Page 16 of Spiral

“Okay,” he replies, sitting down across from me. “Shoot.”

“Question 1,” I announce, diligently opening my journal to the crisp first page. “How do you play football?”

He laughs, a raspy, rumbling laugh, while clutching his stomach for dramatics.

“What?!” I cry out, feeling my cheeks grow red once again.

“I’m sorry,” Henry says as he wipes an invisible tear from his eye. “I just wasn’t expecting that for some reason.”

“Sorry I don’t know everything about football, Joe Montana. If you aren’t going to answer my questions, I’ll find someone who will. And you can say goodbye to being captain.” The tone of my words is harsh, sending prickles across my skin as soon as I’ve said them.

He looks at me, his expression soft and content.

Why is he never angry? I just insulted him.

“I’m only kidding, Georgia. I’m happy to help you. I can’t think of a better way to mend things after that first day on campus.”

“Mend things? There’s nothing to mend, Anderson.” I close my journal, frustrated.

“Sure there is! We got off to a good start. I didn’t realize what I said would hurt you so much… Can we at least talk about it? Why does being called a sn–”

“Don’t say that!” I cut him off, my brows furrowing.

“I’m sorry. Why does that word upset you so much? What happened?”

“It’s none of your business. I’m here to write about the football team so that Dr. Randie will let me publish my literature column. Talking about anything else is a waste of my time.”

He pauses for a moment, his green eyes settling briefly just beneath my chin.

Is he checking me out?

Before I can finish the thought, his eyes meet mine again, and he lets out a slow breath.

“How do you play football?” he asks, glancing at me once more for confirmation.

I nod.

“Well, there’s a few basic rules…”

11 | Henry

SHE LOOKS SO cute writing in her notebook. When I first got to the field this morning, I stood back a few hundred yards, watching her take in the enormity of the arena. She tilted her face towards the sun, breathing deeply, and watched as the flags blew in the wind.

I was mesmerized.

It took nearly five minutes for me to gather the courage to walk across the field and greet her. I didn’t expect her to be happy to see me. But, as I approached, she already seemed distraught. I couldn’t tell you how I knew, aside from maybe the slightest hint of uneasiness in her expression. But I knew. She didn’t seem like herself.

“Where did you say the 50-yard line was again?” Georgia asks, jotting notes along the margins of the page in front of her.

She glances towards me, the sage hue of her eyes glowing in the morning sunlight.

“Uh–”

Answer her question, dumbass.

“It’s right there in the center – see where the TU logo is in the middle of the field? That’s the 50-yard line.”

She nods, scribbling down “50” within the tiny football field diagram she’s drawn in the corner of her page.