He stares down at me, his hand still wrapped around my bicep. “If you think it’s not hard then you’re underestimating yourself.” I narrow my eyes at him but he continues, “And for a girl who plays soccer so gloriously, it shouldn’t be too hard to stay upright, should it?”
Gloriously.
I play soccer gloriously, he said. He said the same thing last night in the library but he was being such an asshole to me that it didn’t make the impact that it should have.
But it does now.
That word drips down from my chest and settles somewhere low in my belly, like a warm dose of honey or sunshine.
My favorite soccer player in the whole world thinks I playgloriously.
Biting my lip, I say, “Well, I’ve got you now. To save me. Don’t I? My friend.”
Something dangerous and delicious flashes through his eyes. “What did you do before?”
“Before?”
He squeezes my bicep as if he’s making sure that I don’t fall again. “Before I came around to catch you.”
I swallow at his question. At the inadvertent meaning of it.
What did I do before he came around to catch me?
What did I do when I didn’t have his arms to break my fall and when I didn’t have his gorgeous eyes looking at me like he wants to know all my secrets?
“I fell,” I whisper.
His features become sharp for a second, snap taut, and I think I’ve said too much. I think he knows everything now. He hears everything now too, the loud drumming of my heart and the slight change in my breathing.
But I’m wrong.
He doesn’t know and I’m never going to tell him.
This isn’t even about that, about my witchy heart and my secret longing. This is about him, being his friend.
“You fell,” he whispers back, his tone even lower than mine.
“Yeah.”
“And hit your head?” he asks, his eyes grave.
“What?”
“Because that’s the only explanation as to why you like this place.”
It takes me a second to absorb his words and when I do, I push at his chest. As expected, he doesn’t go anywhere; his chest is a solid, unmovable mass. My useless movements only make him chuckle and it’s so adorable that I can’t hold onto my anger.
“Just FYI, that is bordering on mean,friend.”
His chuckle dies out. “It’s harder than I thought, actually.”
“Being nice to me?”
He shakes his head once. “Being nice to anyone.”
I don’t know where my boldness is coming from tonight – first taking off the t-shirt in a crowded bar, then asking him to be my friend.
But it’s here, my boldness, and it’s here to stay, at least for tonight.
