Page 46 of The Prospect

A hot picture of Green.

Christ.

“Deflect and redirect,” I murmur under my breath, reminding myself not to slip into the temptation of that thought. Instead I open up my text messages and, with reluctance, propose Amira’s plan to Hart.

GREEN

“Good practice lads.” Alf walks by our side as we pave the way through the tunnel, flinging miscellaneous items throughout the changing room the second we step inside. “If you keep this up, you boys will be gearing toward another promotion this season.”

The room erupts in cheerful excitement, but it’s Hart’s voice that is most distinguishable. “Keeping it on a high note just for you, Alf,” he remarks, running a towel along his forehead to rid the sweat that drips down his face.

We’re all pouring with it.

Coach really put us through the wringer today. We needed it. Hell, I needed it. Lately, my mind has been wandering.

At first, it was consumed with a bitter sense of loneliness, only to transform into that of excitement at mine and Hazel’s love plan, yet now I can’t seem to stop myself from obsessing over every micro detail of it.

And it’s not just how things are going with Amira and I that’s leading me to spiral. It's about how things are going with Hazel and Hart.

I’ve been left in this ambiguous cluster fuck of questions since her text messages last night, wondering what the hell went on to warrant the title of: “best impromptu night ever.”

The reality is, I could easily ask Hart for the details. He’s right across from me; it would be simple, but the truth is I don’t want to. I’m confident he’ll just say something that’ll piss me off or make me even more stressed out than I already am.

Stressed.

Why am I stressed?

Shouldn’t I be happy that things are working out for Hazel? That’s all I’ve ever wanted for her, right? But fuck me, for some reason my mind can’t seem to find contentment with that.

I sink my face into my towel before I peel off my shirt and toss it to the side. Hazel said she’d meet up with me after practice today. We’ve got plans to see my family, and hell, I bet you any money she’s already outside waiting for me and in the next thirty minutes, all this questionable annoyance will be gone…

I’m counting down the seconds.

“Holy fuck, that’s bloody incredible,” I hear Wilks' remark from across the room. It piques my interest as I pull my face back from my towel to see a crowd surrounding Hart’s station, where, one by one, players murmur a mixture of praises.

“She did a great job!”

“Looks just like you, mate.”

“Damn, you’re lucky.”

What the hell are they on about?

Slowly I stand, swerving through a mixture of players as I pave my way across the room until I catch sight of Hart, who proudly stands with his back facing me.

I clear my throat to help prompt him to turn around. He does.

“Oh, hey, Green.” He’s got this chipper, almost refreshed expression on his face. “How’s it going, mate?”

“Fine,” I tell him, highly suspicious of his unusually positive attitude, especially toward me. “What was, uh—everyone justtalking about a second ago?” I can’t help but ask, curious to get to the bottom of all that praise.

“You didn’t see?” Hart snaps his head back in disbelief. “I would’ve thought she’d of shown you first.”

I squint my eyes in question. “Show me what?” I pry. “And who are you talking about right now?”

Hart steps aside, and as he does not only do I feel my heart skip a beat, but he answers my question instantly.

Hung up carefully at the back of his workstation is a classic Hazel Collins portrait, and it’s not just any portrait. It’s clear to me that Hazel’s gone to great lengths to paint this picture for Hart.

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