Page 24 of Spiral
“I figured you could use a little fun,” he remarks, a playful smile forming on his lips.
“Fun? With you?” I scoff, ignoring the increased pounding of my heartbeat.
“Yes, with me.” His words are barely above a whisper, even in an empty arena. As I glance around the open field surrounding us, the quiet nature of his voice becomes raw and intimate.
Nobody can hear him but me.
In a school with the largest student population in the state, silent moments are rare – if not nonexistent. But, here, with Henry, the peacefulness of the moment overwhelms me. He begins to step forward, one hand reaching out as if he’s going to touch me – but he stops. His hand withdraws to his side, and I find myself wondering where he had planned to place it. My breath shakes.
This is too much. I’m just feeling sensitive because of the snitch thing. And because of Patrick. But why do I not want to say anything, ending the silence between us? Why do I feel like he’s reading my thoughts?
His eyes scan my own, as if he really can read my thoughts as plainly as a book laid in front of him.
He’s waiting for me to speak.
“Well, um, we have a lot of questions I need answered to write the piece on you and–”
“That can wait,” he interrupts, waving off my concern with a relaxed movement of his hand.
He reaches downward towards the turf, causing the hem of his sleeve to rise up his bicep and reveal a perfectly carved muscle. I catch my breath, noticing the veins along his arms strain as he places his hands around the jersey and helmet.
“These are for you.” He offers them to me, darting his eyes away from mine when I attempt to match his gaze.
What was that? Is he nervous?
I survey the items in my hands: a TU Titans football helmet – much too large for me – and a maroon and white football jersey, printed with the number “83” and, above that, “ANDERSON” in all capital letters.
“Conceited much?” I joke, attempting to break the confusing tension.
“Do you really think that?” His voice is tender and wounded, which takes me aback.
“No, uh, it’s fine. Thanks, Anderson.”
He smiles at me gently, accepting my response.
“Put it on.” His command is hushed as he grabs his own jersey from the grass and slips it effortlessly over his head.
I look at him skeptically, one eyebrow raised, as I hold the massive jersey out in front of me. It seemed to be one of his own, the fabric slightly worn with age. I pull it over my clothes, not intending to argue, as he watches me with a lazy smile.
“That looks perfect on you,” he says.
I snort, mumbling a ‘thank you’ as he gestures for me to join him along the 10-yard line.
“I thought the best way for you to understand the game of football, and my role as captain,” he looks at me, shooting me a devilish wink, “is to play the game of football.”
“Football has 11 players on either side, Anderson. You told me that. You can’t play with two–”
“We’ll manage,” he interjects, his smile warm and mischievous. He holds out the football, cradled in his left hand, towards me. The smell of leather fills my senses as he attempts to explain the game.
“I want you to throw this football,” he explains as he shakes it gently, “as far down the field as you can. I’m going to run and catch it. When I do, I want you to try and tag me before I get to the 50-yard line.”
I shoot him a judgmental look, like he’s crazy.
“There’s no way I can run as fast as you,” I admit, my voice slightly defeated.
Why do I care about this game?
He laughs. “I’ll go slow.”