Page 49 of Game On
As I lie there, my mind inevitably drifts back to that phone call with Ella and the raw attraction we’ve both been trying so hard to ignore. The soft spot I seem to have for her is growing and part of me doesn’t want to fight it anymore.
The last woman I dated was during my sophomore year at Whitland. Things started off light and casual, the kind of relationship you fall into without quite realizing how deep you’re in until it’s too late. She was a nice girl, fun to talk to. We met in one of my early Classics lectures, and spending time with her was like a new hobby I couldn’t put down.
But as the months slipped by, she began to feel as if I wasn’t giving enough, wasn’t open enough. She argued there were parts of me she couldn’t reach.
I could sense her frustration, the way her voice would tighten as she told me I kept too much to myself. It’s not that I didn’t want to let her in. It’s that being all in looked different for me.
I liked spending time with her, but when it came to sharing the darker, twisted corners of my mind, the compulsions and obsessions that followed the fire, I hesitated.
When I finally did open up, showed her the routines I couldn’t shake—she laughed. It wasn’t the gentle,understanding voice I’d hoped for, but a harsh, mocking laughter that made me feel exposed and ridiculous.
Her words afterward picked at me, little jabs about my “quirky habits” that felt more like sharp hooks. Until eventually, I pulled back and reasoned that if “all in” meant being laid bare only to be laughed at, then I was out.
I decided then I wouldn’t let anyone in again that readily. That’s when the random women, all those nights spent drinking, hit an all-time high. I felt a bit like I was heading down the same path as my deadbeat dad.
But I’ve grown and changed since then. I have so much on my plate now, so much else I need to focus on. If I tried again, would it be different?
Can I trust someone not to flinch at my scars or scoff at my fears?It’s hard to say if the exposure is worth the risk. And I’ll be damned if I let my walls slip only to realize it’s another mistake. I’ve worked too hard, for too long, to get to the place I’m in now.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ella
I slide into a seat in the front row of my anthro lecture. Today, we’re diving into the role of language in shaping urban identity, a topic that overlaps with my History and Modern Languages course back at Oxford. I’m particularly keen on the topic, as my dissertation explores how language policies influence social integration in European cities.
When Hudson finally strides in, my heart does an unexpected little leap. I offer him a small, hopeful wave, silently wishing he’ll choose the seat next to mine. After all, he’s the one who initiated this budding friendship, joined me at my gym session, and reached out last night when I found my ex waiting at my place. He even called me when I asked him to.
Instead, he just smirks—a flash of mischief in his eyes—and heads to the same spot he claimed on Monday, directly behind me. Disappointment settles in my stomach, but I force my focus back to the front of the room.
Professor Myles launches into his lecture. I’m furiously jotting down notes, intent on catching every minor detail.And I’m doing a damn good job of it until a slight tug on my hair interrupts me. I stiffen, brush it off, and try to refocus.
But when it happens again—a gentle yet unmistakable pull—I can’t overlook the distraction. I half-turn, my heart stuttering—not from irritation but from a desire to confront him.
“Stop it, will you?” I ask quietly.
Hudson’s voice is low in my ear. “Just making sure you’re still awake.”
I roll my eyes, slightly amused. He’s got some nerve. He’s the one who rocks up late, and then he starts messing with me during the lecture. I should be annoyed, but instead there’s a warm tingle spreading through my body.
“Would you kindly stop fucking around, and actually pay attention?” I hiss.
“Got it, boss,” he whispers back with a two-finger salute, that familiar deep baritone sending another unwanted shiver down my spine.
Everything is peaceful for a while. But then, not surprisingly, he does it again—this time more gently, twirling a small strand of my hair around his finger. It’s distracting, disarmingly so.
The soft motion pulls me out of the lecture and down a memory lane lined with the scenes of my childhood bedroom, where my mum would spend ages brushing my hair. I remember begging her to do it again when I was a bit older, but she’d only sigh and say, “I don’t have time, Ella.”
Now, as Hudson’s fingers gently twist through my hair, it’s unnerving how much I find myself enjoying it.
The lecture continues, but I’m barely registering the words. My mind is caught between bittersweet nostalgia and the present. The tendrils of hair fall softly back into place as Hudson finally withdraws his hand, and a part of me mourns the loss.
So, when Professor Myles shifts gears, directing us to break into discussion groups, I’m embarrassingly unprepared. I turn fully now, facing Hudson with mock exasperation. He’s grinning, handsome as ever, totally aware of the mischief he’s caused.
“So, what do you think?”
I stumble over my words. “I, uh …”
His smile widens. “You have no idea what he asked us to discuss, do you?”
