Page 19 of A Quarterback for Christmas

Instead of dropping me on the bathroom floor, Drew walks to his bedroom and places me on his bed. Still dripping, my teeth chatter as he grabs a few more towels from his bathroom to cover me. Adding layer upon layer, I’m starting to think he’s trying to ensure he’ll never accidentally see my naked body again.

Drew raises a hand to my face and gently rubs his thumb against my forehead.

“Looks like you’re going to get another bruise.” His voice is delicate as he inspects the skin, and I hate that, yet again, I need his help. “Are you okay, otherwise? You’re only seeing one of me, right?” His brown eyes dip to connect with mine while his thumb gently rubs against my wet skin.

“Yeah,” I husk out, still feeling shivery from the water.

“Good.” He drops some clothes next to me in a haphazard pile because he wants to get out of the room as fast as possible. “Here, you can put these on. I’ll wait just outside for you.”

Without another word, he walks out of the room, leaving me looking like a drowned rat with enough towels to soak up a swimming pool.

The gray walls of Drew’s room cave in on me. I’ve never been in his room before, and I certainly didn’t expect my first encounter to be sitting on his bed, soaking wet, while I put his clothes on. This whole scenario feels like a low-rent porno, and I should laugh at how ridiculous it is, but I can’t, because I’m still in here. This is my reality, and I have to accept that I just flashed my arch-nemesis and am now sitting in his room. A room that feels too personal. Too much like I’m reading his diary and discovering every little secret about him.

Photos from high school litter his desk, and a few newspaper articles from his time here are pinned to the wall. Standing, I try to focus on changing because I want to get out of here as fast as I can, but as I drop the wet towel and wrap myself in a dry one, a couple of pictures glare at me, making me bite down on my tongue.

Clear as day, there are two sickeningly sweet pictures of Drew and Brianna nestled among the photos.

“Not dating, my ass,” I mumble, taking a closer look. She’s kissing his cheek in one and he’s got his arm draped over her chair in the other. My stomach rolls because they remind me of the stupid campus brochure that I see all too often. Retching a little, I flick the photos hard enough for them to fall to the floor.

“Woops,” I whisper, turning away with a satisfied smirk.

As I turn to grab another towel, a framed photo by the side of Drew’s bed catches my eye because it’s the only one there. I can’t help it. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pick up the black frame, instantly feeling warm just looking at the photo. Drewcan’t be more than eight years old in this photo as he beams at the camera, proudly showcasing a fish he caught. There’s no doubt that his father is next to him with his arm slung around his shoulder, looking just as proud. With the same dimples and eyes, Drew’s a spitting image of him.

All I know is that Drew’s dad isn’t in the picture. He never came to any of the dinners I was forced to attend, so I have no idea what happened, and I wasn’t exactly close enough to him to ask. Drew paces outside, making me immediately put the frame down, turning to get ready.

I curse myself when I put his large hoodie on, annoyed that his scent brings me a sense of calm.

Why does he have to smell so good?

Pulling the sweatshirt down and poking my head through, I gasp when I open my eyes.

“No.” I hobble closer to the mirror, catching sight of myself for the first time. My blonde tresses spill in every direction, and there are small, curtain-ring-shaped bruises scattered across my face. I look like I’ve fallen out of a hedge backward and then decided to swim in a desecrated lake. My hair is such a mess, I can almost feel it clumping together with every head shake.

My stomach drops and I find it a little harder to breathe.

Drew saw me like this.

I look worse than ever, and he saw me looking like this while my cooch was out?

I swallow down the humiliation, and turn away. Looking at myself isn’t helping anything.

But then I try to shrug it off, because I shouldn’t care about what Drew thinks. I already know he only dates perfection, so why am I worried that he walked in on me looking like I’ve lived in a forest for most of my life?

Groaning, I desperately try to finger-brush my hair, but it’s no use. The knots are getting worse, and the only way I’m going toget rid of them is with some heavy conditioning. I need to get to my bag, but it’s outside by the couch, and Drew’s out there waiting to address my nakedness.

Maybe dying in the shower wouldn’t have been that bad. It would have at least saved me from the awkward conversation that awaits me on the other side of the door.

After ten minutes of stalling, I slowly stumble into the hall, looking like a newborn giraffe as I balance on one leg and try to keep the pressure off the other. I could curse Drew for leaving my crutches in the bathroom, but it really wasn’t his fault. We were both dazed and confused.

I barely make it two steps outside before seeing Drew sitting against the opposite door, holding both sides of his baseball cap and staring at the blank wall. His face is pale, and his pupils are dilated. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he just found out Brianna’s pregnant, and he’s the father.

“Drew?” I barely whisper, but that noise alone jolts him out of his thoughts, and he stands, giving me a small, placid smile. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he drawls out as he stands. He coughs before wiping his hands off on the back of his jeans. “Are you okay?” he asks as though we’ve just had brunch and he didn’t just see everything my body had to offer. His eyes are blank, and he’s staring at me like I’m nothing. Admittedly, I look worse than a soggy paper bag, but I didn’t think it was so bad that he couldn’t even acknowledge my existence.

“Everything’s fine,” I sing sarcastically. I need some space, which is hard to find in this house. Using the hallway walls to hold me up, I make my way to the living room. However, that doesn’t last long in Drew’s company. Ever the gentleman, he steps in front of me, bends his knees, and opens his arms in an offering.

Reluctantly, I fall into them, wrapping my arm around his shoulder and tilting my head in the opposite direction because I still haven’t brushed my teeth. He doesn't complain that he essentially has to drag me to the sofa like a sack of potatoes, and once he drops me on the familiar cushion, he continues to avoid eye contact.

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