Her eyes analyse me for a good few seconds, softening slightly before they calcify again. “Don’t let me down.” She flips her hair behind her shoulder and stalks down the tunnel, away from the field.
I make my way over to a bench on the sidelines and plop myself down, holding my head in my hands.
My mother showed a sliver of vulnerability just then, and I haven't seen that since Dad left. It was a rare moment. For a heartbeat, I almost saw the woman who’d raised me, not the one constantly wearing that mask of animosity.
But as quickly as that side of her had appeared, it’d vanished. Her walls are built high, and it’s evident my mother is far more comfortable in her fortress of emotional distance she’s spent years constructing.
I get why she cares so deeply about the Missarali Storks Cheerleading Squad—it’s the only thing she has left.
It doesn't excuse her behaviour, but Idopity her.
“Mae?”
The voice gives me goosebumps. I lift my head to see Nathan standing before me. His black T-shirt is tight over his muscular body, and the grey sweatpants he’s wearing cause my eyes to dip briefly before I blink and hope he didn’t notice.
“Why are you sitting here?” He sounds concerned—with a deep crease formed between his eyebrows, his mouth flipping downwards.
“Just relaxing,” I say, jumping up but immediately regretting it. I feel my face falter, and my ankle complains under my weight. I can tell the injury isn’t anything serious, but it’s in need of rest.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I smile, moving past him. I can already feel my ankle beginning to swell. However, I attempt to walk as normally as possible, knowing I probably look like a zombie dragging their twisted foot behind them. All I need now is rotting skin and an intense desire to eat brains.
“Why are you limping?”
“I’m not.”
Nathan speeds up beside me, cocking his head and dragging his bottom lip into his mouth. “Mae, stop.” He holds his hand up to cease my movement, hovering a few centimetres in front of my breasts, and the action causes sweat to form on my upper lip. He looks fed up with my antics. “Don’t lie to me. You’re hurt. Why are you hurt?”
I guess the jig is up.
My tongue moves to press behind my teeth, but before I can reply, Nathan tells me to sit down. His face tells me there’s no room for defiance.
After he gestures to the bench I was previously sat on—tucked away in the corner—I huff and move back over to it. The icy metal bites into my skin, causing my body to shiver, but I’m not entirely sure it’sjustbecause of the bench.
Nathan grabs a first aid box from a cupboard and taps my knee, signalling that he wants me to lift my leg as he crouches.
I roll my eyes. “Nathan, I—”
“If you walk on it without wrapping it, you’ll make it worse. Are you going to let me help or not?”
Why does he have to look at me like that?
I want to say no. To tell him I can do this myself. But his gaze is making my mouth feel numb. Like I can’t move it.
“Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to hear whatever snarky remark you have up your sleeve.”
My eyes slim. “I want to be a vet. I know how to wrap an injured ankle.”
“There it is.” He shakes his head and scoffs in humorous disbelief. Looking down at my foot, his fingers curl upwards in unison as he moves them in a“give it to me”motion.
I sigh softly, pulling off my tennis shoe and sock, watching as he pulls some wrap from the box and grips my ankle tentatively.
“And I didn’t ask you if you knew how to do it, princess. I’m aware you’re smart. I asked you if you were going to let mehelpyou.”
My mouth goes dry.
He examines my foot before beginning to wrap it. I focus on the warmth of his fingers against my skin, which makes my skin twist. I’m fighting to keep my breathing steady, trying to push through the pain while concentrating on the fact that Nathan Slater is tending to my ankle, gazing up at me with a hint of emotion other than annoyance.
