flushed and red, my heartbeat quickening.
“What party?” I ask, trying, in vain, to seem nonchalant.
“Some football party, two weeks ago. A girl in my writing seminar was there and told me all about it. She said it was a rager and that Natalia couldn’t stop talking about how good he was when she came back downstairs…”
I swallow hard, a lump forming in my throat. My lips quiver as I lift my book in front of my face, hiding the tear that streams down my cheek.
“Georgia?” Eleanor stands up half-way, peering her head over top of my book. “Georgia! What’s wrong?”
She gently removes the novel from my hands and wraps her arms loosely around me, joining me on the couch.
“I-I,” I sputter. Attempting to speak breaks down the flood walls and I instantly begin to cry. She cradles my head with one hand, leaning me into her chest for comfort.
“Th-that was the last time I spoke to him,” I choke out, my voice groggy and muffled against her hair.
“What do you mean?” she asks in between soothing shushes.
“A-after you t-told me about Patrick, I w-went to his house.” I sit up, wiping my tears from my cheeks and taking a deep breath. “I went up to his r-room and yelled at him. I told him I didn’t need him to protect me...”
She nods, allowing me to continue.
“S-some freakishly gorgeous girl had told me exactly where his room was. That must’ve been Natalia.” I spit her name out like poison, tears beginning to stream down my face once more.
I pause for a moment, the realization suddenly hitting me like a slap on the cheek.
“I-I thought he liked me.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
It’s 6:50 p.m. as I step onto the now-familiar turf of Mason Field, and the energy is electric. I take a deep breath as I look up towards the chaotic stands, which are overflowing with proud Texas University Titans fans. The crowd is cheering already, even without any players on the field.
“So glad you could join us, Ms. Campbell.” Coach Bryer approaches me in a light jog, his fluorescent smile gleaming under the summer sun.
“Thanks for having me,” I mutter, my tone more timid than I’d like.
“Anderson should be out any minute – he’s gonna be your buddy this game.” He winks at me with a small twinkle in his icy blue eyes.
Just like his daughter. Henry’s girlfriend. I think I’m gonna be sick.
I nod slightly, and Coach Bryer gestures towards a small folding chair and table, set back about 15 feet from the sideline behind jugs of sports drinks and piles of gear.
“That’s your spot, little lady,” Coach Bryer declares, his deep southern accent adding a sing-song quality to the words.
I give him a half-smile and thank him once more as he retreats back to his place on the sideline.
No way in hell I’m sitting back here. I can hardly see anything!
Hesitantly, I examine the metal table and chair that, in the summer sun, has become immensely hot to the touch.
“Georgia.”
Henry’s voice is strained and quiet, almost pleading. He towers above me in full gear and padding, holding his helmet against his waist. His hair is tousled from the afternoon practice, with small strands hanging near his eyes and illuminated golden by the sun. His cheeks and nose are flushed with bright patches of pink and red, warming his skin and softening his features. His brows are slightly furrowed, though his expression remains tender.
“Hey,” I reply curtly, hiking the strap of my backpack higher onto my shoulder.
The Titans begin to fill the sidelines and turf in that moment, and Henry pauses as the crowd erupts in applause.
“Georgia…” his voice is low, as though my name was a precious secret he couldn’t risk anyone hearing but the two of us.
I don’t look at him, instead pretending to fiddle with the zippers of my backpack.
Doesn’t he have a game to play?
“Let me carry that for you,” he says, reaching out a hand to remove the weight of my backpack from my shoulder.
“I don’t need your help,” I snap, my eyes wandering across the field to Natalia Bryer, who’s warming up in her TU Titans cheerleading uniform. Her body is bronzed and her long legs effortlessly toned. Her slim figure is enhanced by the soft curves of her hips. Her hair, chocolate brown and curled, doesn’t seem to have an ounce of frizz in the Texas humidity.
My throat tightens.
“I understand,” he says, hesitantly, and for a moment I swear I see his lip quivering as if he’s holding back tears. “Just wave to me if you need me, and I’ll come over here.”
You’re seeing things, Georgia. He isn’t upset. He’s dating the supermodel across the field.
“I’m not staying back here,” I retort, slipping the other strap of my backpack over my shoulder. Without another word, I begin to saunter towards the edge of the sideline, not bothering to wait for him to respond.
“Whoa, Georgia – hold on.” Henry steps in front of me, his muscular figure eclipsing the blinding sunlight. “I can’t let you sit up there. You could get hurt.”
“Why should you care?” I interrupt, my tone cold and apathetic. “I told you I don’t need you to protect me, Henry. I’m here to do the article, and I can’t see from back there.”
He pauses for a moment, his expression stern and unrevealing.
“I know you don’t need me to protect you, Georgia. But I’ll always try.”
What the hell is he talking about? Shouldn’t he be in a room somewhere screwing his model girlfriend? Or maybe, I don’t know, playing the freaking football game that already started?
