GIN AND JUICE pt 4

Shawn was pacing with nervous energy, jangling his keys in his pocket. Checking the time on his phone, he huffed and unlocked it, making sure that he’d sent her the right room number.

Study Room B038. Friday 5 PM.

It was 5:04. She was late. He had chosen this time specifically because he had an easy out if he needed to leave. Every Friday before a game, he had team dinner at Coach’s house at 7 PM, then the whole team left on buses to stay off-campus at a hotel to rest up and stay on curfew before the game. But, this girl, whoever she was, probably didn’t know the schedule, so he was free to make up any time that he had to leave with just a little white lie.

He heard the door knob turn and froze. Her head was bowed, shoulders forward, a posture it looked like she defaulted to, when she walked in. He couldn’t see her face behind the thick waves of soft brown hair hanging in the way. Not two steps into the room, she tripped over the nearest chair, heading straight for the floor.

Shawn took two big strides and caught her by the shoulders mid-fall. Her head popped up, locking wide ocean blue eyes with him. Recognition stirred, flashing images swimming in his vision. A spilled beer. A wet shirt. Looking back at those blue eyes and feeling the blush bloom on his face.

It was her.

He walked out of the living room, swimming with humanity, as fast as possible. Too many people. He could practically see his worth reflected in their eyes. They only saw what he could give them, what he could bring them. None of them knew or cared about him beyond the material or social value he held.

Lost in his thoughts, he rounded a close corner on his way to the kitchen for something harder to drink. It wasn’t until his cup fell out of his hand that he realized someone was there.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” he yelled over the noise of the party. At first, she just stood there, looking him up and down like she wasn’t quite sure if he was real. She swivelled her head up to look at him, and he inwardly gasped at her eyes. They looked like cerulean cut glass, so blue and yet so clear that he felt like he could see straight down to their core. It was as unsettling as it was exhilarating.

She still hadn’t made a move since he spilled his drink all over her. He took a survey of the damage, which allowed him to stare at her petite body for just a second longer  than he probably needed to. She was fucking cute as hell. Where did this girl come from? He realized he was looking at her instead of helping.

His head shot up toward the kitchen, seeing his idiot left tackle walking toward him, “HEY GEOFF!?! CAN YOU BRING ME A RAG OR SOMETHING??”

Shawn turned back to her, noticing her shivering. Why won’t she say something? He pleaded with her to talk to him with his eyes, softening his gaze like he would with a baby deer. She felt so cold, but he could see the sweat starting to collect on her brow.

Geoff finally returned with a rag and he started to help her by dabbing it on her chest. Her eyes widened in momentary panic, and she jumped half a foot away from him, out of his reach.

His face bloomed pink in mortification. He handed the cloth to her, stuttering apologies, clearly dropping the ball and wanting to escape as fast as possible. When he had gotten far enough away for her to not notice, he looked back. She was still standing there with those wide blue eyes staring. He really wished he could have heard her voice.

* * * * * * * * * *

He held your shoulders for a beat too long. The look on his face reminded you of that night in the bathroom just before he had thrown up, but this time there was confusion mixed with a strange wonderment.

“Uh, Shawn?” you snapped, waving your fingers in his face, really needing him to stop touching you. His imposing figure and rough fingers on your skin made it difficult to breathe, let alone think. He blinked several times and shook his head, “sorry, sorry. Uhh, you’re late.”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” you said with a little edge in your voice, “I’ve been outside the door debating whether or not I should come in.”

The confusion in his face deepened, “you were going to stand me up?” He shook his head again, as if no one on the planet had ever suggested such insanity in his entire life. It would have been annoying if it weren’t so earnest. You rolled your eyes at him.

“It’s not about you…well not 100% about you,” you really weren’t here to divulge the nature of your social anxiety, “just never mind, why are we here?” You looked at him expectantly. The earnest expression had slowly morphed into something timid and slightly…embarrassed?

You were confused. He had wanted you to come here to talk but now he seemed like he was rethinking it. He was nervous about whatever he came to say. His eyes wandered to his feet, bound in leather Chelsea boots, as he kicked the carpet. His athletic legs were wrapped in the skinniest black jeans you’d ever seen. He ran his hands down the fabric clinging to his thighs and finally spoke.

“Uhm, yeah. So,” he looked off past your head, avoiding your eyes at all cost, “how badly would you be offended if I asked you your name?”

His cheeks flushed bright red as he wrung his hands in front of you. He looked like a small boy who knew he’d done something wrong. A very tall, very muscular, very gorgeous small boy. What had happened to that charm? You held your hand up to your face to hide the smile that threatened.

He didn’t remember your name. Did he remember anything about that night? Did you want him to? It had been six days since that night, so if he was going to remember something, it probably would have happened by now. Maybe you could play this off, just tell him your name and make something up about what happened after he blacked out. You could put this whole thing to bed once and for all. It seemed like that might put him at ease.

You let the laughter bubble up to the surface. It sounded strange to your ears, a little too high-pitched and a little too effervescent, but you hoped he wouldn’t notice. You had to make this casual, had to make it believable. He couldn’t know you were lying. You reached out and touched his bicep.

