13. Beat the Safety
THIRTEEN
Beat the Safety
SHANNON
Trent jogged up to her, breathless and smiling. “I’m glad I caught you,” he said, pulling her to a bench outside the library. “You said something about study plans here this afternoon.”
“Yeah, I did,” Shannon said. She narrowed her eyes and scanned him with suspicion, trying to place when in any prior conversation she would have told him she was meeting Caleb to talk about his paper. “You’ve got a good memory.”
“I got something for you and got a little antsy.”
She eyed the package in his hand. “Gifts? Are we doing gifts after going out four times?”
He laughed. “Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as a thing I saw and thought of you, no special occasion in mind.”
“You wrapped it.”
“I was environmentally conscious and turned down their offer of a bag, then regretted it.”
She tilted her head and inspected the snowflake pattern with a wry smile. “Merry Christmas to me, I guess. I like it. ”
“Open it first and see if you like it.” He brushed her hand with his as he handed her the present.
Shannon unfolded the red paper and inspected the unfamiliar title. “Is this some version of Jane Eyre ?” she asked. “ The Eyre Affair . I don’t know this author.”
“I think you should. It’s speculative fiction based on 1984 and the best of British literature. I think you’ll find it a relief from the drier classics you ranted against at dinner the other day.”
Enchanted by the text inside the dust jacket, she didn’t look up at his proud smile. “This is so thoughtful,” she murmured. “And it’s a whole series?”
“That’s the first book in the series,” he confirmed. “I have a friend who is a big fan of the author. I just saw this one at the secondhand bookstore and thought you might enjoy it.”
Shannon kissed his cheek. “Thank you. I can’t wait to read it. I’m officially bailing on you tonight so I can dive in.”
He yanked the book away and held it over her head. “Then I’ll give it back after dinner and… whatever we do after that.” He winked.
“Oh, is there a ‘whatever?’” she asked.
“Let me clarify. The ‘whatever’ has nothing to do with the book.” He slung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “I care about you a lot, Shannon. I love talking with you and spending time with you, and I hope to do a lot more of that. That’s why I thought of you when I saw the book. Entirely unrelated, my roommate is gone for the weekend.”
Something twisted in her stomach, and it wasn’t nerves or anticipation. The feeling had simmered since the day they went out with Missy and William, despite the utter lack of things that should bother her. Trent was kind. Thoughtful. Pleasant company with a sharp wit and common interests.
She refused to fault herself for having a physical attraction to Caleb Fields—because that was all it was—but kicked herself every time she stumbled over it. It shouldn’t change how she felt about someone like Trent, who wasn’t a morally compromised grump. But Caleb’s hazel eyes hooked her soul each time he blinked, and with a boyish face on a man’s muscular form, it was no wonder she shivered when she remembered his body on hers.
And under hers.
And her fingers caught up in the wild energy of his hair—those loose waves unbound and falling forward as he buried himself inside her, the desperate intensity of his hands so at odds with his shyness she imagined she could still feel the ridges of his fingertips at night.
A shiver chased down her back.
“Shannon?”
“Trent, I don’t think the ‘whatever’ tonight is a good idea.” Her words tumbled out before she could plan. “I care about you too, but I’m fresh off a bad breakup. I’m not ready for anything serious. I’m sorry.”
She tried to push the book into his hands, but he waved her away with a small, tight smile.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “You’re straightforward, and that’s one of the many things I like about you.”
“Thank you, I guess.”
“So let’s make a deal.” He snapped his fingers. “You’re not ready for a relationship, and I respect that. But we could still go out for a while and see if things change. No expectations. No ‘whatever.’ We’ll just do what we’ve been doing and keep it casual. If that turns into a friendship, that’s great. If it turns into more later when you’re ready… that would be great, too. Does that sound all right?”
“Just friends? All right.”
“Well, casually dating.”
“That really isn’t very different, in my book.”
“Sure it is,” he said with a proud smile. “Casually dating means I get to take you out and kiss you goodnight, like we’ve been doing.”
