Page 8

Chapter Eight

ROWAN

Rowan

I think I’m outside

I shoot off the message to the number Ruth sent me. The freezing rain starts to soak through my shirt as I stare up at the apartments, waiting for her to message me back. It’s a nice building, red brick with a freshly swept walkway and a well-maintained potted tree outside the front door.

I lean against the wall separating the front yard from the street, hoping nobody spots me here. I don’t buy into this rivalry bullshit too much, but some of the other guys on the team take it pretty seriously. If it got back to any of them that I was hanging out around the Allbreck campus, they’d have some serious questions.

I already had a text from Taylor telling me not to put the moves on her after they all left, something about ‘fraternizing with the enemy’. I didn’t mention that considering my demisexuality, I wasn’t really a ‘moves’ kind of guy. Certainly not with a girl I’d known for less than an hour.

“Rowan?” a voice calls from above me. I look up to see Ruth hanging precariously out of a window on the upper floor. My heart seizes and I take an instinctive step forward, as if I can catch her when she inevitably falls to her death.

“Ruth! Jesus, get back inside!” I bark.

“I am inside!” she calls back with a grin, looking nothing like the frightened woman I’d sat beside on Thursday night. “I’m a little tied up at the minute. Can you come up?”

I flounder for a long moment, not knowing what to say. Going into Ruth’s apartment? Where she lives? I’d planned on dropping off the gloves and never seeing her again. Ideally, I’d never think about her again, but if the way my thoughts had been plagued by her was anything to go by, that isn’t going to happen any time soon.

“Uh, I could just throw them?” I blurt out before I’ve thought it through.

Her laughter escapes in a peal. “Come on, I’ll buzz you in!”

Before I can reply, she’s ducked back inside, leaving me gaping at the space she used to occupy. The buzzer sounds and I move without thinking, pushing the door open before it locks again and I have to start throwing pebbles or something.

When I hit the second floor the sounds of loud country music echo out into the hall from a propped open door. A pink hand-painted sign is hung from a screw in the wood, announcing the ‘Walcott/Heatherly Residence.’ I tap gingerly on the doorframe and call out.

“Come on in!” she yells from somewhere inside. I obey, stepping into the space that smells like clean soap and burnt cookies. The hallway is littered with shoes, and there’s a coat that’s fallen from the hook by the door. Bending to pick it up, I listen out for Ruth, struggling to hear her over the Shania Twain that blares at an almost ear-splitting volume. “In the kitchen!” I slip out of my shoes, not wanting to trudge water through her home as I follow her voice.

The kitchen is even more of a mess than the front hall. Fabric, thread, and other random bits of material are scattered across every available surface, and in the middle of it all, there’s Ruth. Wild hair cast about her round face, a loose sundress hanging from her toned shoulders as she peers down at the green and fuzzy something in her lap.

When she notices me enter, she looks up, her gaze locking with mine as a slow smile spreads across her mouth. “Oh good, it’s you.”

Oh good. It’s you.

Fuck my life.

“I realized I was way too eager to invite you in.” She hits me with the grin she’s been wearing since her head popped out the window, a far cry from the way she looked the last time I’d seen her. “You could have been an axe murderer or something.” As she speaks, she leans over to her phone and shuts off the music. The sudden quiet almost makes my ears ring, though I can still faintly hear the noise of a TV from another room.

“I thought the axe murderer lived down the block?”

“Well, you do bear a striking resemblance,” she teases. “How was the brawl?”

I hold up the gloves. “It was tough, but I think I came out on top.”

“Managed to avoid getting chopped?”

“Still got all twelve fingers.”

“Lucky, you wouldn’t want to be down a digit.”

“It might have been worth it. I’m shooting for a handkerchief here.”

She dramatically roots around the stuff on the table, almost scattering pins across the linoleum. “I’m sorry to disappoint.” She holds up her empty hands in apology.

I shrug. “Well, I suppose a gentleman needs no reward.” Her face when I place the gloves on the counter is pure elation. I wonder what else I’d do to get her to give me that look again.

“How do you even have them?”

“You left them at the house,” I reply. “You’re lucky I picked them up before one of the guys started screwing around with them.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly have much say in the matter.”

“I guess not.” Not with that asshole dragging her out the door. My mood sours at the memory. At first I’d assumed that he was her boyfriend from how he’d been acting, but Ruth’s reaction quickly put that to bed. Half of me had wanted to stop her from leaving with him, but what would I have done? Told her not to go with the guy that she obviously knows, and stay with me in a disgusting house that she didn’t want to be in?

