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Triumph swelled within me even as my shoulder ached.
My friends would absolutely lose their minds if they saw me right now, playing catch with the most popular guy in school. Two things I practically cursed two weeks ago, and now I begrudgingly could admit that I was having fun. More fun than I’d had in a long time.
Because with each throw, Connor would take several steps backward, forcing me to throw harder and farther. If the ball came up too short, he’d sprint to catch it, going as far to nearly dive into the grass at times. The throws he sent me were softer, of course, starting out underhand while I built my confidence before throwing it overhand.
I wasn’t sure how long we’d been throwing the ball—more than the previously agreed upon five minutes—when my sandal snagged on a patch of uneven ground as I hurried backward to catch the football. I lost my balance, body wincing from the slight twist to my ankle, and I ended falling butt-first in a pile of mud.
The football landed about a foot away from me, splattering in the dirt.
Connor’s abrupt laugh from across the yard carried, and he pressed a hand to his mouth as he hurried over. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll let you know when I can feel my butt again.” Despite the predicament, a short laugh burst from me as I frowned down at my sandals. The strap of the one that had gotten caught had snapped, rendering the shoe useless. My toes were filthy from running back and forth in the mud. “I feel like a kid, getting all dirty from playing outside. Joy’s not going to let me back in the house.”
“I shouldn’t have thrown the ball so hard.” Connor stretched a hand down to me, bottling down on his own amusement. “This is the part where you say something about trajectory and how you should’ve seen that coming.”
“It’s not a trajectory error—I totally would’ve caught the ball.”
Connor gave up trying to bite back his smile, and even though he kept the curve to his lips small, it reached his eyes in an instant.
I wrapped my fingers around Connor’s and let him tug me to my feet, his other hand coming up to cup my arm. The broken shoe remained stuck in the mud, and to keep from fully planting my bare foot into the mud, I leaned against him, gripping his shoulder for support.
His arm immediately wrapped around my back to steady me, and I could feel all of his fingers even through the thin material of my T-shirt. My chest was pressed against his side, getting up close and personal once more with the firmness of his muscles. He was close enough that I could see where a few locks of his hair were sticking to his temples from the sun, could see that the tops of his cheeks were beginning to grow pink from the sun.
Without warning, Connor brushed the pad of his thumb along my cheekbone, causing time to freeze. “How did you manage to get mud on your face?” he asked with a quiet sort of humor, teasing with me the way a friend might. I swallowed hard, my head inexplicably tilting toward the touch. “Maybe playing catch in sandals wasn’t a good idea.”
“I’m always right,” I told him, trying to pack as much strength into my voice as possible, even though my lungs felt like they were lacking enough air. My head swayed as my thoughts ran in dizzying circles, and my heart…why was it beating unevenly? “That’s what I get for doing something physical. With math, the only risk is a paper cut when I flip a worksheet over.”
“You play it safe, huh?”
I wanted to pull away from him but unable to bring myself to. “Apparently.”
Connor bent down and picked up my broken sandal, patting me lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you a pair of sweatpants to change into.”
This was the second time I had to wear Connor’s pants. Why did this keep happening?
But that wasn’t the weirdest part of it all. When Connor led me to a bedroom down the hall, I’d been expecting a basic guest room. One with floral sheets and maybe an antique dresser with knickknacks littering the surface. I hadn’t expected to find a room that clearly belonged to Connor.
He left me alone to change, and I dressed into the sweatpants quickly, tying them as tightly as they’d go around my waist, and went to investigate.
There was a small desk near a set of closet doors, and I picked up a graded US History homework sheet from last week. There was a hamper in the other corner of the room filled with dirty clothes, and even though the twin-sized bed against the far wall was technically made, the blankets were a bit rumpled, like someone had straightened them in a hurry.
There were also several cardboard boxes stacked around the entire perimeter of the room.Connor’s Clothes, Connor’s Games, Connor’s Trophies. All the boxes with the labels facing out had his name on them.
There was a soft knock at his door. “They work okay?”
“You can come in,” I said, taking a healthy step away from the desk.
The door cracked open a second later, and Connor poked his head inside. His gaze immediately went to the sweats hanging from my frame, and then it jerked back up. “I can get a bag for your shorts.”
“Are you living with your grandma?” I asked, the question coming off about as blunt and nosy as it could, but my curiosity had totally taken control of my tongue.
He stiffened with a short inhale. “Uh, yeah. That’s why I said this needs to stay in the vault.”
“Why don’t you live with your parents?” I peered at him closer. “What happened to the house on Bleeker Avenue?”
He dodged my eye as he stepped further into the space, his stare jumpy. Discomfort clung to him like a second skin, evident by the stiff line of his body. He sat down by the footboard of his bed, rubbing his palms over his knees. “My parents…lost it. Last May.”
“Lost it?” I echoed, mouth slackening. I opened my mouth to fire off another question, but froze. The area around his mouth was tight, jaw a sharp line, screaming of uneasiness.
