Page 29 of The Longshot

I can’t fall asleep.

And it’s not that my body isn’t tired. I feel exhausted. My bones ache, my legs feel limp, hell, even my elbows hurt.

My elbows. Can your elbows even hurt?

I need rest, and it’s not my body that’s refusing to give me the shut-eye I need. It’s my mind.

My mind likes to work against me in intricate ways. Some nights, I lie awake because I can’t get a song out of my head. Other nights, I'm lying awake because I’m thinking. But tonight’s different. Tonight, I’m not humming a melody or entering the deep dark spiral that is my mind, I’m trapped. Trapped in the visual that is—Gary Wilkinson.

It’s pathetic and, frankly, makes no sense. I’ve met the guy twice. Twice. And here I am, lying awake at three AM because I can’t cleanse my brain of his stupid smirk, his stupid laugh, but most importantly, his stupid ability to make me fall for it.

“Ugh.” I reach for a pillow and place it over my head. Yeah, as if that will stop the thoughts from creeping in. “Go to sleep, Chelsie,” I instruct myself, but it’s no use.

My insomnia is just as troubling as the reality that for a split second I was actually enjoying my conversation with him today.

Is he cocky? Yes.

Arrogant? Sure.

Full of himself? Absolutely.

But I know deep down that that's just a front. Or is it?

Things were going so well until his friends chimed in—exposing him for his real intentions and saving me from the hassle of finding out for myself.

Was I wrong to think he’d be any different than any other guy? Any other footballer?

Him and his posse remind me so much of Simon and his crew. They’ve got the same energy. The same banter. Same shitty catcalls and, most of all, the same arrogant leader…

I whip the pillow off of my face and sit upright.

I curse the thought that lingers in my mind.

I can’t do that.

I can’t compare Gary to Simon.

That’s not fair.

They’re nothing alike.

I know I’ve hardly had more than a couple conversations with Gary, but I know for a fact that he shares not a single comparable trait to Simon.

The way he shielded me away from the sexual remarks being thrown in my direction earlier, all the while telling his teammates off, is only one of the many contrasts.

I’m confident Simon used to love when his mates would pester me with alluding comments and an ungodly amount of attention. It fed into his ego. It made him feel big. Like he had something they didn’t. He saw me as a jewel that shined in his favor. Whereas Gary? I could tell that it made him defensive, and Christ, he didn't even know me.

I run my hands through my messy hair. Maybe I was too harsh? Maybe I should have given him a chance—not only to get to know me but for me to get to know him.

I stare back over at the clock.

3:15 AM.

God. It’s shocking just how quickly time moves when you’re at the mercy of your mind.

I reach for the water on my bedside table, taking a quick sip before I fall back down, accepting my fate.

I’m wide awake.

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