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Sabrina
The weather in Philadelphia has been completely insane this year. Tonight has turned into a crisp fall night. It’s hard to believe that it’s only been three days since I was in a pool at the Sinclairs’ last weekend and now, I’m wearing my favorite pale purple hoodie.
It’s that weird time of year where you need to dress in layers because there’s a twenty-degree temperature swing throughout the day. I’m wondering if I should have worn leggings tonight instead of running shorts, but I’m not turning back now.
God, I hate running for the sake of running. Stick me on a soccer field with a team of girls at my back and another team that I want to decimate, and I’m golden. I used to run at least seven miles during a game and never cared. My entire team would run together a few days a week, and I loved it.
Running just to run sucks, but I do it anyway.
I refuse to gain the freshman fifteen. My mother is already all over me about my weight, and I don’t want to give her any more ammunition. She even monitors what my little sister, Penelope, eats, and she’s eleven years old and as skinny as a string bean.
I wish I were one of those people who can eat whatever they want and never gain a pound, but sadly that’s not me. If I look at a cookie, my ass stops fitting in my skinny jeans. And in my family, that is highly frowned upon. In reality, my family frowns upon skinny jeans in general. So, I may not have developed a love of running, but I have developed an appreciation for it and what it does for my body.
My mother has been a senator’s wife for too long. She treats my sister and me more like we work for my dad than we’re his children. Since I moved on campus last month, she’s made a habit of sending me daily emails and texts advising me of what functions my father has coming up and what functions I’m expected to attend to help with his reelection.
Updating me on anything and everything to do with my dad’s campaign.
When I’m scheduled for fittings for clothing that’s been purchased for me.
She even told my hairdresser what to do to my hair.
I guess I’m no better, because I go along with it. I never push back.
She always manages to ask if I’m drinking enough water so my skin doesn’t break out, sleeping enough so I don’t get bags under my eyes, and exercising so I can look appropriate in pictures. So, here I am, rain or shine, headache or not, running so I don’t feel guilty for the muffin I ate this morning. When I run in the mornings, I stick to the trails, but tonight I’m jogging the half mile from my dorm room to the football field and then running the track.
It’s incredibly boring with nothing to look at, but there’s better lighting on the track, and it gets the job done.
At about three miles in, I take off my hoodie and tie it around my waist. Guess it wasn’t that cold after all. Once I’m back in my groove, the next two miles go by quickly. It’s not until I’m coming off my fifth mile that I start to slow down. I could have probably pushed it further, but my head is starting to bother me.
As I come to a stop and begin to stretch my muscles, my eyes take in the tranquility of the empty stadium. It seems a lot different now than it does on game day, when fifty thousand fans are wearing their black and gold Crusader best, cheering on their favorite team. The stadium is pristine tonight. The team practices at their other facility on the opposite side of campus, so it’s typically only those of us using the black rubber track during the week. It’s a classic coliseum design in the shape of a horseshoe with the original, ivy-covered Kroydon Hall behind one goal post. Looking over the top row of seats, you can see the city’s skyscrapers dotting the inky night sky. When I bring my eyes back down, they come to rest on a lone figure sitting in the stands.
I didn’t notice him earlier.
When I got to the track tonight, there were a few other people out here with me, but now it’s just this guy in the stands and me. I feel like everywhere I turn lately, I’m running into Aiden Murphy. Tonight, he’s sitting in the bleachers, leaning his arms on his legs with his head bent.
He looks beaten down.
Exhausted.
Not at all like the giant of a man I’m used to seeing.
Aiden Murphy is the shortest of the group of guys he hangs with, but I guess between his muscles and larger-than-life personality, he always seems like the biggest.
Not tonight.
Walking over to the stands at the fifty-yard line, I lean on the railing and look a few rows up to him. “Hey, Murph. What are you doing here? Didn’t practice end a while ago?”
Murphy’s beautiful mossy-green eyes are glassy with unshed tears. He’s sitting above me in loose basketball shorts and a sleeveless, grey Kroydon Crusaders t-shirt. His muscles are beautifully displayed, and I mentally slap myself for drooling over him when he looks like he’s had a shit day.
Climbing the stairs, I make my way up and sit next to him. “You okay?”
His face softens when he looks at me before turning back to the field. “I’m fine, Brina. Just had a fucking weird day.”
It’s then that it dawns on me what he had going on today. “You had that appointment this afternoon, right?”
“Yeah.” He closes his eyes and swallows deeply.
The wind whispers through the air, and I’m suddenly surrounded by the clean, citrusy scent of soap mixed with something that is distinctly Murphy.
