"Rayne?"
She stops counting ceiling tiles and her brows scrunch together. "What?"
"Are you done shopping?" I ask.
"Yup."
Jess puts her hands on her hips. "You didn't even try anything on, did you?!"
"I swear I did! Look." Rayne bends over, retrieving three items from under the seat. She lifts the hangers, jiggling the multicolored sports bras in her hand. "See? Spring wardrobe: complete."
"Holy shit!" I exclaim with a head shake. "How many freaking sports bras does one girl need? You have at least thirty. I think it's time for an intervention."
Jess emits a flustered groan as she walks back to her dressing room. I watch as she rummages through the literal mountain of clothing she gathered up. I thought I took a crapload of stuff, but she legit grabbed one of everything in the women's department.
"Aha." She emerges with a burnt orange jumpsuit that is instantly thrust into Rayne's arms. "Try that on, please."
Rayne holds it up and frowns. "Do I have to?"
"Yes." Jess crosses her arms. "You like dresses now, right?"
"Comfy ones, sure."
"Jumpsuits are just like dresses...only better. There's no chance of a gust of wind flipping up your skirt and flashing your ass to the world."
"Okay, okay." Rayne blows a raspberry with her lips in surrender. "You win."
The three of us disappear back into our rooms. Jessica and I exit a few minutes later, but Rayne's nowhere to be seen.
"R?" I press my ear against the thick door. The sound of struggle and quiet cursing drifts from her fitting room.
"Shit. Is this an armhole? Where the hell does this go?"
Her door opens, slowly revealing a sight that has us rolling with laughter. She's a complete mess of limbs and fabric, so tangled in the pumpkin-colored textile I have no idea how she accomplished this. Her face is covered except for one eye that's glaring at us through a small hole.
She looks like a cyclops. A very petite, deformed cyclops.
"Rayne!" I cackle as I gaze at her in awe. "What the heck are you doing in here?"
The lone eyeball narrows. "I don't know, but I can't breathe." She jerks around helplessly. "Get me out of this thing!"
It takes a good five minutes of strategic squeezing, tugging, and telling her to suck it in to get the complicated jumpsuit settled correctly.
Her head finally pops through the appropriate hole, her skin flushed red as she gulps for air like a fish. "See what happens when I shop? Bad, horrible things."
"Oh, please." Jessica rolls her eyes as she straightens the sleeves. She takes a step back and smiles. "It's really cute."
Rayne squints into the mirror. "Sure, it's pretty flattering, but is it worth risking suffocation every time I put it on? Don't think so."
Her eyes find mine and they light up. "I love what you've got on, Lex. I might smother myself for that." She gives me a curious perusal. "Not your usual style, is it?"
"Nope." I glance down at the matching crop top and legging combo. The athleisure outfit is an everyday staple in her wardrobe, but extremely uncharacteristic on my end. "Weston and I are having another 'date' later this week and he told me to wear workout attire. I figured I might as well get something cute."
"What are you guys gonna do? Have a romantic evening at the gym?"
"I hope not!" I frown at the possibility. "He's not one of those gym-bros, is he? The type to put me on a strict workout regimen and insist I eat 6,000 grams of protein a day or I'll lose my gains?"
Rayne giggles. "No, definitely not. He may be a jock, but he's not a meathead."
"Thank God." I breathe out a sigh of relief.
"Where are you guys meeting up?" Jess interjects. "That might help you figure out what y'all are doing."
"He said to meet him at the Physics building."
"Physics building?" Rayne scratches her chin. "Weird."
A shrill chime suddenly emits from Jessica's purse and she rushes for her phone.
I watch with interest as she eagerly taps her screen a few times. She begins to scroll down, her expression growing more elated by the second.
"What's going on?" Rayne questions.
Jessica's chocolate brown eyes glitter with excitement. "I got in!!"
My roommate and I exchange a perplexed look.
"Got into what?"
"The Arts Academy. I got accepted into their Fashion & Merchandising program!"
