Page 20

Chapter Twenty

RUTH

I ’m trying to absorb the cold from the concrete wall at my back as I sit in the corridor connecting the changing room to the parking lot, tucked out of sight from any fans. I just need a minute to catch my breath and let my head stop spinning before I try to wrestle myself out of the costume.

I’m sure once I get it off, there’ll be a bruise the size of my fist on my ass from where I fucked up that cartwheel, but I’m trying not to think about that right now, despite the throbbing pain that stuck with me through most of the game.

I especially don’t want to think about what threw me off, the fact that I was staring too hard at Rowan’s ass as he squatted for the snap.

He might have pissed me off, but that man is so fucking fine I’d have to be blind not to notice. It doesn’t mean anything. I mean, what’s a little ogling between friends? It’s probably just that I haven’t gotten laid in so long. Maybe this is a sign to re-download one of the dating apps that used to litter my home screen.

After Marshall broke my heart, I figured it was time to be by myself for a little while, to try and get my head on straight before I got back out there. Maybe this attraction to Rowan is just what I need to tell me that my self-imposed celibacy isn’t serving me anymore.

I’ve been slumped on the concrete for a while, disgusted by the cloud of my own smell that’s emanating from the collar of the suit, when a shoe knocks against mine. I crack an eye open to see a hulking figure silhouetted against the fluorescent light behind them. I squint my eyes, trying to make out more than an unruly head of hair and a set of pads, but it’s his arm that gives him away. He brings it up to scratch at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. I’ve seen him do that a couple times, always when he’s uncomfortable.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” I peer up and down the corridor, half expecting to see a huddle of his teammates snickering in a corner. But we’re alone, only the low sounds of the crowds moving out of the stadium cutting through the quiet.

“Probably.” He shrugs.

“Then why aren’t you?”

He shrugs again, bringing his hands up and curling his fingers under the plastic of his shoulder pads, easing the edge away from his chest. I wonder what it would be like if it was my fingers curling under his jersey, what all that skin would feel like under my hands. I shake the thought away as fast as it arrives. Absolutely not. No way am I going there.

You’d think I would have learned my lesson not to get involved with a friend, but I guess my libido didn’t get the message. I almost resent how good it feels to see him, how the churn in my gut I hadn’t noticed until this moment settles now that he’s stood in front of me, even if it looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“I wanted to apologize, but you haven’t texted me back.”

“I-uhh…” I have no idea how to respond. I mean, what do I say? I’d mostly forgotten about our fight. I just decided to cut you out of my life because I realized I was low-key getting a bit obsessed with you and it was really starting to take up too much of my time? What kind of an answer is that?

“I missed you,” he says.

Damn.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. He missed me? I figured he would be relieved not to be bombarded by all my bullshit. I’ve missed him, I’ve spent almost as much time trying not to think about him as I ever did texting him, but that’s just what I’m like. I get fixated on the shiny new friendship until they decide they’re sick of me, or I’m too much, too clingy, and they ditch me.

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I never should’ve said what I did.”

“It’s okay-”

“It’s not. It was fucked up. I didn’t mean it, and I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

His blue gaze sears through me like a physical force pinning me to the wall. There’s a slight bruise on his chin from where he must have taken a knock during the game. His hair is damp with sweat, the moisture turning it more brown than auburn, the strands curling around his face.

I sigh. “I know you didn’t mean it.” He was just saying what he was seeing, even if it wasn’t the full picture, and I let all my own shit turn his statement into something it wasn’t. “But I appreciate you apologizing.”

He shrugs half-heartedly. “I wish you would’ve let me do it sooner.”

“I’ve just been really swamped with classes and stuff. And you know, like practice and- yeah just, just really busy.”

He stares down at me, letting me talk myself out. By the time I’m done, it’s sunk in how totally cutting him off, not hearing his side, or even trying to make things right was extremely shitty of me. It just never occurred to me that my absence would be something that bothered him.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, cheeks flaming.

“Just text me tomorrow and we’ll call it even.” His smile is small but it cracks something inside me open.

“I will.”

He pauses for a moment. “How’s your ass?”

A laugh bursts out of me.

“I, uh-I just meant that it looked like a nasty fall out there.”

I didn’t realize he’d seen it. It had been right as he was taking the snap.

“Nah, just my ego that hurts.”

“I don’t think anybody noticed.”

I just raise an eyebrow at him, calling bullshit. He responds with another shoulder scratch.

“Well, probably not that many people. They were all watching the field.”

“You noticed.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, but I don’t miss the way his ears turn pink at the tips. I change the subject, cutting him some slack. “I guess I should congratulate you. You were pretty good out there.”

“You guess you should?” he teases.

“Rivalries run deep, I guess.” I try to keep a straight face, but I can feel the corner of my mouth kick up.

“You really get into all that?”

“Of course!” I say with mock affront. “I take my job as an Allbreck ambassador very seriously.”

“Is that why you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy?”

Is he flirting? If I didn’t know better, it would sound a hell of a lot like he’s flirting with me. I kind of like it.

“Is that what we’re doing?”

His mouth drops open and I can practically see the gears turning as he mulls over my question. Our eyes lock and something sparks.

“Ainsley!” a voice booms down the corridor, warped as it echoes off the walls until I can hardly make out the word. Both of our heads whip to find the source, a player in a Beaufort uniform walking toward us. “Dude! What are you doing? We’ve been waiting for you!”

Rowan jolts a step back, plastering himself against the opposite wall. The movement feels like a shard of ice in my chest. I try to brush it off, to tell myself that this isn’t what I think it is, that it’s the rejection-sensitive-dysphoria that comes part and parcel with my ADHD, turning this small action and morphing it into this sense of abandonment. I know all that, but knowing it doesn’t make it feel any better.

“I’m coming!” Rowan calls back, taking off at a jog and intercepting the guy before he can get down this end.

“Who’s that?” the guy says, trying to peer around him. Rowan’s body shifts slightly, but enough to cut off his line of sight to where I’m sitting. Who is this guy that Rowan doesn’t want him to see me? I have to bite the inside of my cheek as an ugly sensation wells up in my chest.

“Nobody.” His tone is firm.

The two of them head out of sight, and I try not to let it hurt too much that he doesn’t look back.