When that happens, I’ll already know how to keep it.
Know it’s mine.
—
Practice was over, locker room buzzing behind me, but I couldn’t bring myself to step inside. I walked instead, hands shoved in my pockets, trying to look like I wasn’t pacing the campus like a predator.
Hunting. Yeah, that’s what it was, even if I’d never admit it out loud. My eyes dragged over every corner, every bench, every glass-panelled window, searching.
And then, there. Library.
She sat at one of the tables, hunched slightly forward, ruler pressed against the page, pencil dragging neat lines into some kind of grid. Her brows were drawn together in concentration, and her bottom lip caught lightly between her teeth.
For a second, I thought she was avoiding me. Running. Because of course she would; most people did. But no. She was… making a schedule. Actually planning.
The folder from earlier was open, papers stacked with brutal precision. She was doing it seriously, committing herself to it even though she looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.
My jaw clenched.
She said she’d start tomorrow, and I didn’t believe her. Thought it was an excuse, a retreat. But now… now she’s carving hours of her life out for me with a goddamn ruler.
I had to stop myself from pushing the door open, from dragging a chair out and sitting across from her, just to watch that pen move across paper.
Just to watch her givemehertime.
She had no idea what it did to me, seeing her bend her world to fit into mine.
I stood there too long. Long enough that someone could’ve caught me staring through the glass like a creep. Her pencil moved steadily, the ruler keeping everything precise. She didn’t fidget, didn’t glance up.
Completely unaware that I was eating up every second of it.
I dragged in a breath that felt more like a chokehold and forced myself to step back. Away from the glass, away from her, back down the hallway where the noise of my teammates echoed from the locker room.
Each step was heavier than it needed to be, like my body was protesting, begging me to turn back. But I shoved the door open, slipped inside, and let the humid air of sweat and cologne drag me back into routine.
I peeled myself out of my kit and grabbed my jeans out of my bag. I quickly shoved them on, zipping them up until a voice cut through.
“Cap, there’s a girl looking for you outside.” One of the guys called from across the room.
I chose to ignore it, ignore the girl that was supposedly searching for me, whoever she is.
Another voice came, louder this time. “You should go, she can’t call out. She—uh—can’t speak.”
My head shot up hearing that.
She can’t speak.
There was only one person who came to mind at that moment. And without even thinking, I grabbed my shirt and ran out, looping it over my head, letting it rest around my neck.
Her head was bent over the page, the same schedule she’d been working on earlier. For a second, I thought she hadn’t noticed me at all, then her eyes snapped up and widened when she finally saw me.
She spun on her heel and turned her back to me, like a reflex to hide. I let my gaze drop down the length of her for a beat, then tugged at the collar of my shirt, rolling it down so I didn’t look like I was trying to be seen.
I moved around her slowly, deliberately, until I was standing in front of her again.
“What?” My voice was small, clipped. I finished pulling the shirt into place and crossed my arms, giving her exactly enough attention to make the space between us electric.
She blinked, fingers fumbling in her folder. Then she pulled out a clean sheet and showed it to me. I watched her closely as she held it up; her hands trembled a fraction, but the lines on the page were neat, deliberate. The schedule she’d made, boxes drawn with ruler-perfect precision.
