Page 57 of Lessons in Forgiving
“Well.” Henry’s head tilted curiously at the thing. “No one can say you’re too harsh with it.”
I did not think before I hit him.
Only his shoulder, and it was more of an affectionate shove. But it felt good. And when he just laughed, I singlehandedly made it my mission to score that damn goal. The fact he thought I couldn’t was motivation enough.
I got the ball back. Placed it on the penalty spot. Again, I lined up my shot, tried my best to get the angle right, and… then Henry came up behind me, and my entire focus was elsewhere.
Who cared about a ball when I could feel his body against mine?
His hand lingered on my shoulder so lightly, it was barely a touch at all. He waited, silently asking if this was okay, giving me enough time to move away if I wanted to. I did not.
“Let me show you,” he offered. All the earlier amusement had disappeared from his tone, and although there was no one else between the thousands of seats around us, his voice was hushed.
As soon as I turned to him, the warmth of his body, the soothing sound of his voice, I realized it was a mistake. A mistake that left us standing about a hair’s breadth away, and I wasn’t quite sure what to focus on first.
The different shades of green in his eyes I’d slowly been forgetting? The residual pink in his cheeks from running around? The fact he didn’t smell like sweat at all, but pinewood and citrus. And bad ideas.
“I think I can manage to kick a ball,” I said—whispered, maybe?—because there was no room for bad ideas on this trip. Or any time after it. Right?
Something in his expression shifted. Determination and amusement in his gaze held mine for another one, two, three seconds before he shot forward, kicking the ball from where I’d lined it up perfectly. He ran until he was far enough. With the ball never leaving his side.
“Henry!” I yelled, the glare in my eyes so vicious, he snorted a laugh when he turned back to me.
So maybe not quite as vicious, then.
“If you’re so sure you can kick a ball,” he challenged. “Get it first.” He dribbled in place as if that would make the idea more enticing. If anything, it put me off the whole thing.
“Henry Parker Pressley,” I said seriously, still standing where he’d left me. “You’re about to do this for a living. I’ve never played a single proper soccer game. How is that fair?”
“I’ll go easy on you, charm,” he mocked, taking a step away. His brows rose, and when I thought I could use the moment of distraction, and faked a start toward him, Henry only hopped a few steps back. Quite leisurely. The ball secured under his foot again, with a cocky smile he said, “Be careful. The grass was watered this morning. It’s slippery.”
“Fuck you.” The words burst out of me. Which, with the way his laugh echoed through the arena, he seemed to love.
I groaned, looking up at the blue spring sky. There was no way I’d win, or even get close to him, by playing fair. It was overrated, anyway.
Without another second to change my mind, I charged toward Henry. Completely ignoring the ball at his feet and focusing all my strength into pushing him far enough from it, to get my chance. But our body parts became one entangled mess of limbs, my hands grabbed onto his shirt for support and I—oh God, I felt him falling, and myself going down with him.
I laughed. It wasn’t ideal, I know, but I couldn’t help it. Rolling onto my back, I snorted laugh after laugh—I think tears might have been shed—and I only noticed that Henry was, too, when I briefly calmed down.
When our gazes met, I wasn’t quite sure if it was him or the adrenalin pumping through my veins that made my stomach turn.
Somewhere along that line, we’d stopped laughing. Henry smiled at me, a long sigh rattling through his throat. Our silence lingered.
“And that’s why I do it.” He swallowed thickly, eyes not wavering from mine. His breath fanned against my cheek—that’s how close he was. “The adrenalin, the fun. The urge to win, even when nothing’s at stake. That’s why I love it.”
“Oh,” I offered unhelpfully.
I couldn’t imagine coming up with a better response when all my willpower had gone into not looking at his lips. Right there, so close and kissable I might combust.
“And that was a foul, by the way,” he added as an afterthought, finally releasing me from my dire situation by getting up, then holding his hand out. “But because I’m a good sport, I’ll help you anyway.”
“Do not pull away,” I threatened when I took it. He did not.
His hand wrapped around mine, tugging lightly and tightening once I was halfway there. I tried to ignore the tingling of my skin where it touched his, and the empty feeling in my palm when he let go.
“I should—” I threw a glance to my laptop in the stands. “I’ll have to write that down. The… you know.” I gestured around wildly. “Theadrenalin, fun, urge to winbit.”
I flew across the pitch like a mouse hunted by a stray cat. I could’ve sworn I’d just beat Henry’s five-minute-mile pace. And when I got to my seat, the first thing I did wasn’t writing his quote into my document, but soundlessly squealing into the crook of my arm.
