Page 69 of Spiral
“Oh my god, you’re drenched!” I wince in feigned disgust, playfully fighting against his grasp.
“You know you love it.”
“Georgia,” Eleanor begins, sneaking quick side-eye glances in Henry’s direction. “Aren’t you going to tell him?”
“Tell me what?”
A flicker of concern flashes through Henry’s expression as he gazes down at us. He’s obviously just gotten out of practice, judging by his messied hair, flushed cheeks, and tight, muddy TU Titans shirt. Somehow, though, I notice he still smells like lavender and sage as the autumn wind blows between us.
“They’re defunding the Tribune.” My voice cracks slightly at the admission, as if saying the words out loud suddenly intensifies the reality.
All those years of work were for nothing. I will never have my literature column.
“They’re what?!”
I nod, my lips pursed tightly into a straight line.
“Dr. Randie just broke the news to us. Apparently Coach Bryer called her on Saturday morning and said my article didn’t generate enough ticket sales–”
“She says the only way we can save the paper is if we can miraculously come up with $10,000,” Eleanor interjects.
“$10,000? Holy shit.”
Henry rubs a hand, etched with prominent veins, through his stubble. His brow furrows in contemplation.
“What about a fundraiser?”
“A what?” Eleanor and I both say in unison, one eyebrow raised.
“A fundraiser – the sororities do it all the time. They set up their booths in the courtyard and raise money. We could do it, and I’ll get the team to help. They have to do what I say.”
He shoots us a self-satisfied smirk, which would normally insight rage within me if it were any other guy. But Henry’s so gorgeous, I can’t even be annoyed by it.
“Okay, captain,” I respond, my tone dripping in playful sarcasm, “What sort of booth do you have in mind that would raise 10 grand?”
“Ooh, football player wet t-shirt contest!” Eleanor exclaims, clapping cheerfully at her own idea.
“We’re trying to raise money, El, not get you off.”
She sticks her tongue out at me and crosses her arms in faux frustration.
“Fine,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “Football player bikini car wash?”
“Wait, that’s it!” I squeal, grasping onto Eleanor’s biceps and jumping in excitement.
“It is?” Henry raises a skeptical eyebrow, “I mean, if that’s what you want–”
“No, silly,” I interrupt, “I just thought of the perfect idea.”
“More perfect than seeing Jonah McGee in a thong two-piece?”
“Bruh.” Henry winces at Eleanor in disgust.
“Way more perfect. El, do you remember two years ago, when I had to do that article for the Tribune over that huge local event… God, what was it called?”
“The Glow Gala?”
“Yes!”