Times flies as I watch her, the minutes of regulation play dwindling to only a few before stoppage kicks in. Willa isn’t just a talented player, she’s the kind of athlete that comes once in a generation. If anybody belongs on a professional field, it’s her. An odd sensation of pride tightens my chest which I immediately dismiss. Willa’s not mine to be proud of. She’s not even my friend. She’s someone I can root for, though, even if she drives me nuts.
Just as I’m tying up my thoughts with that tidy concluding bow, Willa cuts a sick move around a defender, passing to a teammate I recognized earlier as her roommate, Rooney. Rooney one-times it back to her, and on her first touch, Willa rips it into the upper ninety, scoring again. She’s secured the lead with less than a minute left in regulation.
Instinctively, I’m on my feet, clapping with all the UCLA fans. Without thinking, I lift my hands and set my fingers inside my lips, releasing a long, shrill, celebratory whistle that stuns Freya and Aiden. I feel their eyes on me, but I don’t look at them. I look at Willa on the field and refuse to even begin to analyze what I just did.
Willa jumps into the arms of her teammates who tug her braid and smack her ass. Her smile is wide as she floats down the field in their arms. When they drop her at the top of the center circle, Willa faces toward the stadium, hands on hips, gaze scouring the stands, like she’s searching for something. I can’t tell whether or not she’s found what she was looking for before she turns back toward the field.
The oddest sensation settles beneath my ribs. My chest is tight, burning, tangled. I’m looking at Willa Sutter, the pain in my ass who goes from zero to ninety on the rage-o-meter, who smacks off my ball cap and scowls at me like that’s what she got a full ride for, not soccer. I’m here at her game, my rib cage constricting as my heart whispers scary, unwelcome feelings. I turn toward Freya and type, Can we blow this popsicle stand? I’ve got a migraine brewing.
Freya nods, failing to hide her smile. “Migraine, huh?”
I ignore that not-so-subtle hint and swing an arm over her shoulder. Just as we leave the stadium, the buzzer ends the game.
Ryder
Playlist: “The Universe is Laughing,” The Guggenheim Grotto
A nudge to my shoulder makes me look up from my seat in the lecture room’s front row. Willa gives me a cautious, inspecting frown as she settles in next to me, this time on my right side. I feel myself stiffen as she opens her notebook and her arm inadvertently brushes mine. Shutting my eyes, I take a deep, chill-the-fuck-out breath, but that just makes the situation even worse.
A soft scent hits my nose. Citrus and sunscreen, a wisp of flowers. Roses maybe? It’s the same one that infused her apartment, until the mouthwatering aroma of what she’d been cooking eventually overwhelmed it. I take a cautious breath in again. She smells like summer, like a hike through fields of wildflowers. I picture it perfectly, Willa ripping the flesh of a California orange with her teeth, slathered in SPF that does nothing to stop the freckles that pepper her nose, a rose blossom tucked in her wild curls.
The scent’s doing things to my dopamine transmitters. I’m oddly calm and content. If I spoke at all these days, right now I’d say, Ahhh.
My eyes are still shut, my mind lulled, but I can feel Willa staring at me. I’m too chickenshit to meet her eyes. I know if I stare right back, unlike previous stare-downs, this one will make my heart tumble in my chest, just how it did when I watched her at her game.
Willa pats my hand, before I hear, “Ryder?”
My eyes fly open as I startle so badly, I slam my knee into the desk. Willa’s voice—it’s the first time I’ve heard it. My pulse trips and thunders through my body. A flush of heat rushes up my throat, then floods my cheeks.
Her voice is liquid velvet, poured sunlight. It’s smooth and low and soft around the edges. It’s the clearest sound I’ve heard since I woke up in the hospital. It feels epically unjust. Why? Why did Willa have to sit on my good side, why did she have to have a voice that falls in that tiny window of wavelengths that I can still pick up?
Why did it have to be her?
When our eyes finally meet, hers glitter with curiosity. She taps my right shoulder lightly with one finger.
“You can hear better out of this one, huh?”
I can hear the quality of her voice but can’t understand everything as she talks. Thankfully, she still says it slowly, and I watch her full lips. Those soft, pouty lips.
Dammit.
I nod.
Slowly, she leans closer, setting her elbow on my desk. Our arms press against each other, as she stares at my mouth, then meets my eyes once more. “Why don’t you talk, then, Ryder? If you can hear somewhat? Why don’t you use hearing aids?”
My jaw ticks as I pull back. Extracting my phone from my pocket, I type, Hearing aids aren’t a panacea. Speaking with them is not that simple.
I watch her open up the message and frown. She pauses, staring at the words for a long minute, then types, Panacea. Damn, Brawny, that’s top-notch bookstore vocabulary right there.
I glance up. Willa’s smiling gently. She’s giving me an out, not pushing me to explain myself.
If I didn’t think it would lead to world devastation, I would hug her for it. Instead, I text her back. Bookstore vocabulary?
Willa nods. “Summer job. Worked at a bookstore. You learn big words.”
Favorite book, I type.
She exhales heavily. I don’t know where to begin. I have too many.
Pick one.
She shoves me. “You’re so bossy.”
I smirk.
Willa taps her mouth. As I watch her, I find myself oddly thinking how satisfying it would be to drag that full bottom lip of hers right between my teeth. Shit. Bad train of thought. I need to get laid. I’m daydreaming about biting the crazy-haired thorn in my side.
My phone buzzes. Jane Eyre.
I scrunch my nose and type, Rochester is such a dick.
He’s a Byronic hero, Willa fires back. Tortured, moody, sexually intense. He’s runner up to Darcy on that front. Jane is the real star anyway. She’s strong and unapologetically independent.
I smile at her response, as I get that weird feeling in my sternum, just like when Willa scored at her game and I watched her eyes light up like sunshine. The feeling that made my mind spin and unease tighten my stomach.
“Ryder.”
I can’t quite suppress my shiver when I hear her say my name again.
Her head’s tipped to the side. With her frizzy, untamed hair, her wide-set brown eyes catching the lecture room’s warm lights, she looks young and innocent. That is until she traps the corner of that bee-stung lip between her teeth.
I lift my shoulders quickly. What? I mouth.
Willa leans in closer and pokes my chest. I reel, frowning from my body to her hand. Her familiar scowl is back. When she pokes me again, this time I swat her away. “When were you planning on admitting you showed up to my game?”
I open my mouth, then shut it, turning toward my phone. What’s the big deal? I was just curious to see what all the hype was about.
Her face freezes as she reads my message. Picking up her phone, she types, And what’s the verdict?
My thumbs hover. I should shut this down right now. Say something bland and disinterested, nothing of the smack-talking banter that we constantly volley. But instead, my thumbs type, You’ll do.