Page 45 of Fighting Spirit

Was there a study group meeting? Did I miss the message?

“Hey, Ruth!” Georgie says brightly. “Sorry, we didn’t realize you were here.”

“Are you guys studying?” To my knowledge, Econ is the only class they all have together.

“Yeah, just wanted to get ready before the test on Friday.” Steph gives me a small smile.

Shit.

I’d known the test was coming, but it kind of snuck up on me. “Of course!” I say, figuring I can pull off the lie if I only say it with enough energy.

“You can join us if you want?” Georgie moves a plant pot off the decorative stool it lives on in the hallway, placing the makeshift chair at the end of the table.

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. Why would we mind?” Her face is genuine, settling whatever had been starting to fester in my gut.

“That would be amazing.” I run to grab my stuff, thrilled to feel like I’m finally getting on top of my work, even if it’s just for an afternoon. I leave my phone on my nightstand, not about to let thoughts of Rowan keep invading when I’ve got work to do.

I take a seat, smiling gratefully as everyone shuffles their stuff around to make room on the table. Steph smiles back, but there’s something tight in the lines around her eyes.

Clara’s in the seat next to me, she leans close, keeping her voice low. “I’m so glad you’re here. I need to hear more about Mr. Football Guy.” She waggles her eyebrows.

I flush. “There’s, uh, there’s nothing to tell.” The words feel wrong coming out, but I make myself say them, as if speaking them aloud will make them true.

“Really?”

I shrug, casting my eyes away.

“Well, that’s too bad. He sounded like a good thing.” She gives my arm a quick squeeze. If only she knew.

“We’re just looking through chapter nine,” Indira says from across the table. I jerk up. Did I get off track again already? I open up to the page she means and immediately know how lost I am.

I’m sure I remember this class, I remember the professor talking about this stuff, but hell if I know what a single word on this page means. The others start up their conversation,falling into an easy rhythm as they talk about last week’s TV, each working through the practice questions. Clara makes sweet attempts to include me, but I’m too caught up in the mess on the page. The words swim in front of my eyes as I try to think back to anything I can remember from the lecture. I go to my notes but find embarrassingly little there to help me.

Eventually, I can’t take it anymore; I make a quick excuse and head back to my room, shutting the door behind me as I try to calm my breathing.

I’m not sure that any of them notice I’m gone.

Chapter Eighteen

ROWAN

It’s been a week since I last spoke to Ruth, when I blurted out that stupid thing, and I haven’t heard from her once. Not even when I reached out to apologize. I don’t know why I feel such a desperate, clawing urge to make it right, so strong it’s like it’s choking me sometimes. Maybe it was how her voice flattened as soon as I said it, like a wall slamming down or a mask slipping back into place.

I know I was an asshole, I just wish she’d hear me out. I don’t want to lose the friendship we’d been building over a slip of the tongue.

My thoughts get cut off by a large body slumping onto the bench next to me. We’re in a ten-minute break during afternoon practice, and I’m fuckin’ tired. Fitz had us running laps and doing tackle drills for the last two hours. He’s on form today, pissed about the whole kidnapping thing and stressed about the upcoming Allbreck game. I look to my left and see Christian slouched over, pouring water over the back of his neck as he breathes hard.

“You good?” I slap him on the back.

“Yeah.” His words come out as a wheeze. I’d worry if not for the grin he shoots me. This kid seems to have endless energy.I get a headache if I spend too much time with him, but he’s a damn good running back. Water droplets run down his dark skin, dropping off his chin and soaking the collar of his shirt. “This is fun, right?”

I huff out a laugh. “Sure.”

“I think Darius nearly busted my ribs back there.” He says it like it’s no big deal, like that wouldn’t be a season-ending injury. Tension creeps into my shoulders at the idea that he isn’t taking care of himself.

“Make sure you ice that shit.”

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