Page 3 of Missed Steps
I am very self-conscious. My aloneness after the conversation Mark heard on the weekend is a tad embarrassing, but it’s not embarrassment heating my cheeks…it’s the jerk-off session I had once I got home that night on my mind.
I orgasmed. Iorgasmed. I haven’t done that in months. Thank you, Mark, for your gorgeous, gorgeous eyes, your wonderful husky voice, your firm, sloping shoulders, your sultry staring—is he still staring? I glance up. Yes, he is still staring. Our eyes meet. Hold.
“You’re not even listening to me,” Eddie complains. “Who are you looking at?” He twists around and spots me. Eddie’s expression changes from annoyed to on-guard. “What are you looking at?” he demands of me.
His aggressive tone draws the attention of people at the tables nearby. If the idea of everyone looking at me didn’t make me want to shrivel into a ball and cry, I would have talked back. Played up the fight Eddie was picking, if only to show him I’m not a soft target. But if he so much as breathed on me, I would hit the deck. Screw that.
I avert my eyes first, shut my book, and stand. Eddie braces for a fight, but I just take my tray and walk away in the other direction. I’m aware of Mark’s gaze the entire way out of the cafeteria.
The me from a year ago would have died of shame to walk away. The me of today is happy to be walking. I put it behind me and focus on college. Thank god my course is something I enjoy; business and accounting might not be everyone’s jam, but it sure is mine. Anything to do with numbers? Sign me up. I’m proud that I picked a practical course that would lead me to a job. Knowing a secure job was waiting for me at the end of this year has gotten me through many nights of utter despair.
That’s why I can shrug off my wimpy retreat. I’m not here for the social aspect anymore—I’m here for the degree. The rest is finished, as are my days of rough-housing with the guys and being part of all the—nope. Depressing thoughts are reserved for night-time in bed. Campus means I am switched on and focusing.
Campus with Mark sauntering across the grounds in front of me means I’m turned on and focusing on other things, but I allow myself that much.
I adjust my position. I’ve been sitting in this library seat studying for hours, and I spy Mark as he and his friends walk along the path below me. They’re heading into the gym. Today’s Monday, so that means it’s basketball practice. I noticed Mark’s car this morning in the student lot, and I wonder if he knows that the ground is freezing over tonight?
I open my weather app and see it’s already below freezing. The unusual warmth from the weekend has quickly given way to more appropriate temperatures for late fall. I can’t focus on my work anyone, more interested in getting an eyeful of Mark when he comes out of training all sweaty with his clothes sticking to him. I used to see it all the time. I used to smell him (during tackles). Touch him (during tackles). And I didn’t even appreciate it…okay, I did. I jerked off all the time to our intimate moments.
Movement. I peer down—
“Fucker,” I hiss.
Mark is wearing a jacket.
My study-buddy, aka the guy who sits opposite me until ten pm every day, glances at me. He then looks outside to see what I cursed at. His gaze lands on Mark, and he shoots me a wry look.
I shrug.
Disappointed, I pack up my things. It’s only nine, but I’m done for the day. Not getting to see Mark all sweaty killed my motivation.
For some reason, I’m rushing. Actually, I know the reason. If I walk fast, I’ll intercept Mark on his way to the car park, and then I will casually mention the ice warning. Just in case. Can’t be too careful with cars.
I’m stepping out of the building; my foot slips. I throw my weight to try to save myself. There’s a delicate snap. I go down. And all the healing wounds justache. A bone-deep pain throbs through my left leg, paralysing me.
“Are you okay?” Mark asks.
I’m trembling in pain. “Fine,” my voice is hardly above a whisper as I try to get up.
“Here.” Mark puts his arm around my waist and lifts me to my feet like I weigh absolutely nothing. His spicy cologne washes over me, and in the midst of pain, my nerves wake up—my skin hypersensitive and aware of every minute point of contact. He smells really, really good. Too good. I grab his back for balance, and his arm holds my waist firmly.
For the first time since I’ve known him, I realise Mark is several inches taller than me.
Mark looks around as I make this discovery. His eyes fix on something behind me. “There, the bench.” He looks back. Our eyes meet because I’m staring at his handsome face. I can feel his breath on my cheeks.
Mark swallows. “I’ll help you over.”
“Okay.”
I have to hop and not put any weight on my left leg, and I am enormously relieved when I reach the bench. It’s cold and wet—a modern metal material to match the modern library—and I sink onto it with a harsh exhale. Mark crouches in front of my legs. I notice that the guys he was with leaving the court are gone, and it’s just us two.
“You might have broken it.” Mark reaches for my ankle.
“Fuck off,” I spit pure acid.
Mark freezes. Of course he freezes; my tone was ten times more aggressive than Eddie’s had been in the cafeteria.
I don’t mean it, but my mind blanked as soon as his hands reached for my leg. Fear filled in the gap. I’m breathing hard.