The crowd erupts in cheers as the first play takes the Titans to the 30-yard line.
I scoff, defiantly moving towards the sideline and taking my place on the edge of the field. Coach Bryer looks at me curiously, one eyebrow raised, before altering his gaze to meet Henry’s, who shrugs his shoulders towards his coach. Raking a muscular hand through his hair, he sighs exasperatedly.
“Please go back to the table, Georgia. It’s dangerous.”
“What do you think this is, Henry?!” I hiss, my cheeks glowing red. “I’m here to cover the football game, so I am going to watch the football game. You can go back to Natalia now and stop pretending to give a shit about me.”
“What?” he exclaims, his expression incredulous. “That’s not–”
The Titans score a touchdown and the crowd erupts in thunderous cheers. He glances over as the team lines up for the next play, their captain and quarterback still standing on the sidelines.
My eyes wander across the field with the momentary distraction, again landing on Natalia Bryer as she excitedly performs a touchdown cheer. Her hair bounces, perfect curls still formed in ringlets and delicately tied back with pieces of maroon ribbon.
As I watch her in that brief moment, I can’t help but picture her in Henry’s room, moments after I had stormed out in tears. She was wearing the tiniest silver dress I’d ever seen that night, the silky fabric delicately clinging to her curves. I imagine her finding him in his room – and him immediately forgetting I had ever been in it. I can practically feel the way his muscular, tanned hands wandered around her body, one unzipping her dress as the other cups her large breast that’s also somehow perfectly perky. She’d moan in delight as he kisses up her neck, his erection tenting his jeans as she rubs her body against him...
My stomach churns with hurt and disgust as the cheering crowd falls quiet, and Henry’s emerald eyes once again meet my own.
“I thought you cared about me before you punched Patrick,” I admit, stepping closer towards him on the edge of the sideline. “I thought maybe you still cared about me before you fucked Natalia Bryer after I spent the night sobbing to you. But now all I want is for you to LEAVE ME ALO–”
“GEORGIA–”
Henry’s arms wrap around my body faster than I can register my name. I feel the scratchy turf beneath my arms and back as I hit the ground, the sun instantly warming my face and chest. Time seems to slow as the cheers from the crowd morph and blur. A small crowd gathers quickly nearby, with Coach Bryer and his assistants yelling unintelligible instructions to those around them.
“Get the medic, god damnit!” I hear Coach Bryer command as I begin to regain clarity. “Anderson’s down!”
I look over and notice Todd Watson, the TU wide receiver, sitting against the turf. His helmet is between his knees as he buries his face in his hands, groaning.
“Are you alright, Georgia?” Coach Bryer asks as he trots in my direction, one hand extended.
I take it, and he pulls me up delicately. My mind feels fuzzy and my vision slightly blurry, as if I’d been hit on the head.
“Y-Yes,” I stammer, looking around me wearily. “What happened? Where’s Henry?”
The small crowd that had been gathered is now clear – and both Henry and Todd Watson are nowhere in sight.
"Watson was running to tackle the offense and didn’t see you on the sideline, Georgia. I put you back there—" he gestures towards the metal folding chair and table "—for a reason." His tone is momentarily sharp but is quickly softened by a deep breath.
“Anderson pushed you out of the way and took the hit. But he wasn’t wearing his helmet, and Watson ran into him head-on and at full speed.” He furrows his brow and rubs a wrinkled hand across his temples in frustration.
“I’m out a captain and a goddamn receiver,” he murmurs to himself, looking out towards the field.
“Are they okay?” I ask, stepping in his direction tentatively. My head is pounding and my throat feels dry. “Todd and Henry, I mean.”
“They’re with the medic now. Watson’s fine, but Henry’s a little rough.” From his pocket, he removes a worn can of chewing tobacco. He smears a small amount onto the edge of his fingertip and rubs it quickly against his gums.
“Don’t do what I do,” he mutters, glancing in my direction and holding the can of dip in my view.
I nod and lift my backpack, the cheering noise of the TU Titans fans worsening my throbbing headache.
“I’ve got to go,” I call towards him, but he has already returned to the sidelines to sub in new players, too far away to hear me.
The medic’s office is cold and uninviting. The white walls host no posters, no artwork, not even a medical chart in sight. A small hospital bed sits in the center of the room and is noticeably not accompanied by a visitor’s chair. The room smells sterile, having been recently cleaned, and now lay empty.
“Excuse me,” I say, walking towards a petite woman attempting to open a new box of gloves.
Her black hair has been pulled back tightly into a bun. Wearing thick-rimmed glasses in the same shade of blue as her oversized scrubs, she glances over at me and dons a soft smile.
“Hello,” she says, her voice cheerful. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yes,“ I respond, looking around the all-white room. “Is Henry Anderson here?”
“You just missed him, sweetie,” she replies, her tone sympathetic. “I sent him in there to get cleaned up.” She points to her left, in the direction of a door reading "MEN’S LOCKER ROOM."