Page 42 of Spiral

You have an interview to do, Georgia. And you just broke up with a man you lived with. What is your goal here, exactly?

“So, uh,” I stutter, breaking the silence and his gaze. “You’ll be playing in two weeks?”

He breathes deeply, crossing his arms behind his head and stretching. The hem of his t-shirt lifts slightly, exposing about an inch of his chiseled abdomen and causing my breath to catch at the back of my throat.

“According to Coach, yes. I met with him earlier today and he says I should be all healed up by then and ready to play. It’s an important game – one that qualifies us for the playoffs. And then the national championship. You know, they just can’t survive without their best player.”

He winks at me and I instantly look down to hide my flushed cheeks.

Game in 2 wks, I scribble onto the open page of my journal, big game important 4 playoff.

I drop my pen on the last word, flinging it just beneath the coffee table in front of us. As Henry instinctively reaches to pick it up, he stops abruptly and inhales sharply in pain.

“Fuck – god damnit.” He groans, leaning back and cradling a muscular hand across his wounded bicep.

“Oh my god, Henry, are you okay?” I ask, quickly leaning forward and grabbing the pen myself.

“Yeah, no, sorry – I’m fine, Georgia. Really.” His jaw is set tightly with discomfort, his expression strained.

“Let me get you some ice.”

Without waiting for a response, I jump off the couch and make a beeline towards the kitchen. I’m greeted by the fresh scent of lemon, stronger here than at the doorway. The oak cabinets appear to all have been recently dusted, the granite countertops expertly cleaned.

“Sandwich bags?” I call to him, opening drawer after drawer to find a receptacle for the ice.

“Small drawer all the way to your left… your other left.” He laughs, and the cheery sound echoes across the room.

“Got it!”

I fill the bag to the brim with small cubes of ice before enveloping the pack in a few paper towels.

“Here, this should help,” I murmur, delicately pressing the ice against his inflamed bruise.

He inhales through his teeth.

“Cold,” he explains, and I nod.

I’m still standing, though I’m so close to him that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. The refreshing scent of his shampoo – like linen on a summer day – surrounds me. I trail my gaze down his arm, which is tanned golden brown from hours of practice in the Texas sun. I notice, for the first time, the small freckles painting the length of his bruise from shoulder to wrist. They are hardly noticeable against the deep tan of his skin and are further hidden by the intricate marbling of purple, yellow, and green bruising mesmerizing my gaze.

“You have freckles,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.

He follows my eyes to his arm and smiles.

“Yep, grew them myself.”

“They’re pretty.”

His smile fades slightly, and, for a brief moment, I panic that I’ve said too much.

“I used to get made fun of for them,” he admits, shifting uneasily in his seat.

“What? Why? What did they say?”

I can’t imagine anyone making fun of Henry Anderson. Even from just an objective standpoint, he is quite literally perfect-looking.

“Nothing too serious. Kids called me a few names. Ginger, mainly – which is weird, because I don’t have red hair. It was more the way they said it than what they said. Like I was ugly, or they were better than me.”

He pauses for a moment, thinking.

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