by Cora Carmack
“Well, your first problem is that your roman numeral two should really be your A point under roman numeral one. They’re too closely related to be separate informative points.”
Damn. That means I need to come up with something else I can write a full paragraph about.
“The roman numeral is the broadest way to describe the topic. The letters break it down into more specific key points, and the lowercase roman numerals are for supporting details like statistics, quotes, and examples.”
I love how she just rattles off the information with no problem, when I find myself looking back at the textbook example every few seconds. She must read the frustration on my face because she turns toward me, her knee brushing my thigh.
“Think of it this way. If you were to write a paper informing someone who knows nothing about football how to evaluate the skills of a quarterback, you might choose to use your three paragraphs to evaluate his passing game, running game, and decision-making. Under each of those headings, you’d use a letter to explain the various skills that contribute to a good passing game, running game, etc. So, let’s say under ‘passing game,’ strength is your A point, accuracy might be your B point. And then for supporting details you could give player statistics or even discuss drills that are designed to improve strength or accuracy. You can include as many points and details under each heading as you want. The more you have, the more comprehensive your outline will be, and the less trouble you’ll have writing a decent-length paper when the time comes.”
There’s something really fucking sexy about listening to a girl like her talk about football and actually know her stuff. I’m used to having to explain what a first down means to most girls.
“You make it sound so easy. If only I could write about football instead of current events.”
She grins at me. “Yeah. I’m sure you would love that.”
“Hey, you’re the one who brought up football. Not me. I wasn’t going to even utter the word for fear that it would scare you off.”
Now that I’ve brought attention to it, she looks a little like she wants to bolt, but she doesn’t.
“The trick with papers like this is to pick a current event that interests you or that connects to a subject you’re familiar with.”
“I don’t know anything about anything but football.”
“That can’t be true. What kind of stuff were you interested in growing up?”
“Girls,” I answer.
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think girls count as a current event.”
“I didn’t do anything growing up except work for my dad and play football. That’s all I know how to do.”
“What does your dad do?”
“He’s a rancher.”
“Why don’t you write about the drought? I saw a thing on the news just this morning about the decline in the number of cattle in Texas. If it’s on the news, I’m sure you could find an article somewhere about it.”
“I can talk about that?”
She smiled. “Yeah. As long as you find some articles and more official information to back it all up.”
“I could write about that in my sleep. I’ve got my dad’s whole rant about it down pat.”
“Then do that.”
She does a quick Internet search and on the first page alone, she points out three or four articles that would make good sources. And in five minutes, I’ve got all my main points mapped out.
“I think once I’ve read a few of these articles, I should be able to wrap up the rest of this pretty quickly.”
This would have taken me hours by myself.
“Yep. I think you’ve pretty well got the hang of it.”
I look up from my computer to face her, and I notice that she’s closed the gap between us on the couch, leaving a scant few inches between her leg and mine.
“Thanks for this, Daredevil. You’re a lifesaver.”
She shakes her head.
“I’m no daredevil.”
“Any girl who can jump off balconies and hold her own in a fight with Coach Cole is a daredevil in my book.”
Her face falls, and I immediately regret bringing up that night.
“Like father, like daughter, I guess.”
“It’s not such a bad thing . . . being like your dad. Yeah, you’re both stubborn and proud. That’s for sure. But you’ve both got big hearts.”
She looks at me like an extra head has just sprouted from the socket of my shoulder.
“No one in my entire life has ever told me I have a big heart.”
I touch the hand she has braced on her knee, just for a few seconds, and say, “Then no one in your entire life has been paying much attention.”
THE NEXT MORNING Ryan approaches as soon as I enter the weight room. He doesn’t ask if I need a spot; this has become our routine since the first time he helped me.
He helps me load weights on the bar over at the bench press, and he wordlessly adds an extra ten pounds.
I might have mentioned Coach’s words about improving my arm in passing, and Ryan has unofficially taken on the role as my trainer.
I’m not as chatty today, not with an extra ten pounds to worry about, and not with my head still dissecting every moment I spent with Dallas last night. But Ryan picks up the slack.
“You’re later today than usual.”
I push out a breath as I lift the bar away from my chest.
“Up late,” I breathe.
“Something to do with the message you left?”
“Oh, that. I just had a question, but I worked it out.”
“Okay,” he says, but doesn’t comment further as I finish out my set. When I rack the bar and take a quick breather he adds, “I hope you’re coming during your lunch break today.”
I had been thinking of trying to catch Dallas after environmental science to thank her again for her help, but that will just take a few minutes.
“I’ll be here.”
“Good. Otherwise I would have two pissed-off receivers on my hands.”
I take the bar again, readjust my grip for a second, my hands burning slightly where some new calluses are forming. Then I start another set.
“What do you mean?”
“Torres and Brookes are meeting us at one. Thought we could spend some time throwing today. Work on that arm. It will give you a chance to get to know them, too. Build a rapport.”
