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“My grade says I need help.”
“Asher, you don’t need—”
“Says who?”
“You,” she all but shouts out. “I can’t believe you did this. I mean, who does that?”
“Me.” She stares at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.
I have.
I’m literally becoming a fucking psycho just to get this girl to talk to me. To look at me for longer than a second.
I’ve been trying to get her to notice me since we broke up, and it’s like she signed an agreement that says that after she did, there would be no more correspondence. Like we got divorced or something.
“Listen,” she mutters, glancing both ways to make sure no one is around. “You’re a nice guy, Asher. I know you are. You volunteer at the animal shelter, you teach the flag football team in the summer. You even work the summer fair with Mrs. Farris, who is beyond a job on her own. But with you comes a lot of unwanted attention that I don’t want to be around. It’s like dating a celebrity. I’m already getting looked at more than I want to because I’m tutoring you. It’s a lot of pressure. It’s…just a lot.”
I hate her response.
Legit.
I’m aware I come with a lot of extra high fives and folks comin’ to talk to me about next week’s game, if a scout is coming or if I’m still going to remember everyone if I make it pro.
However, I can’t change who I am.
I can’t alter how people speak to me all the time either. I’m a big part of this community, and I like that. Not because of the attention, but because it’s like a huge family.
One I don’t really have at home. That’s why I started to play football.
“I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings,” Magnolia imparts after, what seems like, an extremely long moment. “You’re special, Ash. You’re meant for great things.”
“I was,” I ground out, already past her bullshit. “And apparently, you need some more convincing that I’d treat you a hundred times better than Harrison.”
“You don’t date.”
“Because they weren’t you.” I shrug my shoulder dismissively. “Why waste my time?”
She crosses her arms along her chest. “I don’t know. Why did you waste their time?”
“Because maybe I’m a fucking asshole and was bored. Maybe I didn’t think you’d ever put me out of my misery and dump Harrison. Or maybe I thought I could find someone that makes me feel the way you do.”
She opens her mouth, but my last comment only clamps her lips back shut.
“Don’t worry, Mags,” I sneer. “You’ll get it eventually.”
And then I march back inside, already late for my class, and she’s only going to throw another penalty flag at me because she’s missing hers, too.
But, as I said, I’m good at what I do.
I’m the star quarterback that does well under pressure after all.
