Page 37 of Player
"It was a few years ago," I begin.
I hear the sound of Player moving behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, I realize he's stretched out on his bed, one arm folded behind his head. His bicep bulges, and I notice he could just as well be posing for an advertisement.
I turn my attention back to the outside, but the campus is shrouded in darkness. Most students are asleep at this late hour, and I should be resting too because I have a paper I need to work on tomorrow.
My organizational considerations cease when I sit down on the bed across from Player's. His gaze never leaves me, and for once, he doesn't rush me.
"I was part of my high school's cheerleading team." His condescending smirk doesn't escape me, and I give him a threatening look. "If you want me to talk, you'd better not make a single disparaging remark."
"I didn't say anything!"
"But you thought it!"
He removes his arm from under his head to sit up on his bed. When he leans forward, the space between us diminishes.A strange light ignites in his pupils. "Oh yes, Alabama, tell me what I'm thinking, I'm interested."
I don't know if I'm imagining the tension that settles between us, but I'm completely unable to string two coherent thoughts together. I just shake my head.
"So you were a cheerleader," he continues. "And then?"
"We were good, one of those teams that has full try-outs, gymnastic routines, everything. We were getting ready for the state championship, but really it was just going to be a steppingstone for the national title, and we had every chance of winning it. As an athlete, you know what it feels like when you're close to the goal, when you've worked so hard that your body knows what to do without you having to think."
Player nods imperceptibly.
"I knew the routine by heart. I could have done it in my sleep..."
My throat tightens. I wish I had the power to go back in time and change everything. If only I could warn the Dixie of the past. But it's impossible. All I have left is the present.
"But something went wrong, and when I performed the cradle..."
Words escape me because I'm overwhelmed by the sensations, that pain my body refuses to forget, the horror I felt the moment I realized I was going to crash to the ground, the screams around me—everything is etched in my memory.
My fingers unconsciously rub the scar that runs across my forearm, and my attention shifts to this thin, light line that materializes the end of a dream in my flesh.
My vision blurs when tears fill my eyes. I don't want to cry, especially not in front of Player. I know I haven't finished my story, but I can't go on. I'm overwhelmed by all the emotions I can't contain.
To my greatest surprise, I suddenly feel Player's presencenext to me. He puts an arm around my shoulders, and I let myself lean against his warm, powerful body. If only he weren't so insufferable.
I turn my head toward him and his gaze captures mine—deep, unfathomable, mysterious. The sadness ebbs a little as I wonder what it would be like to kiss Player.
His lips are so close, it would take almost nothing to end my questioning and taste him.
"Stop that, Alabama."
My gaze leaves his mouth to find his eyes.
"I didn't do anything."
"You're thinking about it."
"Now you're the one reading my thoughts?" I say ironically.
Player shakes his head. "Your thoughts, no. But your body speaks volumes."
"You don't say," I reply, sensing the bulge in his shorts more than feeling it again.
He narrows his eyelids while observing me. "Your breathing has accelerated since I sat down next to you, your lips parted while you were staring at mine, and your nipples..."
He doesn't add anything, but I know they're hard, betraying my desire.