“Just a few times, which?—”
“I’d still like to take you out tonight. But ‘just friends’ eliminates the kissing part, and I do like the kissing part.”
She wondered briefly how much Trent really knew about her, either from Missy or William. If he knew who the bad breakup was, or if he knew she had a scorching-hot hookup with one of their classmates, who she…
“I have to go, Trent, I’m sorry.” Shannon dropped the book in her bag and pecked his cheek again. “Thank you again for the book. I’m going to be late, if I’m not already.”
Caleb was waiting by the elevators, backpack slung over one shoulder, nose in his battered copy of the book until she poked his elbow.
“Nice boot.” She nodded at his new, shorter walking cast.
“I feel like I’ve lost ten pounds,” he said. “And it’s a lot more comfortable to wear normal pants again.”
She would miss the view of his calves and the peek of his thighs in the athletic shorts he favored with the cast that hit just below his knee, but noting the shape of his ass in his jeans as he pushed the button for the elevator, she had no complaints.
“This is my favorite corner,” she said, leading him to the end of a row of shelves. “The table where we meet with the group is so far away from natural light.”
“Natural light is the enemy in libraries.” He scanned the floor-to-ceiling windows. “But I like this already.” He dropped to a couch and fished in his bag for a folder. “And I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me about my paper. I know I’m not your favorite person, and you don’t have to do this.”
“I like this book, so I’ll tolerate you,” she said, laughing as she accepted the folder and settled into the opposite corner of the couch. She reminded herself to keep it professional and on-topic, and batted away the cloud of hungry thoughts that enveloped her only minutes before, when she was speaking with Trent.
“I’m honored.”
“I’m interested to see where your hangups are with the story, so… where do you want to start? Where do you get stuck?”
“I have a hard time connecting what other people say are the themes to what I read in the book, so I feel like I’m oversimplifying or maybe just not seeing how pieces add up,” he said as she flipped through the pages. “I understand the story as a timeline. Holden gets kicked out of prep school, he goes home, and he has all these detours in between. The whole thing takes a week. So, what happens in a week that makes it a coming-of-age story?”
Shannon licked her lips and tried not to let her eyes drift to his. “The coming-of-age story is really a theme among the symbols, not the text of the story itself. It originates with the death of his older brother before the book starts, in my opinion.”
“I have more on that,” he said, nodding at the folder. “It’s messy, but I tried to break down those bullet points with questions like you did.”
“Love it,” she murmured, reviewing the revised outline. “Love it, love it. You’ve set yourself up for some good analysis if you can just have a conversation with yourself about these questions.”
“My self has tried, believe me.”
“Then let me try.” She glanced up and met his gaze, unsmiling. “What is Holden hunting?”
Caleb tilted his head like an inquisitive puppy, the perfect angle for a kiss. She caught herself before leaning in.
He didn’t speak.
Shannon tapped her head. “The red hat. A stupid thing he bought for a dollar and he became really attached to it—why? You remarked on it being comfortable, representing autonomy, and so on, but it’s a hunting hat. What’s he hunting?”
“Home?”
She waited.
He cleared his throat. “Phoebe?”
“Are you waiting for me to tell you that you’re right? Or is it like all the rest of this, and you just need to deliver your own answer, as long as you pick a stance and dig in?”
Caleb dragged his hands through his hair and frowned. “I asked you last week how you ended up in political science because I thought you sounded like an English major or somebody who writes a lot. You told me it was a boring story. I’m here for it. Please. ”
“It’s not much of a story at all.” She fidgeted with the corners of the folder. “That’s just my default answer when people ask. Boring.”
“The story, or political science?”
She smiled. “I guess I may as well tell you, since you probably think I’m nuts already.”
“Shannon, I don’t think that.”
“I’m not an English major for the same reason I’m not kicking ass on our swim team or playing clarinet in our nationally recognized music program. I’m great at those things, and I want to continue to like them, so I don’t want to put myself through all the work that just ends up with hating the things I used to love.”
Her eyes met his again, and she pointed to the window over an empty stretch of grass, still dormant from the winter.
