Page 45 of Lessons in Forgiving
Ex-girlfriend who didn’t at all still care and actually kind of despised him.
But his gaze found its way to it, anyway. He lingered for another moment—one I enjoyed—then drew back like my skin was a hot stove he hadn’t noticed he was touching. “Ask literally anyone else,” he added quickly.
Those close enough to hear gave wild nods, hummed or shouted in agreement. Which was enough to soothe the awkward feeling low in my belly.
“Alright.” I cleared my throat, still trying to shake off the aftermath of Henry’s very… appropriate touch. “So… you just do what you usually do. Pretend I’m not even here.”
“Got it, boss.” With a little salute, he walked back to his gym bag on the other end of the bench.
I was unprepared for what followed. I should’ve been. But somehow, I didn’t put it into the equation, and I realized Ishould’ve just asked about his ritual, instead of wanting to be there to see it.
In one smooth motion, Henry grabbed the back of his black polo and pulled it over his head, leaving his upper body for all the world to see. Primarily: me. Nobody else was even glancing in his direction. Why would they?
They hadn’t had the pleasure of their fingers trailing down his pecks, watching, memorizing when and where he tensed the further they wandered south. Their tongues hadn’t traced along the toned crevices of his stomach. Hadn’t elicited low sounds out of him by doing so. So they didn’t miss it.
I did.
The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning might, scattered the thoughts of his groans, the images of us, into oblivion.
My eyes snapped away from his chest just as he pulled his jersey on, and in my hurry to look away, my gaze crossed Dylan’s. Who must’ve witnessed the whole thing.
His lips pulled upward with another knowing smirk, and as if it wasn’t enough, he winked before going to tie his shoes.
He’d been right. Iwasmaking this weird.
Focus, damn it.
So, in the least creepy way, I observed the team, their dynamics and quirks, and wrote it all into my Henry document. Down to Dylan counting to four out loud, and how often Henry’s eyes flicked toward me.
Twenty-three times.
With ten minutes to spare, the HBU soccer team dispersed from their huddle with hollers and shouts, and I noted that, if I ever needed a motivational speech, Coach Hepburn was just the guy for it.
Albeit this was merely a friendly because the season was basically over, the guys were ready to behead by the end of it. In the most rule-abiding way, of course.
“So, was this as insightful and exciting as you thought it would be?” Henry planted himself next to me while most of his teammates were making their way onto the pitch. He retied his shoes.
“Glorious,” I agreed. “Even though when Dylan started counting out loud, I thought he might’ve actually lost it for a second.”
“Well, he has,” Henry stated matter-of-factly. “But you should’ve noticed that way before he started counting.”
I snorted a laugh, but Henry just shrugged before he clarified. “It’s his thing, though. Counting to four.” He threw me a sheepish look, then moved on to tie his other shoe. Very slowly. “Not that losing it isn’talsohis thing.” As curtly as he possibly could, he explained. “Four sisters. So he counts to four.”
I’d known about his sisters, not that he basically dedicated every single game to them.
I quivered my bottom lip, pouting as my head tilted. “That’s adorable.” I didn’t know what else to call it. It simply was.
I hadn’t detected any particular thing Henry did today, but if hehada ritual, it wouldn’t be half as cute. Probably more like solving related equations in his mind or calculating a win using the stats and numbers of his opponents.
“Doyouhave a thing?” I asked anyway, because at the end of the day, I was writing a profile on Henry Pressley, not Dylan McCarthy Williams.
Henry thought, making sure whatever answer he’d be giving was deliberate and calculated. Depending on the information you’d want to get out of him, this could be every journalist’s dream, or nightmare.
“On the record or off the record?” he asked. There was no phone recording our conversation, but his eyes flicked to my open laptop sitting beside me.
“On the record, of course.”
“I look at the opposing player’s way before the game, try to remember their strengths and weaknesses. A few minutes before kickoff, I usually let all that just blast through my brain until I feel I’m in their head instead of my own. It works, most of the time.”
