Ellingsworth narrows his eyes. “You were awake last night, weren’t you?”
“Um . . .”
He steps closer, well within the bubble everyone else has been keeping from me. “You’re looking at my ears, aren’t you?” His voice is low, just for me to hear.
“No.” My eyes betray me again.
“Stop it.”
“I’m not—”
“You did it again.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re looking at them right now!”
“Stop it!”
“You stop!”
“I—” Thankfully, a coughing fit takes over, saving me from certain death by embarrassment.
He’s still standing too close, still staring too hard, when I can finally breathe normally again.
I clear my throat. “It’s, uh. It’s not noticeable,” I mumble into the cloth mask across my face, gaze darting anywhere but his direction. My cheeks suddenly feel warm. Is the fever returning? Doc gave me some immune health boosters, but maybe they haven’t kicked in yet. “I would have never known.”
His smile is so bright, it blinds me. I curse those stupid implants. “I know,” he says, voice low to keep his words between the two of us. “The only people who have ever noticed were my bullies in fifth grade. Kids are fucking ruthless.”
I wince beneath my mask. I had been one of those ruthless kids back when I was that age. Eventually, I grew out of the bullying mentality and into the I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude I wear now.
Suddenly, Ellingsworth’s smile grows a hundred times bigger. He gives an exaggerated wave to someone behind me, all of his focus on them.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spot three people grinning and waving back at him. I immediately recognize his adoptive parents—the rich and famous ones, of course—but not the little girl planted between them. I can only assume based on her age that she is a sister of some kind, either also adopted or by birth.
Ellingsworth looks so . . . happy. I suppose I would be, too, if my family came to watch me play several states away from where they live. He blows a kiss, bright eyes sparkling, and I manage to hate him that much more. Perfect life, perfect family. Perfect Tahegin Ellingsworth.
I cross my arms and face the field again. So what if some might call it pouting.
“We play in our stadium next week,” Ellingsworth states, and I guess he’s talking to me again. “Do you have anyone coming to watch?”
I refuse to look at him. “Why?” Does he need the extra seats for more of his family or friends?
“My parents come to every game.” No shit. “They said your seats have been empty, so I’m just trying to make sure you know they’re there. Have you met Robby? He handles all that stuff—tickets and passes and whatnot. I can show you his office if you need—”
“No,” I cut him off, chin held high. I refuse to be pitied because I don’t have anyone who . . . Well, Micah had mentioned wanting to come to a game, but he was probably only using that as an excuse to joke about checking out my teammates’ asses. Right? He wouldn’t actually want to come. Would he? “Um, maybe. I might have . . . someone. But I’ll find Robby’s office on my own.”
He moves to stand beside me facing the field and nudges his padded shoulder against my bare one. “Oooor,” he drags out annoyingly. “I can show you after practice tomorrow.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mm, that’s fine because I know so.”
Can’t this guy take a hint? “That was me politely telling you no.”
“I get the feeling you have never been polite a day in your life.” He’s back to grinning, holding the collar of his pads with two gloved hands, and he bumps his hip against mine.
The move throws me off-balance, and I’m mortified when Ellingsworth steadies me with an arm across my back. My sick body must mistake his solid, warm hold for comfort because it instinctively leans closer into him. Once I realize the mistake, I pull away, albeit belatedly. “Um. What were we talking about?” I ask, still dazed from being touched and not immediately rejecting it.
On the field, our punter sends the ball far into the Minnesota Nightmares’ territory, and Ellingsworth bounces on his heels in anticipation of returning to the game. “Monday,” he says while sliding on his helmet. “You. Me. Robby’s office. It’s a date.”
“No, it’s not—” But he’s already running onto the turf, war face on. I sigh to myself. “It’s not a date.”
The game resumes with us on the defensive, and I catch myself following Ellingsworth instead of the ball. I watch him size up his opponent, watch him play the ball and nearly catch a pick, watch him jump higher and run faster than any other player.
There is a reason why the commentators keep their eyes on him, why they say his name twice as much as any other player. Ellingsworth is damn good, I reluctantly admit to myself. So good, in fact, I begin to wonder if all the times we have gone head-to-head in practice, had he let me get past him? When he moved before the snap that first day, was he just giving me false hope to keep my spirits up?
I can ask him tomorrow, I suppose . . .
No. I am not going anywhere with him tomorrow. I don’t need his help.
Trying to forget everything to do with Stupid Perfect Tahegin Ellingsworth, I turn my back to the game and let my gaze wander over the crowded stadium. Plenty of fans are all dressed up for the occasion—ours a wave of ruby red and the Nightmares’ a sea of black. The getups are always interesting to look at, always eye-catching and exciting, but my eye keeps being drawn to familiar movements. I spot someone’s hands moving in rapid fire, and after four years of living and studying the language, my brain unconsciously translates.
“Offensive pass interference. Now, it’s second and fifteen.”
Another set of hands, smaller than the first. “T?”
“Yes, but he’s okay. He’s tough.”