“Last spring, I saw some of the football players out there,” she said. “And they were playing a pickup game, yelling at each other and laughing, throwing the ball at each other’s heads like they were kids. I know how hard you have to work to play for this team and how good you have to be to play on scholarship here. Every one of you guys was the best in your school, almost certainly the best in your county or conference, and probably the best in your state to be scouted for this program. And still, when those guys had some downtime, what were they doing? Playing the game that already owns them twenty-three hours per day.” Shannon glanced back. “From that dreamy smile on your face, I bet you would have been out there with them.”
“Without a doubt.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell me about it? Because that’s what the game is to you, and not national television on Saturdays?”
He kept his eyes on the empty grass and let the sun warm his face. “Yes. That’s exactly why. I don’t like the Saturday attention. I didn’t like it on Fridays, and I’ll hate it on Sundays and Mondays just as much in a few years.”
“You want to play professionally?”
“I will. I mean, we’re all basically pros already, in the technical sense. I’m the world’s worst spokesman because I never talk about it beyond a sponsored post here and there, but the protein bar and electrolyte water people won’t know I don’t like doing it. If I never see my face on the internet again, it’ll be too soon.”
Shannon recalled Hayden’s deals for his cleats and the state-of-the-art headphones he wore during warm-ups. He never shut up about them.
“Will I embarrass you if I drink whatever electrolyte water is?” she teased.
He granted her a smile. “Don’t waste your money. I have a crate of that stuff back in my dorm and I can assure you, it’s not worth the price.”
“Yep. Shittiest spokesman ever.”
“Barring any major injury to stop me, I will play for a real paycheck one day, and electrolyte water can pay someone else’s bills. I just do these now for a little investment money because it’s nice to not have to depend on my mom and dad for everything.” He shuddered as though the thought of his parents’ money chilled him.
“I’m a little jealous,” she said. “Not the money, although if someone offered me money to drink electrolyte water, I probably would. But I don’t think I’ve ever believed I could perform at a high level like that. You said that you’d go pro like you were already the number-one pick. Supreme confidence. Maybe that’s why I bailed before it got any tougher.”
He shrugged and shifted his weight to take pressure off his ankle, and stretched his arms over the back of the couch. “If you’ve reached a point where you think you’re as good as you can be with the effort you want to put in, why not go out on top? Your personal top, I mean. There’s no shame in saying you’re done when you don’t want it enough. A lot of athletes play past their prime, and I can’t imagine watching yourself go downhill feels too good. Playing football here is a job, and some people get cut because they can’t do what’s needed. But from what I’ve seen, most of those guys could hack it if they wanted to, but they have different priorities than the rest of us lunatics mainlining power shakes and monitoring our BMIs like ballerinas while we throw tractor tires.”
“I worry that if I have to do a lot of the literature work for a degree program, I won’t like even like to read anymore,” Shannon said. She bit her lower lip and thought. “Too much pressure to do it all a certain way, meet some professor’s arbitrary standards, and… I guess if I’m not competing, I’m not reaching a peak to come down from. I love it, and I want to keep loving it,” she said. “What am I going to use an English degree for that I couldn’t use a political science degree for, besides teaching? I don’t want to teach.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I have no idea. Political science is as good a degree as any other, I guess.”
“Why not do what you love until you figure it out?”
She dodged. “Why do you love football? ”
“Oh, subtext and symbolism,” Caleb said, grinning, “I don’t see any ‘top’ besides a Lombardi trophy. I’ll stop either when I get my championship ring, or when my body gives out.”
“That’s a lofty place to top out. Win or die trying,” she said.
He wriggled down on the couch, pushing his feet to her thigh. She poked his toes sticking out from the air cast. “I haven’t found a better reason to quit. Football was everything growing up,” he said. “My brothers and I are really close in age, so we always played together. We’ve been training since I was nine.”
“The brotherhood of the game.”
He nodded. “That’s where it started. But that’s how I got to know my brothers—their leadership, their work ethic, how they amp up their strengths and compensate for their weaknesses. Then, when those bastards left me and I had to do it on my own, I learned a lot about doing things my way for a change. I was on the phone with my oldest brother almost every day for a while because it was so hard to be a leader without them, but I did it. I had offers from their schools and chose not to play with them. It might be the only thing in the world I’m really confident about, but I love having at least one thing.”
