“You try out for the team again, I will personally fuck you up.”
Ellis shrugs. “You can try.”
Alistair roars and starts to swing his fist. And Ellis is like Barry Allen, aka the Flash. I’m not even kidding. That long, lithe body stoops and draws back, then he throws his hand behind his shoulder and uses those huge (breathtaking!) thigh muscles to power his punch right the way through his body. Four knuckles strike Alistair in the sweet spot under his jaw and his head snaps back. And then he’s flying, almost somersaulting, and the knuckle-draggers are quickly making room for a very awkward landing. Al hits the deck just as Ellis shakes loose his fingers.
Then, from the other side of the field, and right on cue, the school band trills –
Ta-dah!
“That. Was. Awe. Some!” Mike shouts.
Ollie just stands there, mouth open. Gemma squeaks. Meanwhile Ellis sidles over.
“Hey, Frecks.”
“Um. Hey?”
“Do me a favour?”
“Um. Yeah?”
“Could you buy me a cold drink?”
“Um. Okay.”
We walk in silence over to this little kiosk selling food and drink. From behind, I hear Mike telling Al he’s off the team, and screw Mr Highfield because if Al isn’t off the team Mike will walk. And so will Ollie. And they’re Ferrivale’s only decent strikers.
I buy Ellis a can of diet Pepsi and he rolls it against his fist.
“Better?”
He gives me this smile that honestly takes my breath away. What the hell is going on tonight? Doesn’t this sort of thing only happen in books and movies? Ellis cracks the tab and takes a swig.
“Wet your whistle?”
He offers me the can. Jesus, I want to put my lips right where his lips have been…but I can’t. Because this isn’t a movie and he’s just teasing and I’m not ready. It makes me feel awful. If I’m not ready for him who will I ever be ready for? Take a chance, my brain screams, so what if he laughs? But that would kill me, and so I shake my head. He shrugs and finishes the can.
“Better get a move on,” he says, “petitions to hand out.”
I nod. Suddenly it’s like someone’s busted up the most amazing party and the music’s been killed and the lights are all on and everyone’s heading home.
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course. Good luck.”
He’s moving off, the crowds about to swallow him, when he turns back and grins.
“Don’t forget, you are legally my friend now. No get out of jail, no turn around touch the ground, no going backsies. Friends until our dying day. Be seeing you, adorable Frecks.”
And wehaveseen each other. All around school and at every history lesson and whenever I head out to the field to watch Mike and the team. Somehow Mike wangled it with Mr Highfield and a be-pearled Ellis is on the left wing. He’s amazing, too; Quicksilver and The Flash rolled into one. Meanwhile, a bruised and dumped Alistair Pardue stalks the corridors, looking murderous in this limp-dicked kind of way. Even the Year Sevens tease him.
But Ellis and me? We seem sort of stuck. It’s my fault. Weeks go by and he gives me all these openings and I keep cock-blocking myself, if that’s even possible. He’ll come up with clichéd stuff like, “Can I borrow a pen?” Or intriguing gambits, like telling me his middle name is Maximillian, like that French revolutionary dude we’re studying in history. And me? I hand over the biro and beat a hasty retreat.
I’m going to be closeted and single forever.
The bell jangles above the bookshop door and the memory of bonfire smoke evaporates. I sigh and start to pack up my stuff. And then stop. It’s him. Ellis Maximillian Bell! He’s just walked into Hug-A-Book, Gemma Argyle hanging off his arm. I sink back into my chair and mask my face with the French Revolution.
Shit shit shit.
But whyshit shit shit?