“Can you pass them over?” She reaches toward me from the dining table and I quickly acquiesce. The movement disrupts a drop of water on my elbow. It runs down my arm and lands on the fabric she’s working on, drawing her eye to the state of my shirt. “Oh god, you’re soaked!” She rummages around until she finds a kitchen towel that she promptly launches at my chest.

“Dry off a bit before you go,” she commands, gesturing at the seat across from her.

My feet move before I realize what they’re doing.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Just some costume stuff.”

“For the mascot thing?”

“The mascot thing?” She eyes me warily.

“Sorry.” I smirk. “Your esteemed profession as a foam toad.”

Hurt flashes across her expression, all our easy banter gone as I hit a tender spot. I hate it. “If you’re gonna be rude, you can go.” The hurt shifts into something angry as she glares me down.

“Sorry, I’m being a dick.” I shift awkwardly in my chair.

“Yeah, you are.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m just as much of an athlete as you or anyone else on that field. Just because I wear a costume and make people laugh doesn’t mean it’s not worth taking seriously.”

Has someone told her she’s not worth taking seriously?

“I know, you’re right.” I stare her down, wanting her to know I mean it. “I’m sorry, Ruth.”

“Good.” She huffs, her back straightening like she’s trying to stay mad.

“Besides,” I continue, “I’m hardly one to talk, I just run up and down a field hitting guys in tights.”

She snorts out a laugh. “That’s true.”

“So come on then.” I lean forward, rubbing the towel over my hair. “What are you actually doing?”

“Still trying to get me to spill my secrets? I thought you’d do better than that.”

“This for the game?” In two weeks, Beaufort and Allbreck will face off for the first time this season. A lot’s riding on this game. The usual hostility between the two teams was fired up at the start of the season when Allbreck poached two of our high school prospects, talented players who’d all but signed with Beaufort until Allbreck swooped in and made them a flashier offer.

“Maybe?” She’s being coy, but she’s not a very good liar.

“You know what, I don’t even want to know.” I lean back in my chair. I don’t want to create any room for someone to think there’s something fishy going on here, though I don’t know what advantage we could possibly gain from knowing about their mascot-ing plans. The team’s had enough drama without accusations flying that I’m trying to get some kind of illicit information, we wouldn’t survive it.

“I should get going.” I sigh, putting the towel on the table, making sure to avoid disturbing any of Ruth’s materials.

“You sure? You don’t want to wait until the rain stops?”

“No,” I say sharper than I mean to. I know that I’m being a jerk. Worse than that, I’m being a coward. But this girl scares the shit out of me and I need to get out of here before she can fuck with my head anymore.

“Oh, okay.” The brightness in her voice sounds forced and I pause. Does she want me to stay? Whatever the answer is, I give her a brief smile and head out of the apartment like someone’s chasing me, only pausing to shut the door firmly behind me as I go. I listen to the latch click into place and don’t want to think about how much of it is consideration, and how much is me wanting to stop myself from turning around and going back in.

Just as I go to open the front door, it flies forward, almost catching me in the jaw.

“Oh hey, sorry man, I-” a voice splutters, cutting off abruptly as they see me.

It’s him. The guy from Thursday who practically manhandled Ruth out of the house. My hackles are instantly up as I take him in. His brown hair’s wet from the rain, curling around his face where he’s overdue a haircut. He’s wearing a long wool coat that hangs off his shoulders where he doesn’t quite fill it out and tan leather shoes, discolored by the bad weather.

“Marshall, right?” I keep my voice low. I know I’m being petty by drawing up to my full height, showing him the three or so inches that separate us. I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I’ve got no skin in this game, there’s no reason to hate this guy. I just can’t help but think about the way that Ruth looked as she glanced over her shoulder at me, this guy pulling her out the door. She didn’t want to go with him.

She’d been visibly uncomfortable with the way that he was all over her, and I wonder how she’ll feel about him being at her apartment. Is she expecting him? Has she invited him here? Maybe something had happened between them after he took her away. It’s none of my business, but I know that I fuckin’ hate him.

“Yeah, you’re that guy, aren’t you?” He scowls.

“Yeah,” I drawl, acting like a jackass but unable to stop. “I’m that guy.”

“What are you doing at Ruth’s place?” He sounds worried. Does he think he gets a say about who visits Ruth?

“Is that really any of your business?”

“Yeah, I think it is.” He’s indignant, practically spitting out the words.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is it any of your business?” I’m baiting him, part of myself needing to know who this guy is to Ruth.

“Because I’m her-she’s-we’re-” He’s spiraling, and I’ve got my answer.

“Well, maybe you can ask her what I’m doing here.” I brush past him harder than I need to as I shove through the door and out into the rain. “She’ll tell you if she wants to!”