Congratulations are thrown around and a group hug ensues, bouncing and squealing included much to Rayne's dismay. After we pull apart, I realize something. "But wait...aren't you already a fashion major here?"
She nods. "I am, but it's not as specialized as this program. More training, more knowledge—this will be a surefire way to get my foot in the door career-wise!"
"When does it start?"
"September. I graduate from Windhaven this semester, so it's perfect." Her smile is so wide it's practically touching her ears.
"I've never heard of the Arts Academy," Rayne says. "Where is it?"
"Dallas, so not too far from here. It's an amazing school. And they have tons of different programs. Culinary, animation design, visual ar—"
An obnoxious scratchy sound interrupts her, an announcement coming over the loud speaker once the noise subsides.
"The mall will be closing in ten minutes. Please make your final purchases."
"Dang. It's already almost 9? We better hustle."
I quickly change back into my own clothes, gather up all the outfits thrown around the stall, and poke around in my wallet for the Dillards gift card I got last Christmas.
As I'm hanging the unwanted clothing on the return rack, I hear a commotion erupt from one of the dressing rooms.
A hanger clatters to the floor, a moan immediately following.
"Um...you guys?" Rayne's muffled voice is guilty. "I'm stuck again."
20
It's Wednesday night and I'm headed for Date #2, a strange flutter of excitement prickling in my stomach.
The Physics building is on the far west side of Windhaven, situated snugly between the engineering and computer science facilities. I hardly ever venture over there, and I have a strong suspicion Weston's not particularly familiar with the area, either.
I know I'm getting close when I pass by a handful of guys holding some robot-looking device and a few girls chatting animatedly about C++ and Java.
As I approach the ancient building, I spy Weston right away. He's leaning against the wall all badass-like, one foot propped up casually on the red brick.
His eyes are on his cell, and I take the opportunity to check him out. A black shirt stretches across his chest, cobalt blue shorts give an impressive view of his muscular quads, and white New Balance sneakers emphasize how bronzed his skin is.
"Weston!"
His head jerks up after I call out his name. When he spots me jogging over, his mouth spreads into a mega-watt grin that I can't help but return.
"Hi."
"Hey." His eyes travel up and down my body, his teeth digging into his full bottom lip in appreciation. "Spin Class Barbie? I like it. Damn."
"Thanks." I laugh at his utter lack of filter—yet another item on our ever-growing list of commonalities. "I've been trying to figure out what type of date activity requires tennis shoes, workout clothes, and Windhaven's Physics facility, but I'm drawing a blank. Enlighten me?"
He kicks off the building and snickers. "You think we're going in here? Fuck no. This is just a meeting spot. Pretty sure this place would burst into flames if I put one foot inside." He points his phone to the right. "We're headed in that direction."
I follow the motion to a small public park just across the street. Still not sure what that has to do with our date, I survey the area. There's a curvy yellow slide, some monkey bars, a swing set, a soccer goal...
Oh shit.
A soccer goal.
He's gonna make me play sports?!
"Figure it out?"
<
br /> When I turn back, I notice the black-and-white ball sitting next to his feet.
Dammit.
"Are we seeing who can spin the longest on the tire swing?" I offer the hopeful alternative and he shakes his head. "Who can go down the slide the fastest?"
"Nope." His face contorts. "Never go down a public slide, by the way. Horny high-schoolers fuck in those things. And bored teenage dudes piss down them, too."
"Um, eww? Are you serious?"
He nods. "They legit quarantined a slide in my hometown for those exact reasons. The mixture of bodily fluids damn near disintegrated the plastic."
"Gross!" I shriek. "I hope you weren't contributing to that."
"Hell no. I'm not a nasty motherfucker. Plus," he adds with a little half-smile. "I was way too classy to bang a chick in a piece of playground equipment."
"And what sophisticated location did you take them to instead? A shady motel on the side of the highway?"
He shoots me a haughty grin. "Backseat of my car."
