If you've ever been on a college campus during the end of a semester, you know exactly what I'm talking about. And if you haven't, well, here's a little anecdote to summarize the current environment.
I was studying at the Student Center three days ago, knee-deep in my Physiology book, when a boy a few tables over suddenly leapt from his seat. With a booming "Fuck school!", he heaved his laptop shot-put-style against the wall. You'd think the splintering sound of his thousand-dollar computer being destroyed would've snapped him out of it, but the guy wasn't finished. He grabbed his thick stack of notes, jumped up on the desk, and violently threw them over his head. As they rained down like confetti around him, he began to scream bloody murder. Security quickly hauled him off, those guttural howls slowly fading as they removed him from the premises.
Sounds insane, right?
Nobody in the center even blinked twice at the outburst.
Tents in the libraries, coffee bean shortages, and public breakdowns on par with the preceding tale are common sights during crunch time.
I've had my fair share of stress-induced tears and days where I drank more caffeine than water, but the main "symptom" I'm experiencing right now is isolation. Yasmine and Jessica always go MIA when finals are looming, Rayne and I seem to be on completely different schedules when it comes to studying, and the only times I've seen my boyfriend are during our mandatory lab periods.
It seriously sucks.
So when I spot Weston in the quad early Tuesday afternoon, I get really damn excited and instantly take off in a mad dash to track him down.
I zig-zag through a few high school tour groups who probably shouldn't be visiting college campuses during this vulnerable time and are no doubt crossing Windhaven off their lists after what they've witnessed. After I come up behind him, I give his shoulder a quick tap before ducking behind a student to hide.
I wish I could blame my immature act on being stupid in love with this boy, but this is how I greet my girl friends every time I randomly spot them on campus.
But maybe I can blame my choice of blockade on my giddy state. The person in front of me is fun-sized, probably five feet flat on her tippy-toes, and my favorite pair of hazel eyes are latched onto mine in an instant.
"Oh dang. You're too short," I mumble to the tiny girl I've chosen to be an unwilling participant in my prank.
"Apologies." She levels me with a groggy scowl. "Next time I'll wear heels just for you."
The girl huffs and scuttles off as Weston gives me an amused grin.
"Nice try, babe. You thought that would work?"
"It usually does and it's hilarious," I insist as he engulfs me in a giant hug. "I'll get you another time. When taller people are around."
"Looking forward to it." He kisses the top of my forehead before we pull apart. A crinkling noise between us has his vision casting downward. When he spies the bag of jelly beans in my hand, he laughs and shakes his head. "Celebrating Easter a little early?"
An innocent shrug lifts my shoulders. "I couldn't pass up all the festive candy at the store. I'm a sucker for Peeps and Cadbury Creme eggs, but jelly beans are my weakness." I hold out the lavender bag in offering. "Want some?"
"Please."
I pour a handful in his large palm.
"A little more," he says with a grin. "I want some red ones."
Once he's satisfied with his portion, he thanks me, pops a few in his mouth, and continues down the sidewalk.
"Speaking of Easter, do you have any plans on Sunday?" I ask as I step into pace with him. "You're probably going home to visit your mom, but I figured I'd ask."
"Actually, she's visiting Gramps for the weekend, so I'm all yours." He throws an arm around my shoulder and tucks me into his side. "What'd you have in mind?"
"Nothing fun." I roll my eyes and hand him an envelope with gold trim. "I'm being summoned home."
Weston pulls out the thick invitation and squints at it.
"Dear Alexandra, Your presence is requested for Easter supper at the De Luca-Montgomery residence at half past six this Sunday evening. Please RSVP at your earliest convenience." His baffled gaze finds mine as he grunts. "You have to RSVP to your family dinner? What the fuck? Is she serious with this?"
"Welcome to the Montgomery clan where a simple holiday gathering requires hand-printed invites and formal 'répondez s'il vous plaît's. It says I can bring a plus one." I tilt my head back and put on my best sad puppy dog face. "Will you come with?"
"You trying to scare me off?" He squeezes my shoulder and hikes a brow. "You did say this would be a way to get rid of me."
"Dang. I was hoping you wouldn't remember that," I joke as we turn past the football stadium. "No, I really want you there. Who knows what my mom's going to pull. Maybe something, maybe nothing. I'm not sure." I flip the invite over and drag a nail across the menu. "The food's worth the potential conflict, though."
A quick skim of the mouth-watering selection is all it takes to seal the deal.
"I'll be there," Weston promises. "For sure."
"Such a good boyfriend," I praise as I snuggle into his chest.
"Anything for you, Barbie." A half-smirk takes over his face. "And for the taste of garlic mashed potatoes and standing rib roast. And what was the dessert? Key lime pie? Yeah, I'll be there for the key lime pie."
"Can't fault you for that. I think I might love that pie more than I love you, too."
He laughs, but it instantly transforms into a long, drawn-out yawn. As he rubs his eyes and blinks a few times, I can't help but notice how tired he appears.
In fact, ever since our little lakehouse adventure, there's been something off with him. Granted, our contact has been slim to none the past week and a half, but the times we've been together or chatted on the phone, I've seen fleeting flashes of it. He's more subdued than usual, more preoccupied with his thoughts, like there's something going on in his head that he's not telling me about.
