He’s currently laughing and chugging something from a plastic cup, smiling at his friends as his dimples pop. I see Jake at his side reenacting some play from the game, and I can’t help but smile at the two of them. I run my finger over my wrist, still a little tender from the ink there. Now or never it is.
I slide through the crowd dodging bodies and make my way to him. I cringe a little more when I notice two kids from the class that I’m currently TA-ing sitting on a couch not far from him. No matter how this went, if they paid attention it was going to make class super awkward Monday. But it had to be done.
Someone slides out of the way in front of me, heading off to get another drink and it provides me a straight line to him. I walk up, taking a deep breath to try and calm the erratic beating of my heart in my chest.
“Ben?” I say, far too softly and he doesn’t hear me at first over the laughter and music.
“Ben!” I say it more forcefully this time and his attention is torn away from Jake and the others searching for the person who called his name.
“Lawton.” I add his last name and I see the recognition hit his eyes when he finds me.
It’s not a great welcome, confusion followed by something else I can’t entirely read settles there. He jerks his chin up, like I’ve seen him do to the fans of his around campus. Acknowledging my presence but doing nothing to give me any credit.
“Would you sign my jersey?” I hold up the Sharpie I’d tucked in my pocket, and he just stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Wow. Looks like you’ve got a really big fan.” The beautiful blonde is still at his side, and she laughs, her eyes glittering with an air of superiority that nearly makes me crumple under its weight.
But I’ve come this far, and I’m not stopping. My presence and my appearance have gotten the attention of more people around us, but he still doesn’t move to speak or take the pen from me.
“Yes, I am a huge fan,” I admit and then for lack of anything better to do, I hold out the marker for Ben to take.
He stares down at my hand like it’s a fucking cobra that’s popped out from a basket ready to bite, and then his eyes land on my wrist. His face changes, alters as he studies it and realizes what it says.
He leans forward and takes my hand in his, twisting my wrist and turning my palm up so he can get a clear view of the tattoo.
“Holy shit, bro! She has your number fucking tattooed on her.” A player from the team I don’t recognize slaps him across the back, and I hear the blonde giggle again at his side.
I study him, trying to read his face or guess what he’s thinking, but he just stares at my wrist, unmoving.
I shrug at the guy commenting. “It’s a good number.”
I’m just hoping the embarrassment I’m feeling at the attention and Ben’s silence isn’t reaching my cheeks.
“That’s commitment to a college player’s number,” Jake whistles.
“I’m pretty sure he’s going pro.” I smile at Jake, thankful for someone familiar and for the small smile he offers in return. I doubt he’s on my side in this. He seems like the kind of guy who would convince Ben he was better off playing the field than getting involved with me, but I’d take it.
“And if he doesn’t keep that number?” the other guy, the one I don’t know, asks, his eyes glassy with all the alcohol he’s consumed.
“Someone like him? He’ll keep his number. But if he changes it, that’s what the other wrist is for.” I give another small shrug, trying to sound casual even when I don’t feel it.
“Wooow.” The blonde rolls her eyes and then flicks them over me, clearly wishing I could fuck off to wherever I came from so she can resume her flirting.
Ben stands abruptly then, like her comment has woken him up and his grip around my wrist tightens. He starts to walk off, dragging me across the room, down the hall where he opens a door and pulls me into it.
“Ben?” I ask softly at first, and then louder again when he doesn’t respond. “Ben?”
He flicks on the light and illuminates the small bathroom. It’s beautiful for a frat house, still keeping some of the original fixtures and architecture.
He still hasn’t said anything to me, though. His face is clouded, anger and irritation dancing over it, and I know I’ve fucked up by trying to make amends. I guess I knew how this was ending.
He flicks on the faucet, and I have no idea what he’s doing.
“Ben? Are you going to say anything?” I ask quietly, afraid that even talking is going to make him angrier.
“Wash it off,” he bites out, pointing to the water.
“What?”
