“You’re late.”
I glare at Jesse, dropping my gym bag down on the ground in the middle of the training field. “Yeah, well, I just got back, so bite me.” I crouch down, ignoring the tiny twinge of something moving the way it isn’t supposed to in my right leg.
Ignore it, ignore it. It’s not happening if I ignore it.
“If I make time for this, Maddie, then you have to as well.” He’s not angry, which fans the flames of my own anger higher.
“Oi!” There’s no such word in Canadian for Oi! Hey just doesn’t cut it. “Back off. I’m here. You had to wait an extra, what, fifteen minutes? Suck it up, superstar ’cause I’m here now. Tack on some extra suicides, I don’t care, just lay off me.”
I strip off my light jacket, fighting the fabric before throwing it down on the ground, and lift my thermal to make sure the inner tags are lying the way I want them to. I pull off my track pants, hopping around in my joggers while I try to get one leg off then the other without having to sit down and do it properly, like a normal person.
“What’s wrong?” Jesse asks, and he sounds too close, close enough to steady me when I’m about to keel over because I can’t balance as well as I used to and one foot’s still stuck in my track pants and I refused to take off my boots.
“Nothing. I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” I bite out, and rip off my track pants off the offending ankle and whip it at my training bag, hard enough to make a sound when it makes impact.
“You can’t train like this. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Why, because you think we’re friends?” I laugh, and it sounds ugly even to my ears. Pressure builds in my chest, expanding, growing. “You tolerate me, and that’s fine, you’re the great Jesse Windmeier, and I’m not anyone yet. That’s fine, and that’s the way the world is right now. But you know? It’s not going to stay that way forever.” I bite down on my back molars to stop the verbal diarrhea before I say something I’m really going to regret.
I don’t want to be this person in front of Jesse Windmeier of all people. I don’t want to be this person in front of someone who’s already accomplished all his dreams and has nowhere to go but up. I can’t be emotional, I can’t be stressed, not now.
“I’ll repeat myself—you can’t train like this. Pack up, we’re calling it a night.” His words brook no argument, but like, has he even met me? Jesse starts walking off the field, but I’m not ready to go yet.
“You just gave me shit for being late, and now that I am here, ready to train, you’re calling it quits?” My voice ends up cracking on the last word, and I can’t look at him dead on, I can’t let him see my face. I put my hands on my hips and look up at the dark sky, the pure blackness of it, unable to see any of the stars for the harsh lights, focus on my breathing, on ignoring the disappointment in myself.
“You can’t train being this angry. You’ll push yourself too hard and hurt yourself more than you intended to.” Jesse keeps walking away, facing me, not participating in our non-conversation, pausing.
I glare at him, ready to start throwing punches. Because I’m spoiling for a fight, even if it’s just a verbal one. “I’m not going to be worshiping at your altar on the field if I don’t get training, so let’s do this.”
“You can stay out here on your own”—he jerks a thumb over his shoulder—“but I’m leaving. I’m starved.”
At the mention of food, my stomach starts to howl as if awakening a sleeping creature. I’m starving too. But no, I have to stay strong, I have to get stronger, and the only way to do that is to train, and train well.
But I’m so hungry…I could eat an elephant.
“Come on, then, let’s get something to eat.”
“From where?” I ask, all suspicion and thinking about the food in the closed cafeteria that we can’t really raid right now, being late-ish and all. “Cafeteria’s closed. And anything else wouldn’t be good for our diets.”
“Oh, live a little, Maddie,” Jesse says, smiling at me, a real genuine smile that has my mouth quirking before I slam down on that impulse. No, no, no. “I want burgers. Grab your bag, my car’s this way.”
I don’t like how he just assumes that I’m going to get in his car with him and let him drive us to a potential location where the burgers are equally delicious as they are hell on your digestive system, like a little puppy. I’m no one’s little puppy, I’m not even little. But I am hungry, and if he tries anything, I’ll use these awesome legs I have to shoot footballs from net to net to shove his balls up where they used to belong before they dropped.
I grab my bag and my stuff and haul ass to catch up with him so we’re walking side by side and not me trailing behind like some sort of fangirl begging for his attention. I round his car—obviously it’s a fancy one, Mercedes something, all black and sleek and looking pretty awesome, but cars are just halfway points between where I am and where I need to be.
I can practically feel how it’s killing him that I make zero comment about his choice of vehicle as I sit in the passenger seat once the doors are unlocked and sling the seatbelt over my shoulder to buckle in.
Jesse sighs after turning the ignition, pulling out of the parking lot that’s usually reserved for staff and players, his being the one of the few left around, while I like to take the shuttle in from one of the bus stops near my expensive-as-hell one-bedroom apartment.
He’s not one of those maniac speedsters, either, and he uses his indicator when he wants to turn or switch lanes, which impresses me to no end. Jesse Windmeier, as much as a hard time he has with people—or maybe he’s just that way to me—is a considerate driver. Who knew?
The drive over is silent, and yup, so awkward my ears burn with embarrassment. I flip down the visor and look at my reflection, then once I gauge it’s okay for public consumption—I am after all, also representing my team at all times—I blurt the question that needs to be asked.
“Won’t we be recognized?” I ask, making sure to include myself in the party of two. I may not be a household name yet, but that’s going to change in the near future.
