Page 25 of Spiral
I don’t have a chance to respond before the first heavy drops of rain land on our helmets.
“Or maybe fast. Throw it!” he exclaims, the rain quickly picking up in ferocity. He begins to run backwards into the field, his handsup to catch my non-existent throw. His smile beams at me through the grate of his helmet.
“Throw it, Campbell! You can do it!” he calls, his mood cheery and encouraging.
Screw it.
I pull back my arm, chuckling to myself at how ridiculous this is.
I can’t throw this thing further than ten feet.
With anyone else, I might be embarrassed by my lack of skill – but, somehow, I know Henry won’t judge me.
Releasing the ball, I twist my wrist in an effort to form the throw into a spiral. It travels between us, pelted by the rain and pushed from its course by forceful winds. The jersey feels 50 pounds heavier on my body as the rain drenches it and the clothing underneath, but I don’t care.
“Great throw!” he calls, effortlessly catching the ball in one hand. “Now come get me!”
He shoots me one more smile before turning around, attempting to make his way to the 50-yard line without getting tagged.
I lift up my heels, chasing after him as the storm blurs my vision. Raindrops stream down my cheeks as I run, the moist turf squishing beneath my sneakers with every step.
He looks back at me, dramatically dodging my every attempt to tag him. I laugh heartily for the first time in what feels like years as he jumps left, right, then left again to avoid my outstretched hand.
“Tag!” I exclaim, finally touching the edges of my fingertips to his shoulder as he attempts a spin maneuver.
“Damn,” he says, laughing and resting the football between his hip and wrist. I look at him, with the rain soaking his hair as he takes off his helmet and jersey. His chest heaves as he takes in breath after breath, recovering from the run.
My forehead begins to sweat as I notice how tight and damp his clothes have become. His t-shirt is drenched, clinging to every segment of his abdomen as if painted on. The soft outline of his six-pack, normally barely visible, was now on full display with each labored breath. His shoulders appear to stretch the fabric to its furthest limits, the seams practically bursting as they stick against his tanned skin.
A goofy smile forms across his lips, redirecting my attention.
“My turn.”
17 | Henry
GOD, SHE’S SO beautiful. And she’s wearing my jersey.
I watch her as she jogs, extremely hesitantly, towards the 20-yard line. The helmet is massive on her, making her look like a life-size bobblehead, and I laugh because only Georgia Campbell could make that look so cute.
Her cheeks are flushed with patches of bright pink as she recedes from our starting place, a smile plastered on her glossy lips.
I made her laugh.
She looked so happy, holding her stomach to keep from bursting. I’ve never seen Georgia smile so much.
My breath suddenly catches as memories of the day before flood my mind – seeing Patrick hovered over some girl, cheating on Georgia, punching him.
She doesn’t know yet.
Eleanor apparently called and explained that she’ll speak to Georgia this afternoon, and I can hardly breathe knowing that her current happiness will be so short-lived. I wish I could hold her, stroking the soft curls of her hair as I tell her everything will be okay. I wish I could take the pain I know she will feel and bottle it up inside myself, protecting her from harm.
I’ve already arranged for her to move into Eleanor’s apartment this evening – she's at Georgia's place now, in fact, packing up her things. Eleanor commented that it was “good timing” for the move because Patrick is away at a research conference. Apparently, he left straight after my altercation with him, thankfully sparing Georgia from seeing his black eye. I agreed with her as we discussed the plan though, deep down, I knew that there is no such thing as good timing for your world to fall apart.
“Are you throwing it or not, Anderson?” Georgia yells, nearly to the 20-yard line.
“Just giving you a much-needed head start!” I call back to her, my heart pounding at the realization of how friendly she’s being.
“Oh, fuck y–”