Eight
Tyson
DidBlairjustgiveme finger guns?
We’re doing our walk through for the home game tomorrow against The Serpents. That means Blair has had her first practice, plus a special teams day, and I’ve heard from her zero times. I thought that this whole bizarre thing would bring us closer together.
Maybe not.
And the first time she sees me, she gives me finger guns?
I fall into the task at hand. We’re in the film room discussing the team we’re up against tomorrow. Honestly, they’ve had a rough season—only winning two of their last five games—and this should be a fairly easy Cosmos win. But while we have Blair to kick extra points, we still don’t have a field goal kicker.
I think the team is afraid to have her try and fail–they don’t want any dings to her confidence. Field goal attempts are different from extra points–more difficult, with lots of variables. So, the only film we fixate on from our previous game is our piss-poor attempt at two point conversions after scoring a touchdown. Not good.
I look over and see Zack shoulder to shoulder with Blair—her hair is tied back in a short ponytail, some of the chocolate locks falling on the nape of her neck. They’re watching film and going through a playbook, giving her a crash course on what she doesn’t know. Which, honestly, probably isn’t a lot.
Blair has always been into sports, ever since I’ve known her, and according to her brothers, since she could keep up with them. It was never enough to know the rules; she wanted to understand everything—the positions, plays, and strategy.
She’s not one to half-ass anything. It’s something I love about her.
Something. On top of themanyother things.
I rub my hands over my face, covering any of the red hitting my cheeks, because this isn’t the place to think about the woman I’ve been in love with for a decade. The woman who found a way to tie herself to me, in a way I didn’t even know was there, the first day we met.
College kids and driving in the snow were a horrible combination. Walking in it wasn’t much better.
She came out of nowhere—buried under at least three bags, worn-in sneakers on her feet, no winter boots in sight. One second she’s upright, the next she was tilting towards the bumper of a silver Jeep—about to slide right under.
I lunged, catching her around the waist before she could face-plant. “Got you,” I said, hauling her back onto steady feet.
Her eyes went wide, sunlight reflecting off pools of honey, and then she let out a strangled laugh. “Cool. Totally fine. Just practicing my new stunt routine. Thought I’d debut it here in the parking lot.”
I grinned, still holding her arm. “Not bad. Needs a little less… death-defying.”
Her cheeks were pink—not just from the cold. She yanked one bag higher on her shoulder, like it might distract from the fact I just kept her from eating asphalt. “Guess I should’ve charged admission. Front row seats and everything.”
I shook my head, fighting a laugh. “Now, that’s a way to help pay for college.” I reached for one of her bags before she could stop me. “Probablyshould wear winter boots or something if you’re going to be a pack mule. A simple suggestion.”
“Not a pack mule. Just a student athlete trying to make it to classes, practice, and the weight room. You get it.” She shrugged, her eyes locking on mine.
“Cheerleading?” I asked, given the whole stunt routine comment.
The laugh that skipped through her was vibrant and quick, her breath a white cloud in front of her lips. “Soccer. But I am flattered that, from this interaction, you think I’m that coordinated.” She smiled, and it was hard not to match her. “And I’m Blair.”
Not knowing where we were headed, I fell into step beside her. “Tyson. And I play football.” I gave her information she didn’t ask for, and then something clicked. “Does that mean you’re going to the mixer thing tonight?”
“Yes. My boyfriend plays basketball. We’ll be there later.” She stopped in front of the dorm doors. She reached for her bags, so I passed one over and grabbed the door for her.
Trying to drown the sudden disappointment, I forced a casual, “Cool. I’ll see you there.”
She tipped her chin to me. “See you there.”
Later that night, I saw her again. Hair down in loose chocolate curls, that easy smile already aimed my direction. When she spotted me, she gave a little wave.
And right then, I knew—it was the start of something.
Fuck. I’m in trouble. I’ve always been in trouble.
