Page 7 of Racking Up Penalties
What am I doing? This is Tristan – charismatic, flirtatious Tristan, who has the power to unravel me with a single look. And yet, here I am, dissecting every word, every glance, searching for meaning where there might be none.
“Alright, Mr. Delaney, I’ll let you get back to… whatever mischief you were planning without me. I just wanted to congratulate you on your win this weekend. You were great,” I say, the laughter in my voice belying the chaos of emotions beneath.
The silence stretches between us, a canvas for the unspoken, until Tristan breaks it with his casual announcement. “Thanks, Tess. Actually, I was thinking about dropping by your place later to hang out. You and Emma up for some company?”
I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch as he waits for a response.
Excitement flares at the thought of spending more time with him, but it’s quickly doused by a wave of guilt. Emma. What would she say if she knew the turmoil brewing inside me?
“Uh, yeah, that sounds great,” I manage to reply, forcing nonchalance into my voice as though the prospect of an evening in Tristan’s presence is no different than any other.
He grins, and I can’t help but mirror it, even as my insides churn with a cocktail of exhilaration and dread. His presence always stirs feelings inside me.
“Awesome. It’s been too long since we just kicked back and relaxed. I’ll bring pizza?” he suggests, the offer hanging between us like a lifeline.
“Pepperoni and mushroom?” I ask, grateful for the mundane detail to latch onto.
“Wouldn’t dream of getting anything else.”
I nod, a smile playing on my lips despite the nervous flutter in my stomach. It’s just Tristan, I remind myself. Just Emma’s brother. Just a friend coming over to spend time with us. Nothing more.
“See you tonight, Tessa,” he says, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges with genuine warmth.
“See you, Tristan,” I echo, watching as he turns away, his confident stride taking him toward the football field where his dreams and ambitions lie.
I resume walking towards home.
It’s just a friendly hangout, I chant silently, trying to convince my wayward heart not to read too much into it. After all, I’ve managed to maintain this balancing act between friendship and the stirrings of something deeper for years now. Why should tonight be any different?
The door swings open when I get back to reveal the cozy chaos that Emma and I call home. It’s empty now, the silence both comforting and unnerving. I drop my bag with a thud, the sound echoing off the walls, filling the space with my arrival.
“Okay, deep breaths,” I coach myself, peeling off my jacket. I hang it up with care, the ritual steadying my nerves. I glance around, everything in its place except my racing heart.
Louder I yell to Emma, “I saw Tristan on campus and he’s coming over with pizza!”
“Sounds good!” Emma shouts back.
I move through the rooms, tidying up here and there, though there’s little to do. I don’t want anything embarrassing to be left out when Tristan comes over.
Even though he’s seen all the embarrassing years of my life.
My reflection in the mirror catches my attention—hazel eyes bright with a mix of anticipation and fear, red hair tumbling in waves over my shoulders.
I change into something comfortable yet flattering, a compromise between casual and trying too hard.
I sink onto the couch, my fingers tracing the soft fabric of the throw pillow.
The fabric of my skirt bunches in my hands as I twist it, a nervous habit that I can’t seem to shake off today. My phone lies ominously quiet beside my textbook, its screen dark and unyielding. Each time it lights up with a notification, my heart leaps, only to plummet back down when it’s just another email about a sale at my favorite boutique or a reminder from the fashion department about an upcoming exhibit.
Maybe I should try and get some work done for my store. That will be productive and distracting.
The hum of my sewing machine is a rhythmic heartbeat in the quiet of my room. I sit hunched over, my fingers dancing across the fabric like they’re possessed with their own will, guiding the bright thread through the final inches of a hem that’s straight and true.
I lean closer, my hazel eyes scanning for any sign of imperfection. My hands work with practiced ease, yet each motion carries an intensity born from the need to make this piece flawless. It’s more than fabric; it’s a fragment of my soul sewn into something tangible, something wearable.
As the final stitch locks into place, I clip the thread, severing the tie. The piece is complete, ready to make its debut to the world, or at least to those who frequent my little corner of the internet. And even though I can’t see it through the screen, I trust that whoever ends up wearing it will feel the strength, the passion, and the touch of romance that’s woven into its very fibers.
Tristan’s face keeps flashing in my mind, the way his smile reached those deep blue eyes, sparking with something I can’t quite decipher.