"Are you alright?" I ask. "You seem a bit...distracted lately."
He hesitates for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck and looking like he might say something serious, but then he waves off my concern.
"All good. I'm just fucking ready for summer vacay and praying I can make it through the next few weeks without flunking any exams or finals."
That's a good enough excuse for me.
He brings us to a stop in front of Tannin Hall and frowns at the oak double doors. "And this is hurdle number one to get over."
"You have a test right now?"
He nods. "Wanna go in there and take it for me?"
Leaning forward, he kisses the sensitive spot just below my jaw. When his tongue flicks across my flesh, I'm practically purring like a kitten.
"I'll make it worth your while," he teases. "Compensate you accordingly. In the bedroom."
I produce a bubbly laugh before taking a step backwards and getting my head straight.
"Tempting offer, but I'm not looking to get expelled today. Sorry." I grin. "What class is it?"
"Sports Kinesiology."
"You got this," I say confidently as I hold out the chewy candies. "Here. Take it with you. Test fuel."
"Thanks, baby."
With a grateful smile, he accepts the bag and presses his mouth to mine. I grip the hair at the back of his neck and deepen the kiss, savoring his sweet taste before he reluctantly pulls away.
"Good luck," I say as I give him a little love-tap on the butt. "Let me know how it goes!"
"Will do." He lifts the bag of colorful beans. "Here's to hoping these things can get me at least a C+."
He shoots me his signature dimply-smile that melts me into a dang puddle.
But just as he turns to go, it disappears, replaced by that drained, conflicted gaze again.
And that's when I realize he's still not being honest with me.
33
I'm so fucking exhausted.
For almost two weeks straight, I've been averaging three hours of sleep per night.
Five I could deal with, four would be pushing it, but three?
Not enough.
Physically, it's starting to take its toll. Dark circles under my eyes, dozing off in class, slugging around campus like a goddamn zombie.
But the mental exertion is worse.
Because that's the root of this entire problem—I can't stop thinking.
About soccer.
About Arsenal.
About my rapidly-approaching future.
My stupid brain won't shut the fuck up.
All day long, the conversations I had with my dad and brother replay through my mind. Their promises, threats, and questions run never-ending laps in my head.
And when I lay down at night, body dying for some much-needed rest, the pestering thoughts keep me wide awake. They render me so restless, midnight mile runs have become my new hobby.
Stress, anxiety, worry... All emotions I'm not exactly familiar with.
And they are driving me frickin' crazy.
I mean, seriously?
What fucking gives?
I already decided I'm not playing for the team, so why am I so damn confused and conflicted?
And why the hell did I print out the boarding pass my dad sent me yesterday?
When Thursday morning weight room rolls around, I attempt to drown out the mentally-taxing bullshit with the heaviest reps I can manage. Deep laughter and locker room chatter reverberate off the walls, and for once I'm not in the middle of it. Socializing about trivial shit like who's gonna try to fuck who this weekend doesn't interest me right now.
Instead, I focus solely on the weights. I push myself to my physical limit, pouring sweat as I channel all of my pent-up turmoil into the work-out.
When I break multiple of my lifting PR's, Vaughn gives me a funny look.
"Dude. You on steroids or some shit?"
"Fuck off," I grunt as I sit up from the incline bench.
"There it is. The 'roid rage." Vaughn grins and shakes his head, dark hair swaying with the movement. "Sign number one of anabolic abuse."
The grueling session comes to an end a little while later, the towel draped around my neck drenched with perspiration. I'm drained, limbs jiggling like jello as I walk with my teammates to the showers. Just as I'm veering off to pacify my sore muscles with hot water, a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
"Paine." Coach's tired eyes flick towards a door on the left. "Let's have a chat."
He claps me on the back a few times, and I sigh before following him into the office space. It's small and plain, housing nothing but a white board, desk, and a few chairs stacked up against the wall.
I pop a squat on one of the uncomfortable plastic seats and yawn. "'Sup, Coach?"
He rubs his chin as he studies me. "I wanted to get up to speed with you on your plans for next year."
So much for drowning it out.
I'm not sure what to say, so a shrug is all I offer in response.
"We knew there was a strong possibility you'd leave school early for other opportunities. That's a possibility for many of the men on this team, but with you in particular." He steeples his fingers. "Your father's assistant called me the other day. Looks like the time to decide is now. I just want to see which way you're leaning."
"I don't know," I admit before blowing out a tumultuous breath. "Shit. I really don't know what the fuck to do, Coach."
I lean forward, elbows resting on my thighs as I scrub my hands over my face and through my damp hair.
"Hey, son."
His words have me lifting my head. Concern flashes across his face as he sees the anguish on mine.
"I'm not trying to upset you, but you need to make a decision. You'll always have a place on this team—remember that. But an opportunity like you've got doesn't come around often. It's once in a lifetime."
Once in a lifetime...
Fuck.
He arches a brow. "You take that into consideration, alright? And let me know what you decide as soon as possible."
After a beat or two, I respond.
"I will."
