Page 25 of Weak Side

Sensing my discomfort, Theo left the room, and I quickly changed into my sleep shorts and t-shirt and crawled into my bed. I had been ready to go to sleep the second I got off from work, thankful that I had the early shift—which, in my defense, was partly why I’d forgotten it was game night on campus. If I had the late shift, I would have known, without a doubt, that there was a game. Most of the students stopped by and got food at The Bex before heading to the after-parties.

I understood why Taytum wanted me to go out with her now too. The parties on campus were always a little rowdier when there was a home game, and I was certain they had won because the hockey team was “unstoppable” per the campus gossip.

Theo walked back into the room a moment later and immediately saw that I was in bed. He was carrying his dirty clothes in one hand and had changed into a gray BU shirt with a pair of workout shorts. We said nothing as he flopped onto his bed, sending a wave of his body wash in my direction, and checked his phone for a second before clicking it off. I leaned over and turned the light off on the small bookcase that sat right beside my bed, and nothing but our even breathing filled the tiny area.

Usually, Theo was fast asleep when I’d get back to the room. He’d occasionally huff and puff if I was being too loud, but he usually fell back into a slumber when I was finally crawling into bed for the night. But this was the first time we were both actively awake and tryingto fall asleep at the same time. A weird sense of discomfort settled in my lower stomach as I tried to listen to anything but his breathing, but I couldn’t help but latch onto it. There was an awkward shift in the air, and I heard him turn beneath his blankets, so I did the same before grabbing my phone to do something other than listen to his breathing like some sort of obsessive puck bunny.

My brightness was turned down, but I knew if he was looking at me, he could see the annoyance on my face from Chad not responding to my texts. I shoved the frustrating and pesky thoughts behind a thick wall of denial in the back of my head.

I turned my screen off, laid my phone face down on the shelf, and inhaled a deep breath before blowing it out slowly. My mind was reeling, and just like every night, my worries began to surface the second I tried to fall asleep. Long, antagonizing minutes passed, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I continued to listen closely to Theo’s breathing, and when I thought he may have been asleep, I threw my covers off, slowly climbed out of my bed, padded my way over to my desk, and sat down in the dark.

I flipped open myClassical Ballet Techniquebook and grabbed a pencil out of my pencil holder slowly so it wouldn't make a noise. After building a barricade around my desk lamp with my other textbooks and tying my chiffon tie-on ballet skirt that I typically wore with my leo around it with a scrunchie, I flipped the light on and hoped it wouldn’t be too bright and wake Theo. Technically, I was breaking a roommate rule, but I was still being considerate with trying to make my light dimmer, right?

My hand skimmed the pages of the book as I tried to lose myself in my studies, focusing on classical ballet theories and the comprehension of soloists, seemingly allowing my mind to drift in other directions—like my future.

I didn’t want to be a soloist in a famous ballet show one day.

I didn’t want to continue down a path of writing papers about famous ballet dancers like Anna Pavlova or Natalia Makarova. But, nonetheless, I saw the importance in gaining an education, and back when I applied to Bexley U and they gave me the partial scholarship, I thought I knew what my future would look like. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

My pencil pressed down harder than before as I wrote down several important ballet terms that I knew would be on the quiz next week. The snippets of my mother’s unrelenting encouragement to push me to a future that I didn’t necessarily want caused the lead of my pencil to snap with heavy force.

I gripped my pencil so tightly I heard the creaking of splintering wood. Theo’s bed creaked a second later, and my back straightened. I peeked over my shoulder and jumped in my seat when I saw that he was awake and his head full of messy dark hair was leaning on his hand as he stared at me. I reached for my light and shut it off abruptly. His chuckle made me smash my lips together.

“Did you just try to pretend like you weren’t murdering a pencil at your desk by turning the light off? As if we didn’t just make eye contact?”

Embarrassment flooded me, and I was thankful I turned the light off, because I instantly felt idiotic.

“I thought you were asleep,” I said softly. “Did I wake you up?”

His swallow sounded rough, but his voice was as smooth as ever. “Are you referring to waking me up by building a wall of books around your lamp, or are you referring to the vigorous scratching of your pencil against paper?”

Theo didn’t give me a chance to answer his question, which I realized was just his way of poking fun at me, as usual. “I’ve been awake. I hadn’t fallen asleep.”

“Oh.” That was surprising. “I assumed you’d be super tired from your game that I’m guessing you won?”

His scoff was as cocky as they came. “Of course we won.”

There was a pause as I stood up and pushed in my chair, heading back to my bed. I eyed my phone but didn’t dare pick it up as I crawled under my covers and stared up at the dark ceiling.

“I can’t sleep after games.”

My eyes moved to his side of the room, although all I could make out was a large shadow on his bed. “Really? Why?”

“I get too hyped up. I start going over plays in my head to figure out what we can do better for the next game. I usually lie here for hours until my body gives up and I crash.”

I wasn’t sure why, but I found that both admirable and shocking.

“I figured that you would be out partying and celebrating your win like the rest of campus.”

A throaty chuckle came from his side of the room. “I was out, but I never party hard during the season. I usually make the rounds…”

His words trailed off, and I had a big feeling I knew why.

“By ‘making the rounds’ you mean you meet up with a puck bunny and then you come home.” I scoffed.

Years of snarky remarks about jocks from close friends who’d had their heart broken by the star football player or hockey star—or hell, even the top golfer of our school—came back to me as if I were still that same freshman, holding a hostility for jocks because that was how I was raised. It was hard to form your own opinion that wasn’t clouded by judgment when you were told something negative from a very young age. I’ll never forget the first time I had the courage to ask my mother why I didn’t have a father.

“You sound a little jealous. Where’s your boyfriend tonight, Claire?”

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