Page 41 of Crossing the Top Line

I swallow and sit up, wincing slightly at the newly tender spot on my ass. “Yeah, I guess. What the hell are you still doing here?” I ask, moving slowly to kneel among my mess.

“Working with one of the trainers. What are you still doing here?” he counters, and I can still feel his eyes on my face even as I focus my attention on cleaning up.

“Working,” I snap, a flush of embarrassment heating my face now that the initial shock has worn off.

“Really burning the midnight oil, huh,” Spencer says, laughing a little at his own joke.

My heart kicks in my chest, and I let out an involuntary snort before I catch myself. Fuck me, I’d forgotten how witty he was. I freeze as I catch his movement out of the corner of my eye, not to stand but instead kneeling with me to help gather the loose papers, notebooks, and other random bits that have skittered along the floor. I can’t help but watch him, his hands meticulously adding each object to a neat pile, which he returns to my broken bag. Have his hands always been big, his forearms so muscular with veins that could make a phlebotomist weep with joy? He has a hint of color to his skin, like he’s spent time outside recently. I wonder…

It’s only when he looks up at me that I realize I’m staring, but I turn away quickly, picking up my laptop and shoving it roughly into the bag as he extends it. I readjust the camera bag over my shoulder, trying to hold my broken messenger bag in my arms as I get to my feet, but my balance is thrown out of whack.

“Here, let me—”

Spencer cuts himself off, taking my elbow in one of his hands and pulling me to my feet with surprisingly little effort. I grunt my thanks, trying to blow a piece of my hair that has escaped my messy bun away from my face.

“Thanks. Have a good night,” I grumble between puffs, but the stubborn piece of hair won’t behave.

I jump as Spencer reaches out, the tips of his fingers ghosting over my forehead as he gently tucks the misbehaving lock behind my ear. I freeze again, looking up with wide eyes, my skin prickling with awareness even as his arm falls back to his side. Traces of spearmint and blackberries fill the air, but I mentally shake myself before I lose my senses. I try to walk around him, but then his hand is on my shoulder.

“Let me walk you to your car,” he blurts, speaking fast like he can’t get the words out fast enough.

“I’m fine,” I snap, lifting my chin and shrugging off his hand before trying to leave again.

But before I can make it two steps, Spencer is there again. This time, his fingers close around the strap of the camera bag, pulling it off my shoulder before I can stop him.

“I don’t need your help,” I growl, clutching my broken messenger bag tight to my chest as my spine straightens.

Instead of going on the defensive, he just grins, tilting his head innocently. “You don’tneedmy help, but I stillwantto help you,” he says, like that explains everything.

I let out a huff of frustration, considering for a moment how likely it is that anyone else is here and if it would be worth it to tell Spencer where he can shove his do-gooder attitude. But my back pulses with pain, my tailbone echoing the sentiment.

“Fine. Least you can do for shoulder checking me,” I say at last, then turn on my heel and march toward the exit.

Spencer catches up before I make it five paces, falling into step beside me and matching my stride with ease. We’re silent even as we exit the well-lit building and make our way through the parking garage. Fall is upon us, and there’s a bite of chill to the breeze as it winds through the empty concrete. I shiver slightly, regretting leaving my cardigan at home this morning.

“Lost all your cold tolerance?” Spencer asks.

I throw him a glare, but my face softens as I realize he’s not smirking down at me, not laughing, simply asking a genuine question.

Shrugging, I sigh. “I still go home for Christmas break, but yeah. Winter’s not the same down here like it is in Michigan.”

Spencer chuckles in agreement. “Remember that massive storm? The one that shut down campus for a week?” he asks, excitement lifting his question.

I let out a bark of laughter that echoes off the walls. “I don’t know if I could forget that. I was stuck with my shitty roommate, surviving on cup noodles and bottom-shelf vodka for two days. I would have tried my luck in the storm, but we couldn’t get the front door open after the first couple hours,” I recall, smiling to myself.

“The dorms weren’t much better, trust me. One of the guys in my building tried to cook a whole chicken in the microwave, but only succeeded in setting off the smoke alarm at three in the morning. We couldn’t go outside, and it took forever for the fire department to clear the smoke detector, so we were stuck in the lobby for over an hour, most of us in our pajamas,” Spencer replies.

“Where did the guy get a whole chicken?” I ask through my chuckles.

“Beats me. But it gives new meaning to ‘giving everyone the bird,’ am I right?”

Spencer and I share another laugh, settling into a strangely comfortable silence as my car comes into view. Once I’ve got the doors unlocked and my bags inside, I turn back to find Spencer standing a few feet away, his hands in his jean pockets.

“Where are Oli and Eli? How are you getting home?” I ask suddenly, voicing the questions as they occur to me.

Spencer shrugs with one shoulder, looking around. “They went home after the team meeting. I thought I’d catch an Uber or something,” he says vaguely before turning his stare on me.

My next breath catches in my throat as my mind goes to war with itself. The polite thing to do would be to offer to drive him home. But I know most of the players live across the river, and it would mean adding at least another forty minutes to my already long day. He keeps staring at me, not expectant but almost curious about what I’m going to do next. I know it would be the right thing to do, especially after he stopped to help me. But being alone in a car with him right now feels like the worst decision I could make. I’m tired, and even though we’ve just had a few minutes of casual small talk, that doesn’t negate anything that’s happened between us, both six years ago and more recently. Has it been a nice change of pace not to be on guard every second we’re together? Sure. Am I grateful he hasn’t turned this into yet another opportunity to rehash our past? Absolutely. But there’s no telling how long this ceasefire will last, and the last thing I want is for it to break when I have no viable avenue of escape.

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