Torres and Brookes? They’re both first string.
Ryan sees my expression. “They’re good guys. And they’re taking shit from Abrams about not being able to get open, so they’ve been hanging around, putting in some extra work. Seems stupid not to take advantage and let you guys work each other.”
“Yeah. It does. Thanks, man.”
“Don’t mention it. Now tell me what was so important that you broke your strict schedule for a late night.”
“Eh.” My hesitation turns into a groan as I struggle with my next to last rep. Ryan touches two fingers to the bottom of the bar, letting me know he’s there.
“One more.”
I take a few ragged breaths, and then I let my shaking arms lower toward my chest.
“Tell me this,” he says. “Was it more important than outplaying Abrams? Because that’s what all this is for, right? No one works this hard to ride the bench.”
Sweat runs in my eyes as I began to push up one last time. Ryan’s two fingers under the bar disappear and now both his hands grip the bar, pushing down just enough to add resistance.
I growl as I try to push past him.
“Was it more important?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word by letting me gain just a centimeter. My arms are shaking badly now, and the ache extends from my wrists to my shoulders.
I think about Dallas, and rather than answering, I grit my teeth and push up as hard as I can, dislodging Ryan and depositing the bar on the rack. I sit up, and my arm screams with the effort to even just lift up the hem of my shirt and wipe at the sweat on my face.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a bastard?” I say.
“Once or twice. Who is she?”
I stiffen and stand up, stretching my arms above my head. “What do you mean?”
“If it were anything else, you would have just said yes or no. When guys start having trouble giving straight answers, I find that it’s usually about a girl.”
“For your information, I was up doing homework.”
“Riiiight.” He raises his hands does those lame air-quote things. “Homework.”
I shake my head, pushing the sweaty hair off my forehead. “Doesn’t matter. We’re just friends.”
“I knew it!”
“Watch it, Blake. Don’t make me shove that dumbbell up your ass to keep your head company.”
“Fine. Fine. Go shower. Rest up so you don’t embarrass yourself in front of Torres and Brookes this afternoon. Then you can just concentrate on the friend zone . . . I mean end zone.”
I shove him, and he just laughs in response.
“Bastard.”
“Yeah, well. Let’s both get our heads out of our asses before this afternoon, hmm?”
Chapter 13
Dallas
I’m heading out when Stella comes home that evening.
“You going to the cafeteria? I’m starving!”
“Uh . . . no. I already ate. Sorry.”
She nods, stripping off a paint-covered T-shirt. “Dance class or work?”
God, why couldn’t I have just left five minutes earlier?
“Neither. Studying.”
She gives an exaggerated snore. If she knows where I’m actually going, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.
“Fine. Go do your thing. But first . . . I made something for you.” She drags her large portfolio bag that she uses to carry her artwork onto the bed. She unzips the top and reaches inside. “Ta-da!”
She thrusts a small canvas painting in my direction. In the center in thick, deep red is a heart (the metaphorical, not anatomical, kind). It’s painted so that it looks three-dimensional, like I could pick it up off the page. And down the center of the heart are black, string laces, pulled tight, and squeezing the heart, exaggerating its shape.
“It’s your corset heart. Remember?”
I remembered our discussion in the library before Carson had interrupted us, the one all about how I am laced too tightly to ever let myself fall in love. When I really think about it, that oppressed heart is a pretty damn accurate depiction, but as I hold it in my hands, I feel my stomach toss. I might be sick.
“You hate it,” Stella says.
“No, it’s really pretty. I love the colors.”
“But you’re not exactly a hearts-and-flowers kinda girl. I know. It’s fine.” She moves to take it back. “I’ll just paint over it. Try something new.”
“No!” I jump back, holding the small painting away from her. I clear my throat. “No. I’d like to keep it . . . if that’s okay with you.”
Stella looks even more shocked than I feel. “Really?”
I nod.
“Yeah. It’s all yours.”
I slip it in my oversized purse, say goodbye, and walk out the door.
I’ll keep the painting because it’s pretty, because Stella made it and against all odds, I love her. I’ll also keep it as a reminder of the person I’ve let myself become.
I DIDN’T LIE to Stella, not really. I just didn’t elaborate on what studying meant. Or more specifically, with whom I’ll be studying. I ran into Carson earlier today on my way to my geology class as he was leaving. He asked what I was doing tonight, I said homework. I asked him, and he answered the same. And when he suggested we do our homework together . . . at the same time . . . in the same place . . .
I agreed.
I volunteered to meet him at his apartment again because I still am not ready for the ramifications of hanging out with him in public. It seemed like a reasonable, harmless way to spend the evening.
Wrong. Oh so very wrong. In fact, I keep hearing that word, echoing like a gong in my head. I changed probably half a dozen times before settling on a simple pair of shorts (the longest pair I owned) and a V-neck tee.