“Oh, it’s fine, Shawn,” you giggled, telling him your name, voice dripping with nonchalance, “you’re a busy guy, and we were both drunk at that party.”

He looked puzzled for a minute, but then smoothed his brow, nodding, “Yeah, yeah we were.”

“You really don’t remember?” you asked, trying for incredulous, “we hung out in the kitchen for a bit. I grabbed your hand and wrote my number. It was innocent.” By the end, the pitch in your voice had climbed three octaves. Maybe he would think you were crazy and that would solve all of your problems.

“But, why didn’t you want to meet with me? In public?” he asked, sounding hurt. Shit. You grasped for idea strings in the giant ball of twine in your mind. This was starting to get complicated and you weren’t sure how long you could keep it up.

“Uhm, I was embarrassed,” you mumbled, sounding more convincing, “I basically threw myself at you and you didn’t want me that night. I really didn’t want to face that in the light of day. I didn’t want anyone who might see me with you to ask questions later.”

“Oh,” he said, scrubbing the nape of his neck and looking almost remorseful. Maybe this was working. He glanced at you out of the side of his eye and you thought he might attempt to poke holes in your story. But instead, he just shrugged violently, “well, I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

He sounded like he might have meant that in some way other than in reference to your lies. Both of you stood there awkwardly, shifting weight in opposite directions. You were getting dizzy from the boat-rocking sensation. He looked placid, blank.

“Well,” he said, exhaling breath he must have been holding, “I have to go to team dinner.” He turned to open the door wide, but before he stepped through, the composed look in his eyes faded and let a pleading traitor in. It reminded you of the look he gave you that night when he spilled his drink on you—like he just needed you to say something to let him in.

It only lasted for a second, replaced by cool detachment, an essential ingredient in his chainmail of charm. He took a stride through the door and called out behind his shoulder, “it was nice meeting you!”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the basement study room with a sneaking suspicion that you had just made a huge mistake.

* * * * * * * * * *

He buckled up his pads over his shoulders and tightened the laces on his cleats. The locker room was noisy, loud rap music playing over the A/V system to pump everyone up. Shawn knew he wasn’t in the right headspace. He knew that he shouldn’t have a pair of blue eyes stuck in his head. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about her shoulders, so delicate beneath his hands. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about how she lied to him.

What was she trying to hide?

He couldn’t figure out her angle. She had no idea that he remembered seeing her earlier at the party. The fact that she hadn’t mentioned it was his first red flag. But, she didn’t know that he had a clear memory of her that night. She didn’t know that her behavior in the library betrayed the girl he’d spilled beer on and silently begged to speak to him.

He still felt like he hadn’t heard her real voice.

“OKAY BOYS,” Coach Bradford yelled as the team made its way through the tunnel, getting ready to run out onto the field, “EVERY GAME IS FULL OF INFINITE CHOICES. MAKE SURE YOU CHOOSE THE RIGHT ONES.” Always a last minute cheesy pre-game line to make us think about the philosophical reasons to play the game, “LET’S GO PLAY SOME FOOTBALL.”

Every time Shawn burst out of that tunnel and onto the field, the deafening roar of the crowd took his breath away. It was one of the rushes that kept his running out here every fall, every week, every minute. This week was rivalry week and the crowd was even more live than usual.

He looked out into the crowd, something he wasn’t accustomed to doing. He hated seeing the hungry eyes of all the people there expecting him to win the game for them. But, this week, he scanned for a familiar pair of blue eyes. A crazy endeavor because there was no way he would see her in the ocean of people surrounding the field, but he flipped through a thousand pairs of eyes nonetheless.

“MENDES,” Geoff screamed over the crowd, “GET OVER HERE.” He ran over and butted foreheads with his left tackle, their pre-game ritual. He positioned his mouthguard, made the sign of the cross, and dug his cleats into the turf. The whistle blew, flying high above the cheers.

Shawn should have known it wasn’t going to go his way when he thought he saw her during the first quarter. He lined up at the five-yard-line looked out above the line, called the play, and snapped the ball. Behind his receiver, he caught a flash of blue that made him pause. He took an extra breath, changing his tempo, and let the ball fly directly into the hands of his opponent.

It got worse from there. After three fumbles, two more interceptions, and five missed tackles, Shawn felt like he was taking an ***-kicking. He couldn’t get her out of his head. Somehow they were tied, thanks to a couple of great defensive plays and a lucky run after a handoff, and heading into the two-minute warning, he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. A loss could jeopardize everything—the conference championship, a national championship bid, his Heisman chances. The weight of the potential disappointment pressed against his chest.

They moved the ball down the field, killing clock until it was the last twenty seconds from the ten. He had one play left to get the ball in the endzone. He dug the ball of his foot into the turf at the line of scrimmage. Crouching behind his lineman, Shawn called the play, “BLUE-42! BLUE-42! HURRY!” He took one last breath in, “HIKE!”

Everything moved in slow motion. He faked the handoff to his running back, leaning back. He pumped once, twice, closed his eyes against the deep blue threatening his vision, and let the ball fly.

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