CHAPTER FIVE- Post-Game Jitters
She didn't take notes this time, found she couldn't. It was a real match, the first of the season, and she found her stomach was tied too tightly in knots to take notes. She was bloody well nervous, and she wasn't even playing. Lucia settled herself on the top bleacher, as had become her custom, and shoved her notebook into her tote. She'd not be using it, anyhow. This game was just to be watched, to be enjoyed.
It was fast-paced, at times a bit too much so. Lucia found herself contemplating feints and moves that had occurred halfway back the field, completely forgetting to watch where the ball was now. More than once she got caught up in watching Robert, even if he was nowhere near the ball.
He was addicting to watch, all watchful eyes and occasional encouraging shouts. He stood between the posts of the net, poised on his toes, bouncing back and forth with an energy Lucia envied. He prowled when the ball was downfield, nerves apparent, the general leading his soldiers into battle.
Little by little, he became disheveled, muddy, grass-stained, sweaty, and little by little, Lucia became enthralled, enchanted, ensnared.
She found herself shouting along with the other eager spectators, waving her hands in the air, standing when a particularly good play was made-or missed. She booed, she cheered, and she nearly wept when Holforth lost.
She'd been so certain they would win, so sure.
She clasped her hands to her chest, watching for Robert, and when she saw him, her breath caught.
His face was pale, the smudges of dirt standing out in sharp relief, his eyes wide, tired, and hurt, and she couldn't help but think of the articles she'd seen.
She knew he questioned himself.
"'Round the field!" he called after they'd greeted the other team appropriately. "Then goalpost to goalpost and around the field again!"
They'd looked tired no more than fifteen minutes into the game, and no amount of goalkeeping was going to change that. That started with training, and between Rob and the coach, they'd trained them poorly.
The coach stood on the sidelines, his arms crossed over his chest; he rarely got a chance to discipline the players. The team captain did most of that disciplining for him, and in the coach's opinion, that made a good team captain.
Now all they needed was a good team.
He made them do the round twice more, then didn't have the heart to make them continue. He should have let less by, should have been tighter on the goals, shouldn't have been thinking about his sister and Mallory and Lovejoy up in the stands. He should have been concentrating.
And so when the rest of the team showered, Rob ran a few more laps and thought about everything he'd done wrong.
He wasn't in the mood to talk to her, not here, in the half-dusk, when he was exhausted and filthy and smelly and just plain angry. Rob Wesley didn't like himself very much at the moment; he could hardly be expected to like anyone else, could he?
"I need to go home, Lucia," he said, walking past her without stopping, but she got in his way.
"You played very well this evening," she said sincerely, her eyes wide, trying to fix a bead on him. He wouldn't look her in the eye, no matter how hard she tried, and she bit her lip, anticipating his reaction.
He snorted in disbelief. "Like you'd know," he said, pushing past her and veering left, away from the school.
He'd shower at home.
She very narrowly kept herself from giving into the urge to toss her book bag at the back of his head. She had a hunch it would only bounce off, anyway, as thick-skulled as he clearly was. "Must you be so stubborn?" she asked, running to catch up with him, skidding in the gravel to slow down when she reached him. "Can't you just accept that someone would like to be your friend?"
Rob stopped, looked down at her, and prayed for patience. He counted to ten, at technique which had kept his big gob out of trouble more than once, but it didn't seem to help. "I can accept someone wanting to be my friend," he said slowly. "I can't accept it if it's for the sake of a precious story." He grabbed her by the arms and looked her, finally, in the eyes, seeing no fear in the translucent, pale blue. "We lost, Lovejoy. I bloody well don't want you scribblin' about it."
He meant to let her go, meant to set her down, but instead he held onto her, feeling that itch, that weird, uncomfortable feeling that made him want to roll his shoulders, that feeling that he wasn't quite comfortable in his own skin, jittery, restless.
Her eyes widened just a bit and locked on his, and he felt his anger dissipate.