“Even when you’re all beat up?” She poked his toes again, and he winked.
“Beat up is the best, but I’ll pass on anything that keeps me on the bench. God, give me all the bruises and sore muscles. That stuff makes me feel alive. That’s when I’m beating my chest like an animal asking what else they can throw at me.” Caleb paused and leaned forward. “I know you didn’t get beat up swimming, but did you ever feel that? Where your body is just screaming at you and it feels so raw and intense you don’t want it to stop?”
She hungered for him again, and she shoved aside thoughts of him raw and intense and doing things she didn’t want to stop. “I don’t think so,” she stammered. “But like you said, I never got too beat up.”
“I sure have. It’s a dogfight, and we create an illusion that it’s nothing but guys chasing a ball. But there’s so much precision to it.” He scrunched forward to sit up, poked Shannon’s knee, and grinned when her foot kicked out of its own accord. “I have reflexes all over that field. Reflexes for days,” he said, drawing out the last word with a laugh.
“Like what?” she teased, and nudged his shoulder so he fell back again, his feet against her thigh.
Caleb tucked a hand behind his head and smiled at the ceiling. “It starts with little stuff, like teaching your lower body to run and then stop, but not stop running, all while your upper body is completely engaged in something else, like trying to break up a catch without some touchy pass interference penalty. You do this jitter move to keep your feet in motion while you wait for counts or your man or whatever. It sounds so simple, but it can be really hard to train yourself to stop without stopping and not fall into your momentum. It has to be automatic.” He met her gaze. “Try it.”
For that mischievous grin and hint of a dimple, she’d have attempted a touchdown pass.
“What, just walk over there and stop, but walk in place?”
He eyed the distance. “Start back there,” he said, pointing. “That’s about fifteen yards. And don’t walk.”
“I’m not running in the library. ”
“Oh, you are running in the library.”
She batted her lashes at him. “Well, when you put it that way, yes, coach.”
“I’ll bring my whistle next time if you don’t move it.”
Shannon dawdled to the shelf he indicated, stretching and contorting in comical, exaggerated warm-ups as she walked. “All right,” she said, shaking out her shoulders and wrists. She crouched forward in her best approximation of a three-point stance and craned her neck to watch him shaking with silent laughter.
S he whispered a snap count, bolted fifteen yards to the corner, marked time for two counts, and pivoted right just in time to see his jaw drop as she raised her hands for the imaginary catch.
“The crowd goes wild!” she shouted in a hoarse whisper. “Van Pelt shocks the opponent with a beautifully timed route and perfect catch with the safety closing in.” She took in his approving nod and awestruck smile and winked. “Got to beat the safety, you know. I heard that guy’s pretty good.”
“He’s not that good if a newbie gets the best of him in footwork,” Caleb said.
She resumed her seat and squeezed his toes. “Buddy, everyone’s getting the best of you in footwork these days. Don’t be ashamed to humble yourself to Miss Marching Band.”
Caleb covered his face with his hands, then peeked between his fingers. “I’m ashamed, and not ashamed to say it.”
“I trained those reflexes, too,” she said, poking idly at his foot. “Not running, but there’s a reason the marching band has a training camp every summer, too. We all had to learn it.”
He twitched a little at the sudden tickle, then closed his eyes. “You get it, though. You can make half of your body do one thing while the other half is completely in the zone and doing something else. I was obsessed with robots when I was a kid. And now I have to program the top and bottom of this robot to face different directions or move at different times. When I play at this level, every tiny thing becomes a part of that equation, from what muscle groups I work to what calorie counts I consume or burn. There’s a precision to it. It’s the dorkiest part of the grind, and I love it.”
