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The clip plays, a close up shot of my face as I head to the sidelines to throw in the ball. As I’m walking, I raise my arm and push my hair off my forehead with a slick move.
She pauses on that frame, my arm half covering my face, my perpetual half smirk partially hidden behind it.
She frowns as she points at the fluffy pink bracelet wrapped around my wrist. “Is that my hair tie?”
“Yeah.”
She turns her startled gaze to meet mine. “Why is it on your wrist?”
“It’s mine now.”
I vividly remember the moment she’d handed me both the black and pink hair ties when I’d braided her hair. I’d wrapped the black one around her hair and I’d stared at the pink one as I held it in my hand.
There I was holding something of hers, something she’d given me when she wouldn’t give anything else, and my fist had closed around it tightly, refusing to let it go.
I’d shoved the hair tie in my pocket and taken it like a thief.
“Give it back, I’ve been looking for it.”
“Can’t.” I tell her, simply.
“Why not?” She asks, perplexed.
I’d forgotten that I’d put the hair tie in the pocket of my bag and had found it as I was getting ready for the match. Instinctively, I’d picked it up and pulled it over my wrist, the movement feeling organic.
Just like I’d helped her prepare for her game, I’d wanted her there with me in some way.
“I scored three goals wearing it, remember? It’s my good luck charm.”
Her eyes widen and then soften as they wordlessly caress my face.
“As an athlete, you know what taking my good juju away could do, right? It could be devastating to my game play and I know you don’t want that.”
“Right.” She says with a smile, leaning in to kiss me. “I don’t care if the camerawoman is a hot chick anymore.”
She snuggles closer to me and we watch the rest of the game highlights, including my penalty and tap in goals.
“So?” I ask her when we’re done. “What’s the verdict?”
She sighs dramatically before finally admitting, “You’re very good.”
She yelps as I grab her hips and flip her onto her back before I roll my body over hers. Her palms come to lay flat against my chest as she looks up into my hungry eyes.
“It’s not the only thing I’m good at.” I tell her.
“I’m aware,” she purrs, her hand moving to caress my eyebrow. “How did you get this scar?”
“Freak accident.” I tell her, “I fell from a structure in a kids’ park when I was younger and landed on a broken bottle.”
“You’re lucky it didn’t hit your eye.” She says, running her thumb along the arch. “It’s unfair that even your scars make you more attractive.”
“It bodes well for me that you think that because wait until you see my emotional scars,” I tease.
“Show me,” She answers, wrapping her arms around my neck, “I want to see it all.”
I bury my face into the crook of her neck with a groan. Why did she have to say that? And why do I suddenly want to tell her everything, to carve myself open for her so she can see what really made me?
We’re treading on dangerous territory and I know it.
