Page 30 of Play Dirty
Shiloh.
Walking past the edge of the field in a hurry, skirt swaying with the wind riding up her legs, hair placed in a perfect ponytail, and accessorized with a red bow. A black cardigan hugs the hourglass shape of her waist and the curves of her breasts, trying hard to blend in and failing miserably.
My eyes track as she moves towards the art buildings, and a small smile spreads through my face as I notice where she’s headed. Somewhere quiet.
Somewhere, no one would go looking for her. That is, unless you knew about her true passion and hobby, sculpting. Which I wouldn’t have known if it wasn’t for June or my sick twisted obsession with following her around when no one’s paying attention. My body begs to move closer, to follow the pretty little siren luring me to her lair when Coach Jensen's voice calls out.
“Reyes.” His voice brings me out of my trance, and I look over my shoulder. “You good?”
My answer should be yes, but instead the lie spills faster than I can process. Shaking my head, “Nah, I don’t know.” I point at my head. “I have a raging migraine.”
He raises a thick brow, “You’re not one to pull out of drills.”
The coach is right. I’m not.
Playing soccer—playing on this field meant I didn’t split myself open for nothing. It’s the only thing I could do to guarantee my success. I shake my head, “I can’t focus.” I shrug. “I’m no good to anyone like this.”
The coach studies me for a while, unsure of what to do. I don’t break eye contact, praying he lets me go. He lets out a breath and waves meoff with his hand. “Go,” he finally says. “Clear your head by Saturday. We need your feet fast and your head in the game.”
I nod once before I jog off the field, ignoring Thiago’s puzzling look and Ezra’s soft mutter that I'm going soft. I don’t care. I’m not. I just have an itch in desperate need of scratching. Following the tree line path that curves towards the back of the art wing, I should probably take off my cleats, but that’s an issue for another day.
My heart ricochets inside my chest. The closer I get to the building, the more I feel like a trespasser.
The feeling doesn’t stop me.
It only motivates me to move closer.
To pump my legs harder.
What kind of man does that make me?
I just lost my girlfriend, and here I am stalking her best friend.
The glass doors are propped open just enough that I can watch from the safety of the shadows the trees provide, like a true coward. I hide. Inside the wheels are spinning. The soft sound of clay being molded fills the space like music. A great view if you ask me, I can see and hear her perfectly, the room otherwise empty, and her smack dab in the middle of it.
Shiloh.
Her hair is loose now, steel eyes swollen and red from crying, sleeves rolled, and hands covered in clay. She’s deep in thought or focus, working like she’s possessed. Elbows deep in a slab of clay, but her shape isn’t taking. I can feel the frustration radiating from her as she continues to mold and shape and form. I want to go in there and help, but I just watch as she uses the back of her filthy hands to push back her golden locks from her face.
She’s pouring her emotions into the wet clay, but nothing is taking shape because how do we create a physical representation of grief and rage? And fuck, does she look beautiful in the wreckage of it all.My stomach knots, and once again, the feeling of guilt covers me like a weighted blanket. Thick and heavy—suffocating me.
She pauses, taking a deep breath in before her hands fall from the wheel, and her body sags. Once again, my angel is crying.
Not a dramatic breakdown. Not the kind of sobs people perform just to be seen. No, this is private. Raw and quiet. Her shoulders shake with each muted cry. She takes a deep breath, then tries to wipe the tears from her face, but instead she leaves a smudge of grey on her skin.
The sight before me hits me harder than anything on the field ever has. Fuck, it even has me feeling like a piece of shit from the clear invasion of privacy. I step back when my heels grind on a twig—thankfully, her phone rings at the same time.
I hold my breath waiting for her to run outside, but instead she wipes her hand on a white cloth and grabs her phone. Shiloh’s face contorts from grief into coldness and numbness as she places the phone to her ear.
“Hello,” her voice shakes a bit, but nothing the ice queen can’t manage. Her body tense, her thin brows pulling together. “No, I didn’t say-” she lets out a heavy breath as she listens to whatever is being said to her. My hands ball into fists beside me. Whatever she’s being told, it's visibly upsetting her.
“Tonight?” her voice rises slightly. “I told you not tonight, I need time.” Another pause, before she bites her lower lip, and her head falls towards her back. I never wanted to bug someone’s phone as badly as I want to right this moment. What I would give to be a fly on the wall so I can hear whatever she’s being told.
“Whatever, tonight it is.” She says angrily, ending the call before slamming her phone onto the ground. And just my luck, my burner phone decides to ring at the most inconvenient time ever, and quicklyI rush to pull it out of my pocket. My eyes are on Shiloh as she freezes, eyes wide as she scans the room.
“Fuck.” I mutter under my breath as she searches, her frigid glare landing on the door–narrowing as if she knows someone is here. Slowly, she rises, but by the time she makes it to the door, I’m already gone.
Running in the opposite direction and away from her, I bolt through the hedges, cutting through the trees back towards the dorms. My heart is slamming against my ribs. I wish I could say it’s from the run. From the fear or the weight of it all, but it’s the shame.