He paused, and in the silence, she willed him to keep talking while the light from the windows cascaded over him. Her chest warmed as she took in the sight of his muscular arms tucked back, hands folded behind his head, his heart open and vulnerable and his words as intimate as a kiss. Stretched out on the couch, his body was an invitation to crawl over him, to slide her hands up his torso again and wriggle her hips against his while he stiffened in response to her fingers and her lips, and?—
“Shan?”
“That’s a really fun metaphor,” she said, snapping upright as she searched for her last shred of resolve to keep the meeting focused on his paper. “The game itself, the plays… It has to be quick and responsive, like your body as the robot trained to execute on a split-second.” She shook the paper at him. “And you said you couldn’t do this stuff.”
“I can do football,” he said, blushing as he averted his eyes. “Just about anything football, I can do that.”
“If you made the connection between robotics and conditioning, I’d argue you can do a lot more than you give yourself credit for.” She tapped his copy of The Catcher in the Rye , desperate to reset her mind to something academic. “Do you know why Holden seems a little obsessed with sex?”
Great.
He sat up. “What?”
“You have all these tangible things to consider, like the hat and the ducks, but why is sex so present in his mind?”
Why was it so present in hers? It was Caleb Fields, who she despised for something he’d done years ago—something only explained by a person who hated him.
“Because he’s sixteen?” Caleb thought of Missy and shuddered.
“But he has one or two opportunities to get what he thinks he wants, and he doesn’t take them. Why?”
“That seemed a little weird to me,” Caleb said. “It would be like someone giving an answer about the ducks he’s always going on about, and then not accepting that… wait.”
A smile began to curl her lips.
“But the ducks do not represent sex,” he said. “Or parallel it in any way. That’s an entirely different weird obsession of his.”
“Are they so different?”
He scratched his head and began to fidget. “He’s worried about the ducks. Like all the time, he just wants an answer that makes sense to him, even though in his life the ducks themselves don’t matter.”
“Except for…”
“Phoebe loves the ducks, but she had better not have anything to do with sex, or I will set this book on fire and ban it myself. ”
“I can’t resist a man who’s so passionate about literature,” she said, fighting back a laugh while he blushed, as though he knew the truth of her statement. “How could his ten-year-old sister, the ducks in Central Park, and Holden’s obsession with but lack of sex come together in a common thread?”
Shannon waited while he thought, and managed not to stare until he dragged his hands through his hair and loosed the rubber band, then shook it out to tie back again.
He caught her watching, flipped his hair over his face, and blew it off his forehead with an exaggerated sigh. She was still giggling when he fixed it and drummed his fingers on his head while he mused.
“That’s how it’s coming-of-age, isn’t it?” Caleb said finally. “It’s not the time frame of the book. It’s the time frame of everything he’s processing in the book. Phoebe and the ducks are childhood, and he wants them to be safe to preserve that. Sex is an adult thing he really wants to understand, but is afraid to. It’s in the future. It’s not during that one-week span, either.”
“There you go,” she said with a satisfied nod. “This is why outlines should be full of questions.”
“I wouldn’t ask half of what you asked,” he said. “The questions have to be the right questions, or you go in circles.”
“Two questions are the root of all good questions.” She held up two fingers. “Ask yourself ‘And?’ and ‘Why?’ any time you get stuck.”
“I’ll play,” he said. “Holden bought a ridiculous red hat.”
“And?”
“He likes it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s unique. ”
“And?”
“It’s warm when he wants a warm hat.”
“And?”
“It’s a souvenir of the day he got kicked out of Pencey. I think.”
“And?”
“I miss you.”
She felt his eyes on her and slowly lifted her gaze from the folder, trying to still her trembling hands. “Why?” she asked.
“Because I always knew we could talk like this. Listen to each other like this.”
“Why?”
“It’s just something I felt before I spoke to you.”
Shannon reminded herself to breathe. “And?”
“And I know you felt it, too.”
“Why?”
He grabbed his backpack as he rose and plucked the folder and paper from her hand. “Because it was never going to be just one night, and we always knew that. We still know that,” he whispered. He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “But our reflexes need a lot of work.”
She caught her breath at the touch of his hand on her face, struggling for words. “We… we should probably…”
“And we will.”
Shannon blinked, and he was gone.