The door that led outside from the locker rooms slammed shut and Rob jumped guiltily, letting her go. He definitely needed some sleep. He turned on his heel and started to walk again, knowing if he had his back to her she wouldn't see how red his face was. What in the bloody hell was he thinking? God knew she didn't need any encouragement, or any more inspiration for whatever trash she was writing.
Lucia dropped back to her heels, for she'd been stretched up onto her toes like an anticipatory fool, and she pressed two slim, cool hands to her cheeks, cursing herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid! A fool, indeed, to think what she'd been thinking. Defensive now, but unwilling to show it, she jerked her notebook out of her bag and dogged his steps. If he was willing to think so little of her, then she may as well go ahead and do what he already assumed she was doing.
She'd take notes.
"You made those boys run," she said matter-of-factly, knowing full well why he had and knowing full well it was likely the last thing he wanted to talk about.
Lucia Lovejoy may have been odd, but she was a woman just like any other, had feelings just like any other, and even her fury could hold some candle to hell's.
Strange or no, she emoted just fine.
He nearly stopped again, but didn't want to give her a reason to look up at him again, didn't want to give himself an excuse to meet those eyes. Shower, food, and sleep. In that order. He was prioritizing, by God. "Yes, Lucia, I made those boys run," he said through clenched teeth, wondering what, exactly, it would take to get a few moments of peace and quiet. He couldn't think with her tagging about after him.
She tucked her tongue in her cheek and decided to aim another barb at him. "I would have thought a boy like you would be out with a date on a Friday night." Like he had enough manners for that, she told herself. But really, what matter were manners? He had no manners, and she'd certainly still go about with him, if only he'd ask.
Like he'd ever ask.
As far as hints went, it wasn't the most subtle one he'd ever heard, Rob reckoned. "It's hard to find a date when you've a second shadow," he shot back. He heard her footsteps halt, felt a coolness on his right side, the wind chilling his back and arm where she'd been standing before, blocking it. When he turned, she was standing at the curb, ready to cross the road, and he knew even she had her limits. It was easy-too easy-to forget she was human, too, even if sometimes she acted as though she were from a completely separate planet. "Come on, Lovejoy, don't take it personally. I'm just tired. You should go home, or… go out. Have yourself a date." But as the words came out of his mouth, he was forced to wonder who she would go on a date with.
Then he was forced to wonder why that thought bothered him a little.
Shower, food, and sleep, he reminded himself sternly, alarmed.
"I don't date," she said stiffly, wishing a hole would open up in the road and swallow her up. She had hoped, no matter how naively, they could have a normal conversation, but every one seemed to go like this. And no matter how much she thought she could hold her own against him, she always ended up the same way-feeling incredibly stupid and wondering why she even bothered. "In case you've not noticed, Robert, boys don't like girls like me." It was too true, and something she hadn't precisely wanted to admit out loud. But he deserved to know, she thought. Guys deserved to know how idiotic they made girls feel now and then. She tossed her hair, and started to step off the sidewalk, the moisture that had just started to sting her eyes rendering her unable to see the car coming straight at her.
He would have cursed, would have shouted, but there wasn't time even for that, and Rob wrapped an arm around her, his fingers resting on her ribs as he yanked her out of the street and back to safety.
Later, when he was nearly asleep and vulnerable to such nonsense, he would think about the feel of his heart under his hand, the intake of her breath, her hair against his cheek just before he released her, but for now, all he could think about was that she'd nearly died, and that he'd recognized the car.
The loss of the day's game, the complete and utter confusion Lovejoy was starting to rope him into, the fear he'd had for a single moment when she'd started to step, all narrowed down into one white-hot point, given something to focus on.
That was Drake Mallory's overpriced, showy, poncey car.
And it was on their street.
"I have to go home," he told Lucia tightly, finally turning to her and shaking her a little. "Go home, and don't walk out in front of any autos," he said, and though later he would, indeed, spend far too much time thinking about Lucia, right now, all he could think about was Genevieve.
And all Lucia could think about was the breathless moment when he'd yanked her back against him.
She was in big, trouble indeed.
Don't fall in love with a source.