Jesse snorts without looking at me, keeping his eyes glued to the road. “We’re going to a burger place and not somewhere fancy. There won’t be any paps, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m wearing my training kit, and so are you. We look like schleps who are gonna schlep inside for burgers and fries and soft drinks. And we’ll be doing it together. Oh, man, people are going to see me with you and make assumptions.” I slap my hand over my eyes and sigh heavily.
Why me?
Jesse laughs, and it’s a good laugh, surprisingly, all booming and straight from the belly, louder than I expected in the car. I think you would call it exuberant, infectious. I stare at him in horror, sure that some sort of body snatcher switched him and the real Jesse Windmeier, King of the Football Field, while I got inside the car before he did.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, getting him to glance over at me with that genuine smile from before. It’s starting to wig me out. Who does he think he is, smiling at me like that?
“Assumptions. What, that we’re dating?” He says it like it’s not a joke, serious.
“If you continue that sentence saying anything other than you aren’t what I deserve but you are more than glad to be with me before I realize how much better I can do and throw your ass to the curb, then we’re going to have problems. Just letting you know,” I finish, my voice syrupy sweet, watching the smirk appear on his profile.
Jesse shakes his head and then turns his head and winks at me.
What the what?
“Do you have something in your eye, or did it twitch for some odd reason? Maybe you should get that checked out? Could be a sign of some sort of neurological disorder. I wouldn’t wait, if I were you.”
Jesse looks over at me, letting the silence speak for itself, making me want to say something, anything, to chase it away.
“Are you capable of having a normal conversation?”
“Sure can,” I say, nodding.
“Am I ever going to be on the receiving end of one?”
“What’s a normal conversation, Jesse? What do you normally talk about? Should we count your MVP trophies together, tick ’em off, one by one? I’ve got my fingers ready, and I’m ready when you are.” I hold up my right index finger, pressing down with my left index finger to start the count off.
Jesse practically growls and strangles the steering wheel hard enough with his hands that the leather groans at being manhandled.
Maybe I shouldn’t be pissing him off when he’s driving. My life is in his hands, and if I die in a car accident, I’ll never get to play on the Redwall Stadium’s field.
“I don’t talk about those things normally. That’s all anyone wants to talk about, as if I need reminding what I’ve won and what I haven’t. Talk about something else. Anything else.”
“What about the rumors that you sleep with your boots beside your bed? Or that you wear your jersey to sleep if you’ve scored in it?” Not that I’m dying to know. Nope. Not me.
“Where are you getting all this? The rags? Why are you reading those?”
I cross my arms across my chest at his tone. “Like I even have time to read a full-length novel. Or watch Netflix, or anything really.”
“You have to make time for those things,” he says, voice gone soft, gentle. It unnerves me. Where’s Asshole Jesse? I can deal with Asshole Jesse.
“Yeah, like you do? I see those blue craters under your eyes. I have some concealer in my bag if you want some before we head into the restaurant.”
“That bad, yeah? I’ll take some when we get to the car park.” Car park, parking lot, whatever. Some terms get Britished, while others don’t. I don’t really get it. “And I watch Netflix. When I get the chance,” he mutters, putting his turning signal on and driving us into a car park that has a few cars already here for some late-night junk food eats. At least the place won’t be terribly crowded.
“Yeah? What are you watching?”
“You’ll laugh,” he says, turning off the car and glancing over at me. The lights within the car go on, and I can see the dark shadowed circles under his eyes. I twist down after unbuckling my seat belt, and rummage around my bag to get the little tube of concealer that has saved lives and faces for interviews and photo shoots.
“Probably won’t, but I make no promises.” I take off the cap and squeeze out a dab on my finger, thankful that Jesse and I are pretty much the same pale skin tone, and it’s pretty dark anyway so I don’t think anyone’s going to notice. I put enough on my finger and lean towards him, hand outstretched to get to his face, then re-think this entire situation. “Here, you can do it.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, eyes wide in shock.
I sigh. “Fine, lean closer and I’ll do it. Come on, closer so I can see.” I turn on the passenger light and tell Jesse to look up so I don’t get any of the stuff in his eye. I realize as I’m dabbing the concealer under his eye, tapping it out with the warmth of my finger, blending it in as much as I can under the circumstances, that this is the closest we’ve ever been. And that I miss being this close to a guy, and the realization sort of floors me.
I make a weird noise in my throat, something cut off, something strangled, and Jesse looks down at me, brows furrowed in a silent question.
I shake my head, wave him off, and then do the other eye after instructing him to look up.
“There you go. Ready for GQ. I’m starving, let’s go.” I stumble out of the car, grabbing my bag with me which has my wallet and ID and all sorts of personal things that are better hanging out with me than left behind. What if I have to leave suddenly, start running towards the general direction of home?
Jesse follows me into the diner, and we head to the counter, giving our order while the kid who’s manning the cash register looks at us through bleary eyes. Poor kid, she’s probably exhausted and should be studying instead. We look the same age, though, so I don’t know why I call her a kid.
We pick up our order and head to a table all the way in the back, placing our trays of food on the table and taking a seat opposite one another.
This is new…and different. There’s always been a coach’s whistle, and me sweating buckets while I drag myself around the field to eventually become a better player, between us.
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