"Wow. So classy." I snort as I reach forward and give his arm a playful smack.
"I know, right? If I was feeling extra dapper, I'd splurge on the fancy car fresheners from Bath and Body Works. Gave it that 5-star resort feel for sure."
His eyes shimmer with humor as he rolls the soccer ball up his foot and kicks it into his outstretched hands. Tucking it under an arm, he nudges his head towards the park. "Enough about that. It's time to play some soccer."
"Me? Play soccer? Me?!" Jabbing a thumb into my chest, I level him with a dubious look. "Are you sure?"
He gives a confident nod. "Yeah."
"Alright," I mumble reluctantly. "This is gonna be interesting."
We walk over to the field, the grass a myriad of green and brown patches. There aren't too many people around—just a few elementary-aged kids throwing wood chips and a pair of older women power-walking the perimeter. I also spot a gangly teenage couple holding hands and staring into one another's eyes in a way that has me very worried for that yellow slide's innocence.
"So." I give Weston a once-over. "Are you any good?"
"Am I any good?" A puff of air escapes his parted lips, his head shaking at the question. He takes the soccer ball and spins it on the tip of his index finger, the gesture as cocksure and effortless as the smirk plastered on his face. "You tell me. What have you heard?"
"Ehh." I shrug. "Not much."
Okay—that's a straight-up lie.
I've overheard enough conversations between Vaughn and Rayne to have the scoop on some of the players. Weston's name is brought up often, the commentary never anything other than overwhelming praise. Based on those chats, I'd assume he's one of the best players on the entire team.
But I'm not gonna reveal that to him.
"How many goals did you score last season?" I ask.
"Fourteen."
Realizing I have no standard by which to measure this number, I quickly create one.
"And how many did Vaughn score?"
"Thirty? Maybe thirty-one."
"Dang." I make a tsk-tsk noise of disapproval. "You suck."
He lets out a rambunctious laugh. "Can't compare the two, babe. Vaughn plays forward—scoring is his one and only job. I'm a defender. My main focus is keeping the other team from getting the ball in the net. If he's not scoring way more than me, there's a problem."
"Fourteen goals for a defender?" I tap a finger to my chin. "That's decent, right? Not too shabby?"
Another deep laugh follows my queries.
"I scored the most goals for any defender in the entire country last year, so yeah, I suppose that's 'not too shabby'. Also got NCAA's Defensive Player of the Year award—just a little FYI for ya." He tosses the ball from hand to hand and shoots me a cocky wink. "Still think I suck?"
"Fine. I take it back." I reach forward, trying and subsequently failing to snatch the ball away. "But you know who really does suck? This girl right here! Brace yourself for some major suckage. It's not gonna be pretty."
"Don't be dramatic," he says with an eyeroll. "No fucking way you're that bad."
Hoooo boy. He's in for quite the spectacle.
For the next half hour, I live up to my self-reported reputation.
My attempts to dribble have me tripping all over my feet.
When I go to head the ball, it collides with my face instead, practically breaking my nose in the process.
And the first five times I try to kick the stupid thing, I miss.
Like, totally whiff the ball.
If he didn't believe me before, I'm sure my Charlie Brown reenactments proved my point.
But here's the craziest part of the whole thing—I'm having a freaking blast.
We both die laughing every time I fall flat on my ass (more times than I care to share), and our excitement can't be contained when I finally complete a one-touch pass to him.
When I've made four (!!) passes in a row, Weston decides it's time for my next lesson. He leads me towards the goal and places the ball on a faded white circle.
"Let's see if you can kick it in the net," he says as he takes a few steps to the side. "Try and get some force behind it, too. Think you can do it first try?"
I tighten my ponytail and nod, still riding high on confidence from the last drill. "No problem."
Scoring a goal with no goalie?
I got this.
I take three massive steps backward, allowing for some momentum build-up, and then I boot that sphere as hard as I possibly can. The shot is strong, it's powerful, and it would absolutely be a goal if it didn't skim off the side of my foot and take an alternative pathway...
