Page 16 of Out of Bounds

In a moment, he was halfway across the building, not even waiting for me to catch up.

"The athletics department will send a notice to your professor."

"But…" I had to hurry after him, still working on shoving everything in my backpack. My drawing pad never fit right the first time. "Can’t you relax?"

"No."

I rearranged everything in my backpack while we walked across the art building. My drawing pad just slid into place when a big hand reached out to pluck it away from me.

"Hey!"

There were no ands, ifs, or buts I could offer, Ryan kept it carefully out of reach.

"It’s a drawing of me," he said.

"I don’t give a shit."

He flipped through the pages without breaking his stride. I would’ve been tripping on my ass if I did that. I tried to grab it back, but no dice, when something changed in his face.

Fuck. He found today’s page.

His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes narrowed. The little lines on his face, the curve of his lips…he was surprised at the sketches. Of course he was. I knew that look a hundred times over. As an animation major, you get used to it.

"I told you, I draw cartoons."

When he pushed open the door, I didn’t argue. I just stepped out into the warm sunshine.

"What were you expecting?" I pressed when he remained quiet. "Perspective? Van Gogh?"

He glanced down at me for a second and I realized I didn’t know that expression at all. His hard lines vanished.

Ryan smoothed back the paper. "It’s been a while since I’ve seen something without football gear. I like how you captured just…me."

I had no idea what to say to that.

"This is good." He took another look at it with a wry grin. "Not Henry Miller orBird Pantsmaterial. It's better."

"Don’t compliment me by shitting on another artist.Hey!"

Ryan held the drawing pad away from me and started to rip off the paper.

"Don’t youdare."

"Do you need this page for class?" he asked, pausing his uncalled-for destruction of my personal property.

"No, but—"

"I can take it then."

I frowned. "Absolutely not."

Ryan held it above my head, out of reach. I wasn’t short by any means, but I wasn’t a Jolly Green Giant for the football team either.

"Do you want your notebook back?"

I almost corrected him. It wasn’t a notebook, it was a sketchbook, but his words sunk in. He had me there. Sketchbooks were my workout gear, my cooking utensils, and my textbooks, all rolled into one. I needed it. And it wasn’t like I had any future plans for the rough sketches of the team captain anyway.

"Fine," I muttered.

---