And as I pull up outside his apartment, I am a mess. A hot mess. A steaming pile of . . . mess.
I know how dangerous this is. The potential stupidity of this night is epic in nature, but I still don’t turn around and get back into my car (even though I really should).
Between our interactions so far and the unfamiliar rawness in my chest that’s been chafing at me since Stella gave me that painting, I am not at all in control.
I should walk away. That’s what I do when I find myself in an unpredictable situation with immense potential for pain.
Most of the issues in my relationship with Levi had stemmed from the fact that I was always willing to be the one who walked away. We’d get in these awful fights (not unlike Dad and me), and they only ever ended in one of two ways—Levi backed down or we broke up.
Not normal, I know. But we always got back together. It had always felt like a given, until suddenly it stopped feeling that way. He set a state record for our conference; he and my dad started talking about playing college ball, and suddenly it felt like I wasn’t the only one willing to walk away if I didn’t get what I wanted.
So rather than walking away after our last fight, I gave him what he wanted. In the back of his pickup truck, parked in the lot at the football field of all places.
He walked away anyway.
I will never be in that position again. I will never be the person who cares more, because that person is always the one who hurts more.
And yet here I am, knocking on Carson’s door, telling myself that my heart is only in my throat because I’m out of practice at making new friends.
Yeah right.
“Just a second!”
I almost run. But then I imagine how ridiculous it will look when he opens his door and I’m sprinting down the stairs and across the parking lot like the crazies on Black Friday.
He opens the door, and if I hadn’t already sucked in a breath, I would have had to do it again. He’s wearing university sweatpants, hung low on his hips, with a thin white cotton T-shirt. His hair is wet like he’s fresh from a shower, and in a few places his shirt is damp and see-through, stuck to his skin.
I can smell him. Over the sticky September air, over the chlorine from the pool that his apartment overlooks, over everything.
“Hey. Come on in.”
This is such a bad idea.
But when I peek inside, his coffee table is covered in papers and books, and the pencil in his hand tells me he was working when I knocked on the door.
He really does just want to study. I can do this. I can. And if at any point it gets to be too much, I always have my trusty backup plan.
Walk away.
I step just far enough inside for him to close the door, but when he heads to the couch, I stay where I am. He has the overhead light on tonight, so the room is brighter, less intimidating. He looks up and in the well-lit room his blue eyes look almost electric.
“If we’re really going to be friends, I need some ground rules first,” I say.
When I was just stopping by for a few minutes to help him with homework, it wasn’t a problem. But hanging out two nights in a row is definitely a big deal. And big deals require rules.
His head tilts to the side, but he puts down his pencil and leans back on the couch.
“Okay. Whatcha got?”
“We don’t tell anyone we’re hanging out. Not yet.” Not until I know for sure this is something I can do without getting in over my head.
After a moment, he nods. “Okay. I won’t mention it to a soul until you’re ready to come out of the closet as my friend.”
I wince. “It’s not like that. I just . . . I can’t trust it won’t get back to my dad. You know what gossip is like here. And when he finds out, it should come from me.”
“Fair enough.” I sw
allow, acutely aware that it sounds like I’m negotiating the terms of a relationship that’s much more scandalous than a friendship.
“No questions about my dad. This should go without saying, but no using me to spend time with him. If you want to get on his good side, do it on the field, not through me.”
His eyes soften, and I swear my heart constricts like those imaginary strings around it have been pulled tight.
“I want to get to know you, Daredevil. Not your dad.”
I nod, glad to hear it, even though I’ve heard similar over the years from guys who turned out to be lying.
“If it gets to be too much, if it goes too far . . . either one of us just has to say the word, and it’s done. We walk away, and that’s that.”
His eyebrows knit together in an almost-scowl.
“You have this kind of contract with all your friends?”
“No,” I answer simply.
He waits, and I’m sure he’s expecting an explanation, but I don’t give it.
“Fine. Then I have a few stipulations of my own.”
I nod for him to go ahead. It’s only fair.
“Stay away from the other football players. Abrams, Moore, anyone who comes up to you in class or a party or whatever. If we’re keeping our worlds separate, then they need to stay that way. Completely.”
His voice is firm, an almost growl, as he says it. I don’t let myself think about the possessive edge in his tone. That’s a rabbit hole I can’t fall into.
“That’s an easy yes.”
He nods, but the troubled expression on his face doesn’t go away with my acceptance.
“We’re honest with each other, no matter how hard or awkward it is to say whatever needs to be said. We”—he uses a hand to gesture between us—“are a safe space. You can say anything to me, and I promise I’ll hear you out. I’ll listen. No matter what it is.”
I swallow, wondering just how honest he plans on getting, but I don’t refuse.
“Okay. Is that it?”
“You don’t walk away without an explanation. An honest one.”
“If that’s what you want.” It’s likely to be a brutal truth; it always is, but if he can take it, I can say it.