Damage - A. M. Jenkins [12]
On the concrete porch flanked by bushes on either side, you ask her. “Listen, I was wondering. Would you be interested in going out after the game Friday? If you don’t mind meeting me at the field house. I could in and run get cleaned up real quick, after the bus brings us back.”
“Hmm,” she says. “I’ve got plans already. But the next Friday’s open.”
“Sure, that sounds good. Or this Saturday?” An extra week suddenly sounds awful long. Too long. “Saturday night, I mean. Unless you’re busy then, too.”
“No, Saturday sounds good.”
So it’s settled. “Well,” you say, clicking on a smile—don’t want to look like some loser hanging around, hoping for a kiss—“I guess I’ll see you Saturday night then.”
She steps closer, and somehow—almost before all the words are out—she’s sliding her arms around your neck at the same moment you’re leaning forward, and you’re in the middle of a kiss. And then your arms are pulling her even closer, and gradually it becomes a full-length, hip-pressing, tonsil-toucher of a kiss that wakes up all your nerve endings from the roots of your hair clear down to your toenails.
You can’t help it, your hands slide down to her rear—and that’s when she pulls away just enough to touch her lips—or is it her tongue?—to your ear. “I’ve always liked you, Austin.” Her whisper sends prickles down your neck, and then she steps back, peeling off your arms like she’s shedding old clothes.
She starts digging in her purse for her keys. “It took you long enough to ask me out,” she says. “I thought was going to have to hit you over the head or something.”
She pulls out a huge key ring, almost big enough to drive your pickup through, and when she turns her back to open the door, you stuff your hands into your pockets just to make absolutely sure you keep them to yourself. Your eyes, however, take a long slow trip all over her.
Heather opens the door, but instead of going straight in like you expect, she hesitates. Then she squares her shoulders, turns around, and looks you straight in the eye. “It’s going to be a good year,” she informs you, then turns and walks inside.
All at once, you believe it.
The only sound is the turn of the deadbolt. The front door has a glass panel in the center, etched with designs. Just for a moment, you can see Heather behind the scrolls and curlicues. The next second, she disappears through a doorway to the right, and then all that’s left is a living room—wooden floor, a couch, rugs scattered here and there, an armchair, pictures on the wall. Just a living room, like any other—but this one is Heather’s, and down that hall to the right must be Heather’s room, where she sleeps. In a bed. Mmm.
It’s five whole days till Saturday. You do not want to leave this porch. You can almost smell her perfume lingering in the air, and you’re not ready to stop floating on it.
You step off the porch and walk down that long sidewalk all by yourself. Getting into your truck is like slowly letting out a deep breath. You drive away, and everything inside you slowly deflates, till you’re bumping along the road like a day-old balloon that wasn’t quite ready to leave the ceiling.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first game is an away game.
In the locker room at the stadium, Cody Billings, the center, takes the offensive line off into a corner the way he always does; Coach wants the linemen to keep to themselves, like a family. A few of the other guys are still messing around, but most are starting to get serious. Brett Stargill bangs his head rhythmically against the wall the way he always does to get himself pumped. Jason Cox leans against the same wall, helmet under his arm, eyes shut, oblivious to the crash and thunder next to him. Dobie edges past both of them with a roll of white tape, not wanting to disturb their rituals.
You do what you always do: walk around and around, more from habit than anything else. You don’t have those butterflies