5. Chapter 5
Early rugby practise is grueling and it's not due to the cold air that catches in my throat with each breath.
I'm distracted, tripping over my own feet the entire time we're out on the field.
Our next game against Nottingham isn't until next week, but I still feel like I shouldn't be this out of touch with doing my best. I'm all over the place and ended our time flopping over the bench.
Harris seems just as tired as myself, head low whenever we paused from a drill.
I lie to myself the entire time I play badly and mess up plays, repeating I'm just tired like a dying man's mantra.
I'm tired because I somehow developed insomnia thinking about why the hell I’d given in so easily and almost sent a photo to my masked stranger.
Also, my entire room seemed to smell like the seasonal section in a candle store.
I can't for the life of me figure out why, so even though I had a blissful sleep, snuggled in the perfect spiced coffee smell; I'm on edge.
I have no clue who the guy is, I should have blocked him when the first message came through.
Thankfully I had come to my senses and not sent the picture.
He’s an annoyance trying to provoke me into god knows what and I need to keep my head clear.
Whoever it is, is fucking with me. What if it's one of the guys on the rugby team?
I'm pretty solid with all the guys, even if there are one or two I don't trust wholeheartedly.
Being into men wouldn't be cool with the entire team.
I can safely say the larger majority wouldn't give a shit, but those few…
yeah I don't trust them. I've seen how they sometimes look at Em.
Dragging my sore body up the driveway, I’m ready to throw myself into bed after a quick shower and not move till at least the evening.
Grace deciding to cancel our weekend together should have hurt more than it did.
I was pissed, yeah, but I was more annoyed she hadn't bothered to ask how my now empty weekend was going.
I kind of relished the rare quiet. I never had time to myself really, the boys had always made sure we filled our time together as much as possible.
It was nice to catch up on my laundry, cook and plant myself in front of the television.
I actually started a series that had been on my to watch list for months, so given the time to do so, I stopped feeling sour because she wasn't spending time with me.
Reaching the small porch, I feel that renewed calmness crack as I eye a brown parcel box sitting Infront of the door. It doesn't have a label, but in bold black marker is my name, with a drawn ghost next to it.
I fucking swear on all that is holy.
Storming the rest of the way, I'm only momentarily cursing myself for scooping up the box after I've already picked the thing up.
It could be a bomb or some shit. I should know better than touching an unidentified box.
I just know it's from him though, so I shove it under my armpit whilst I dig for my keys and get the door open.
Harris and Em decided to grab a drink with some of the guys before coming back, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved they are not here for this, or nervous because they could handle whatever is inside.
Well, Harris could–Emery would be clinging on to him until our big bear of a friend took care of our problem.
I have to be pappa bear now. Sort my own shit out.
Dumping the thing on our small dining table, I tear into the box and hope to god I'm wrong and it's not actually a bomb.
Fuck, what if it's a human heart or something?
A head like on Sevin? I need to stop being an idiot and just get it open.
Taking a pair of scissors to the tape, the lid pops open and I'm confused by what I see.
Pulling out a number of smaller boxes, I hold up a packed tripod, a suction wall holder for my phone and the last flat box is a ring light. What the hell?
Discarded in the bottom is a note and I'm starting to shake with a blinding emotion I've not felt before. This guy's fucking audacity. Snatching up the note, I have to take a couple of deep breaths before unfolding it. I can feel heat bubbling up in me like a pot going over its calm simmer.
Play with me. Join the dark side.
Shoving all the contents back into the box, I take my phone from my rugby shorts and take a picture of everything.
Pulling up my social media, I find his account in my recent search and see in the space of days he's gained a ridiculous amount of new followers.
There are more posts. Last night I found myself looking over the comments on the video he posted and they are fucking feral.
Men and women, both declaring they'd let him do pretty much anything he wanted to them. Has the world gone crazy?
I send him the photo.
@cass.cowbells: Why did you send this?
His reply is immediate, making something go tight in my belly.
@yourghostboy: I want you to play with me.
I tap the side of my phone aggressively, chewing on my thumb whilst I walk through the living room and make my way up the stairs. Before I can reply, another message comes through.
@yourghostboy: Make a masktok account. First one to 100,000 followers wins and the loser unmasked themselves
@cass.cowbells: I’m not doing that
@yourghostboy: ok, the winner decides what prize?
I think about it as I enter my room and strip my dirty sports t-shirt off.
I'm trying to shake myself from this insane delusion, because I can't really be considering this? What if someone I know sees it? Fuck, what if they figure out it’s me. Again I can’t help but think about the guys on the team.
I'm enabling an insane stalker, but I’ve already thought of a cool alias.
Despite most of his videos comments being criminally worrying, I wonder how it would feel to be given that much praise.
To have that many people have any sort of reaction to your body.
I work hard on myself and Grace is constantly telling me how hot my muscles and tattoos are, so maybe the internet would too?
If I do this, I do it for me. Wearing a mask will help the embarrassing rejection in case people hate me and I get zero likes.
I don't reply, but see I have a few notifications from the masked stranger before I throw it onto my bed.
The entire room needs a tidy and it wouldn't kill me to open a window, but that's what a free Sunday is for right?
Showering first, I trudge into the ensuite and lean heavily into the scorching water as it soothes out all my aches from practice.
What would I even post first? What song would get me attraction and fast?
Because I won't be the one to unmask myself. I know I said that wasn't the deal on the table, but if I win, that's my prize. I want this over with, so if this helps me figure out who the hell is fucking with me, so be it. Jesus Christ. I just have this really bad feeling that I’m falling into his trap. I’m a mouse starting at square one, but he’s already ten steps ahead with looming pits above each move I’m about to make.
With a towel slung around my hips and beads of water still dripping from my hair, I make my bed and discard dirty clothes into the wash basket.
Harris has a rule we don't eat or drink in our rooms, but it's more for Ems sake who would hold up in his like an art gremlin.
I bet he wouldn't ever sleep, wash or use the toilet if we let him.
My space is lived in for sure, with a lot of rugby memorabilia, memories from the farm, adventures with Dad and my computer set up for when we want to game, but no one wants to put on actual clothes to chill in the living room.
The desk is cluttered with my course books, but apart from that my room is relatively clean.
I can't believe I'm even considering this.
Slipping into fresh underwear and a pair of black sweats, I nudge the side of the desk with my hip until it moves, leaving a clear fraction of white wall.
I don't want anything identifiable if I do this.
Dragging the gaming chair until it's in front of me, I stubbornly refuse to use the tripod he sent me and place some books against the seat.
This is my choice, if I post anything on social media it won't be with his help.
Will this angle even work? Ducking around, I grab my phone off the bed and ignore all notifications.
Infact I turn on do not disturb mode and balance the phone on top of the books against the back of the chair.
Turning my camera on, I stand up straight and analyse myself, the shot a little slanted and the lighting could be better.
Fuck my life. A tripod and lighting would make this so much better.
Cursing him and myself–life at this point, I slam my feet down the stairs and swipe everything off the table, before minutes later slotting my mobile into the easily set up holder on the tripod.
The ring light was a breeze too, only fueling my anger.
Something ignites in my blood at the thought of beating this guy; but was I thrilled at the prospect of teasing the internet?
Shocks danced along my lower belly and settled there between my hips. Jesus. I guess I did.
I'd kept the mask I had bought for Grace in the bottom of my wardrobe so no one could stumble upon it. I can't stop pinning the blame of this entire situation on that stupid piece of heavy plastic.
It actually fits really well.