“But she lives in town?”
I nod. “I can’t be far from her. Not now. I want to be there for her if anything happens. Dad…” I imagine my father walking into the kitchen while my mom sang, sliding his hands around her waist and pressing a kiss against her cheek. He hasn’t done that in such a long time. I sigh, wondering if he’s even helping her at home now. “Well, he keeps busy with work. I think it’s too difficult for him to be around like he used to. I always hoped I could support her with football.”
Rachel makes a face and I laugh. “Football?” she asks.
“Yeah. I want to join the NFL, but with this banged up shoulder, I don’t know if it’ll be possible.”
Rachel looks at my weakened shoulder. “Why would that stop you?”
I chuckle. “You wouldn’t understand.”
She crosses her arms, her chin jutting out while giving me that defiant look that turns me on so much. “Try me, Hunter.”
“Ok,” I say hesitantly, trying to put in words what has been on my mind since last year. More like since high school, which is when I planned this whole thing after discovering Mom’s illness. “If I want to make it to the NFL I need to be seen. I need to play my hardest, my best. I need to be the fastest, the strongest.”
“Like a lean mean fighting machine?”
“Exactly,” I say while pointing a fry at her. “And in order for scouts to see that, I need to play. Not be on the bench.” I cringe, remembering practice and how I barely played. I barely did anything today and I probably wouldn’t be able to play in the next few games. “I’m so young and already I have this injured shoulder, making me a liability.” I slam my hand down on the table, suddenly agitated by everything screwing up my life. “I’m twenty-one and I’m injured already.”
“But getting injured is part of the game. Doesn’t every athlete get injured at some point in their career?”
“The thing is,” I say quickly. “This injury could shorten my career. Who would want me on their team, knowing my shoulder is probably already wrecked?” I don’t wait long for her answer as I say, rather loudly, “No one. No one would want me.”
“But can’t you fix it?” She asks while motioning toward my shoulder. “There are physical therapists that can help you. And haven’t you been playing with it, despite the injury?”
I don’t want to tell her about the drugs. I don’t want her to know. For some reason, I want her to see me at my best, not as some drugged up football player who needs an injection at the start of every game in order to be able to play.
“Physical therapists cost money,” I say instead. “And the only reason why I made it this far is because of my football scholarship. Which I could also lose.”
“But shouldn’t they have physical therapists on this campus for athletes?” Rachel motions around herself as if they are everywhere.
And since this is a sports college, they probably are everywhere.
I don’t say anything, knowing deep down she’s probably right.
“I’m sure you can find someone easily,” she continues. “They can give you exercises to help with your shoulder.”
She stares at me for a moment and I swear her eyes twinkle in the lamplight. I feel like I’m in some harlequin novel. One of the naughty ones Mom used to read. I can’t stop looking at the fire in her eyes, the way her hair frames her face or how full and kissable her lips look.
“You shouldn’t let this injury break you. You’re too young. I’m sure with some work, you can fix your shoulder and get off that bench.”
I swear her positivity is infectious, because even now I feel like fighting. I can find a physical therapist tomorrow. I can do exercises. I don’t need to give up on my dreams. I look away from her, feeling a smile threatening to spread. “Thank you,” I say while standing, offering my arm. I try to ignore my joy when she accepts it. “You’ve really taken my mind out of the gutter.”
She beams up at me, still holding onto my arm with her dainty little hand. “No problem,” she says. “I couldn’t let a roomie suffer. Even though you are a complete jackass.”
I throw back my head and burst into laughter. “I guess I’ve earned that title. But if you weren’t such a psycho-“
“Rachel,” she interrupts, levelling a smirk at me. “My name is Rachel.” She juts out her chin and purses her lips. I swear if I don’t look away now I will kiss her. “You call me Rachel, then I won’t call you Jackass Number Three.”
“You promise?” I ask while holding out my pinky. “You pinky swear?”
She shrugs while taking my pinky with hers. “Not aloud anyway.”
We walk back to the apartment arm-in-arm and I feel like we are leaving a date. Can I call this a date? We’re laughing. We’re talking. It’s more of a date than I’ve ever been on with a woman. Usually, it’s drinks and then a quickie in the bathroom, or at someone’s place. But, for once I don’t really want this to end with a quick fuck and a promise to call later. Actually, I don’t want it to end at all. It’s nice to know she lives in the same apartment as me since it won’t end. I’ll see her tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day after that.
So what does all this mean?
Why am I feeling like this?
We stop in front of the door and I watch Rachel take out the keys from her pocket. Her cheeks are still tinted pink. Her hair falls over her shoulder and I find myself pushing it back so I can see her face. She looks up at me, her eyes stunned but not moving away. My hand strokes the side of her face
