Page 43 of Every Move You Make

“Well, at least he’s a good student, right? He’ll have a degree to fall back on.”

“Thankfully, yes. Between his love of music and rugby, I’ve been sweating bullets thinking he’ll choose a career in either.” I know what she means. While she hopes nothing but the best for him, finding success in either of those industries is tough.

After Brightwood beats Penn Valley 29 to 14, we all head to the social, this time held at Isaiah’s off-campus house he shares with three other teammates. After we eat, Isaiah and I take turns leading the choir of ruggers in rousing verses ofThe Marrying Kind, followed byI Used to Work in Chicago. When everyone’s good and toasted and the keg stands start, Isaiah’s hand catches my eye.

“What happened here?” I ask, bringing his hand closer to inspect.

“Got stepped on in the second half.”

“It looks awful. Can you flex?”

He flexes his biceps instead.

“Stop it,” I laugh, but he concedes and attempts to make a fist before wincing.

“Go wash your hands, and I’ll get you some ice.”

With a placating smile, he saunters off to the closest bathroom, and I fill a baggie of ice. When I get to the open bathroom door, he’s gently drying his hands at the sink. Stepping in behind him, I catch his smile in the toothpaste-splattered mirror.

“Here,” I say, taking his swollen hand and placing the bag over it. He takes a seat against the counter, and suddenly heat flashes through my body as I stand between my friend’s legs with his hand in mine. His big, rough hand, with its blunt fingernails and angry red cleat marks.

I should let go of his hand. I should. It’s so close to my chest, and a really stupid part of me wants him to shut the door, grab my waist, and kiss the living daylights out of me.

Where is this coming from? Why am I envisioning this? He’s my friend, and he’s in a relationship.

There’s laughter and boisterous voices from down the hall, but the loudest thing of all is the sound of Isaiah swallowing.

When I risk flicking my eyes to him, this strange feeling between us intensifies, and I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Where’s Jessica? When am I going to meet her?”

Something changes in his stare. “She’s studying. She doesn’t really come to my games. It’s not really her scene. Plus…” he trails off like he doesn’t know if he should say it.

“What?”

He rolls his eyes and sighs, “It’s nothing. It’s dumb.”

“Well, now you’re just dangling a carrot.”

“She can get kinda jealous.”

“Of… you spending time with your team?”

His free hand tugs at the back of his neck. “No. She, uhh, there’s just certain friends of mine she doesn’t love,” he says, placing a peculiar emphasis on the wordsfriends.

“I’m sorry. I’d still like to meet her one day. Maybe the three of us can get a bite to eat outside of the rugby scene so she’s more comfortable,” I say truthfully, because I do want to meet her. She’s my good friend’s girlfriend—why wouldn’t I? Whatever bizarre little spark just flickered between us is most definitely one-sided and doesn’t mean anything.

I’m probably just ovulating.

A sad sort of smile tugs at his lips, and his hand gently squeezes mine. “Maybe.”

“Cumeth! There you are,” one of his teammates huffs, slapping the frame of the door. “I thought you’d like to know your sister is doing keg stands in a dress.”

Laughter bubbles up at the image of Angie upside down, showing her panties to everyone, but Isaiah scrubs his face with his uninjured hand and groans.

When his teammate disappears, Isaiah shakes his head and smiles, but neither of us makes a move to leave. Thislingering moment between us feels so forbidden in the hottest and guiltiest of ways. Iknowwe should get out of this small bathroom where I’m standing closer than I should, but he’s looking at me with his piercing blue eyes like he doesn’t have a girlfriend, and is anything outside of here all that important anyway?

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes flicking down to my neck. “Your shoulders are bunched up.”

Now that he said something, I do feel stiff and achy. I try to release the tension but it’s locked in. “It’s fine,” I shrug. “Just sore from the game.”

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