A pathway straight to Weston's junk.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen.
I just nailed him right where the sun don't shine.
And he was not expecting it at all.
"Holy. Fuckin'. Shit." He doubles over, clutching his crotch in pain.
"Crap!" I immediately race towards him. "Are you okay?!"
"Yeah," he grumbles from his hunched over position. "Gimme a sec."
I stand there beside him, not sure what I'm supposed to do in this situation.
What's the proper etiquette after accidentally kicking someone in the nuts?
I settle for a prolonged apology and an awkward pat/rub on his back. Maybe I'll send a sympathy card later.
"Well, we know you've got the power behind the shot." Weston's voice is hoarse as he finally straightens, features still taut with discomfort. "But fuck, Lexie. We really need to work on that aim, babe."
"Should I try again?" I ask.
He quickly shakes his head, his hands instinctively dropping to protect the goods. "Later. Let's go chill for a minute."
We walk over to the monkey bars, the sky darkening to a deep navy blue as nightfall approaches.
"Is this a typical date scenario for you?" I ask as we climb on top of the rusted metal structure. "Teaching a girl to play soccer?"
"Nah." He pats the spot to his right and I take a seat, leaning against him for balance. "A typical date for me? Shit, I dunno. Take a chick to the bar, put on a movie? Pretty basic stuff. Not even sure I'd consider them 'dates', really."
I regard him with curiosity. "Why'd I get the special sports date? So you could laugh at my pathetic foot-eye coordination?"
"Partly," he jokes before his demeanor goes more serious. "I brought you here 'cause you showed me something you were super into last week, something you love. I wanted to do the same."
"So soccer is to you as home decorating is to me," I say with a smile. "That's cool."
Weston chuckles. "Damn. Pulling out the analogies on me? Say what you want about your SAT tutor—Mr. Spitball taught you well."
I grin and bump his knee with mine.
"And speaking of interior design..." He glances my way, eyes narrowed in questioning. "You give any more consideration to what I said last week?"
"Yeah." My legs swing languidly, the movement causing the bars to creak. "I'
ve thought about it."
Truth is I've thought about it a lot.
The conversation was at the forefront of my mind all weekend long. Crazy ideas, endless research, and my future all swirling in my head in the form of a quarter-life crisis cocktail.
It's all so damn confusing.
Weston juts hit head forward as I sit there in silent reflection. "And?"
"And..." I release a heavy sigh. "I don't know. It's hard to explain. I don't think you understand the kind of pressure I'm under."
"You're wrong about that." His grip tightens around the cylindric metal beneath us. "'Cause I understand completely. Like I really fucking get it."
"You do?"
"One hundred percent."
"How so?"
He plows a hand through his disheveled hair, looking contemplative for a moment.
And then he tells me to name a famous football player.
"Huh?" I gawk at the random instruction.
"Just off the top of your head. First one that comes to mind."
"But—"
"Football player," he interrupts. "Go."
"Okay, jeez." I gaze up at the sky as I think about it. "Tom Brady? Does that work?"
"Perfect. See how you know who that is even though you don't have your ass glued to your couch on Sundays watching the sport? How he's known amongst people of all ages and backgrounds in America, football fanatic or not?"
"Yep," I respond. "I think you'd have to live under a rock to not know the name."
"That's how my dad is in Europe with soccer. He was a star forward for Arsenal back in the day—I'm talking household name status for sure. Robert Paine is a fucking legend."
My brow raises at the surprising information. "I didn't know that."
"Yup." He turns my way. "I definitely know a thing or two about living up to the family name."
"He wants you to play for Arsenal, too," I speculate.
"Now he does, yeah." His jaw ticks with the ambiguous response. "And he's not just some retired superstar sitting on the sidelines; he's the manager for Arsenal, so the pressure's amplified tenfold. And my older brother, Rhett? He also plays for The Gunners."
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