Page 13 of Watched

“You’re here, so yes, I still am.”

The gum moulds to my teeth as I smile. “Sit down, Rome.”

“I want to leave.”

“You can—after we talk.”

He looks at the chair before hesitantly dropping to the end of the large table. Mine screeches against the hardwood floor as I pull it out and drop myself down, crossing my ankles and lacing my fingers on my lap. “Favourite colour?” I probe.

“You want to play twenty questions like a teenager?”

“You’re only twenty. Not that far off.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-four. You were born on February 26th at 2:08 PM, meaning you’re younger than me by three years, seven months and twenty days. Fun fact: I was born at 4:44 AM.”

He folds his arms over his chest again, trying to shelter himself from me as he peers out the window to the safety of his car.

When Dad informed me there was a sponsor-owner event being held, I wasn’t going to not invite myself.

I cock my head. “When did you start playing soccer?”

“Football,” he corrects in the harshest tone he’s used thus far.

“Football then.”

“When I was four, but I was practically born with a football under my arm.”

“Back to my first question.” I dip my chin. “Favourite colour?”

“Don’t have one,” he grumbles.

“Come on, baby. We’re doing a get-to-know-you session. Open up a little. Mine’s green, like your eyes, and yours is?”

“White, I guess.”

“Noted. Favourite hobbies?”

His eyes narrow. “I thought you would have done research on me, considering you’re very good with a computer.”

“I have. I know your family, coaches, associates, everyone within your circle. I know you broke your arm when you were eight and had pneumonia when you were thirteen, but there’s only so much superficial bullshit you can find out about a person.”

I’ve been solely focused on dissecting his life the past week, which included thoroughly sifting through the three-hundred-and-sixty-two pictures on his IG, mostly soccer related.

Sorry, football.

There’s only one shirtless picture, which was posted a month ago, and it gained my attention for over an hour. I took in every flexed muscle and the tattoos up his left arm that extend across his chest. The ink on his shoulder thoroughly intrigued me. It’s a picturesque snow-covered mountain with a lake below. The water continues into the next tattoo, pouring through the cracks of a skull. I had called thirty different tattoo artists trying to decipher it, then spent hours researching it. I’ve put the question about it in my mental heart-shaped box labelled: Questions for Rome, that I’ve just now coloured white.

I’d transferred every photo of him to a file on my computer so I could relish in his eyes. They have a small explosion of hazel around the pupils, and the outer ring is a deep green. They’re literally a representation of life.

“Sooo.” I smile. “Hobbies?”

“I don’t have any,” he groans, acting fed up with this conversation. “I work, that’s all. That’s what I like.”

Impressive is a very light word to describe his career. He was fast tracked to Champions League as soon as he was of age, and then Premier League. He’s also earned MVP of almost every team he’s played on and has an eighty-seven percent success rate of winning every championship he ever played in before being drafted into the top league. I may be a little biased, but Rome was the reason they won. You can bet your ass I’ve watched every game he’s ever played that was available on the internet.

He bows his head. “You were the one who sent in the information about Brian Long.”