"Okay then. That's that." His hands slap the wooden desk in resolution. "Hit the showers. I'll see you next week."
"Thanks." I stand. "Have a good Easter weekend."
I'm slowly shuffling back to the locker room, chewing on his words and advice that only have me more confused, when I realize I left my towel behind.
"Hey," I say as I open the office door I just came out of. "I forgot my—"
I pause as I get a good look at the man who was fine a mere sixty seconds ago.
He's leaning back in his chair, eyes squeezed shut as he pinches the brim of his nose. His head shakes back and forth repeatedly, and the frustration he's emitting is palpable as hell.
Dude was trying to help me out, but it kinda looks like he could use some consoling as well.
I cautiously walk over to the chair, scooping the rag from the seat. A file that definitely wasn't there earlier is on the desk and I can't help but give it a quick appraisal. It's slightly bent and disheveled, facing opposite of Coach like he tossed it down in anger. A bold logo on the top right hand corner reads Wilson & Wilkerson Law Firm. My eyes travel to the sticky note placed below.
Mr. Hanson,
Court date delayed another month. Paperwork for last name and address change inside. Call with any questions.
Damn.
Cameron's gotta be wrong.
Last name and address changes?
There's no fucking way a divorce isn't going on here.
"Coach?"
He looks up, blinking in confusion like he didn't even realize I came back in the room.
"What?"
"You good?"
"Oh, yeah. Yeah. I'm great."
But the way he says that, it's obvious he's not.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur of boring lectures and dull professors. When I finally get home around 3 p.m., I'm running on fumes. All I wanna do is take a fucking nap, but since the chances of that happening are slim to none, I'll settle for the next best thing: relaxing and watching a few hours of TV.
Unfortunately, that prospect flies out the window the second I open the Redhouse door and step inside.
Liam's sprawled out on the couch, which isn't anything out of the ordinary, but the familiar expression he's sporting is sounding the alarms in my head.
A look that's equal parts guilt and exasperation, his features only contort into this specific face when he's about to seriously piss me the fuck off.
"Hey," he says with a tip of his chin.
I blatantly ignore the greeting as I toss my keys on the side table.
Doesn't stop him from continuing, though.
"When are you headed to London?"
Yup.
Right on cue.
And Christ.
I'm just getting hit from all angles about this shit today.
I drop my backpack to the floor and walk to the fridge. As I twist open a cold water, I meet his green gaze. "Who said I'm going to London?"
Liam cocks his head. "So you're not?"
My vague shrug has him rolling his eyes.
"Jesus. Still haven't made up your mind?" He expels a sigh of disbelief. "Let's talk about it, mate. I can see it's driving you mad, stewing on everything like you've been. Get it out so you can figure it out, Paine."
This would usually be the part of the convo where I tell him to go fuck himself before making an excuse to bail.
Instead, I do the opposite.
"Okay, dude." I plop down on the cushion next to him, hoping I'm not gonna regret this. "You wanna talk? Let's talk."
The whites of Liam's eyes double in size as shock overtakes him. I'm not surprised at the reaction—we talked about this shit once Freshman Year, the resulting conversation wasn't exactly pleasant, and the topic hasn't been discussed in detail since.
A mutual understanding of one another seems impossible when it comes to the situation, but I think it's about
damn time to rip off the bandaid and hear his spiel. Let him get it out of his system for once.
"I know you've got a lot to say to me, so go on. I'm listening." I take a quick swig of my water and lift a brow in encouragement. "Spill it, man."
"Gladly," Liam begins as he narrows an annoyed glare at me. "Why are you being such a fucking wanker about this entire thing?"
I level him with a pointed look. "Try again."
"Right. Bad approach." He scratches the edge of his jaw and changes his tone. "Do you even like football?"
"Uh, yeah. I love soccer. Why the hell would I play if I didn't?" I frown. "What kind of dumbass question is that?"
"One that apparently needs to be asked. If you really loved the game, I'd assume you'd want to compete at the top level and obviously you don't. What's holding you back, mate? It doesn't make any freaking sense."
Perplexity is written all over his face as he continues.
"Is it a guilt thing? Do you think you're the beneficiary of nepotism and it's unfair or something like that? Your dad being the manager of the team gives you a fair amount of perks, sure, but there are disadvantages as well."
"Nah, it's not that," I insist.
I'm well aware I have access and connections others don't, but it's been made pretty damn clear I wouldn't be offered a spot if I didn't truly deserve it.
The disadvantages, though...
I know exactly what he's referring to.
I'll always have to prove myself, more so than any other player on the team. Every off-game, each simple mistake on my part will bring my talent into question and elicit cries of preferential treatment.
There's no way to avoid that.
"I've got it," Liam suddenly announces. "You're scared of the big time. Can't handle the spotlight. That's it, isn't it?" He snaps his fingers like he's solved the plot. "The audience for Premier League is a bit larger than what we're used to. Afraid you're going to crash and burn in front of millions? Make a fool of yourself?"
"Dammit, Liam." I release a bemused grunt. "I thought you wanted me to go over there. Kinda sounds like you're trying to convince me otherwise."
[No data] Page 27
