Page 32 of The List of Things

I’m wearing a pair of loose white track shorts that reach the tops of my thighs and a large SPU lacrosse t-shirt I got while working on the field this year that’s halfway tucked in. I kick off my Air Forces, leaving myself in white socks, but losing some of my height as I stand in front of him. He’s wearing loose gray sweatpants and a dark blue compression shirt that shows off his arms well. Both of us are very relaxed, and I’m glad I dressed down.

“I’m comfortable with you.”

He reaches forward, slinking his arm around my lower back, pressing my body into his muscular torso. I hold onto his forearms, creating friction, and tensing up, not expecting the sudden gesture.

“Are you sure about that?” He asks, his hair flopping onto his forehead as he looks down at me.

His hair normally has some product in it, I guess. It normally doesn’t look this casual... I’ve never seen him this casual in general. He somehow looks better which shouldn’t be possible.

“I am, I just wasn’t expecting you to touch me yet.”

He loosens his grip, but I stay in his arms, not moving away.

“Well, expect the unexpected from now on, got it?”

I nod, noticing the light smile on his lips.

“Got it. Expect the unexpected with you,” I agree.

He moves away from me and turns around a corner. I stop right when my eyes come into focus. There’s a spread out kitchen with beautiful marble countertops, and I don’t even want to know how much each of them is paying for their share of this apartment. I keep my eyes open as I look around at everything, the high pretty ceilings. I can’t stop looking at everything.

“Did you just come from the gym?” I ask him, my hand dusting over the counter.

“The field. I was running drills,” He tells me.

“Is that where you always are?” I take my eyes from the kitchen and look over at him as he stands behind me, taking things out of the fridge.

“Yeah, most of the time. I love it. It’s not really about working out and staying in shape. That’s a plus. I just enjoy the game, and if I don’t practice, if I don’t constantly work on it, I’ll never continue in the NFL and everything else,” He closes the fridge, and opens a cabinet above him, easily reaching to the top shelf to grab a box of spaghetti noodles.

He reaches down underneath him, taking pots out of the lower cupboard.

“So you really are playing because you love it... Not because of free college, or because it’s what your parents wanted?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

“The sport reminds me of my parents a lot. I started football because of my dad but I continued because I love it. I love the attention, of course, the sound of people cheering for me, and all the love in and out of school. But I just love the game. I had the grades for free college. I didn’t need football,” He tells me, and I furrow my brows.

If his grades were that good, then why does he constantly need tutoring?

“I guess college practice is a bit tougher. Harder to keep your grades up, right?”

He looks at me quickly and nods, looking away almost as quickly, “Yeah. Coach Corbin is a pain in my ass. And you’re going to be a pain in my ass if you just stand there and watch me cook instead of helping me. I know I look good but-”

“You are so full of yourself. The only way you’d stop me from helping is if you were naked in the midst of your kitchen.”

He raises his eyebrows, a lopsided smirk forming on his lips, “Oh you are so bluffing right now.” The words sound like a laugh when they fall from my lips.

I roll my eyes. Bellamy slowly lifts the hem of his tank top, my chest burning instantly at the sight of his chiseled stomach. Right away he drops his shirt before showing too much.

“No, I’ve got to leave something to the imagination,” He tells me, and I stare at him, watching as he turns the water on, filling the pot.

Bellamy starts everything and turns some music on. The two of us are now standing side by side, individual cutting boards next to each other. He cuts fresh basil, and I cut up garlic for the sauce. I watch carefully, his hands cutting the basil perfectly. His fucking hands. They’re clean, no rings today, but they look just as good. He finishes cutting, and walks around to the other side of me, washing his hands. I peek to the side, watching him do that too, making sure he sees nothing as I do so.

“I’ll take over, can you put the pasta in the water, and get the sauce started?” He asks me, holding his hands out for the knife.

I look, and swallow deeply, passing him the sharp object, wishing I could shove it in my eyes for staring so deeply at an outer extremity on a man that truly means nothing… Or at least it should mean nothing… Here I am though, sweating over his fucking quarterback hands once again. I look at his eyes, seeing them narrow as I hand the knife over, his lips twitching, threatening a smile.

“Sure,” I nod, walking past him.

I see the water begin to boil, and I take out the noodles, letting them slide into the large pot. I cover it and reach toward the stovetop. My hand is covered by his right away, and I fight the urge to groan as he turns the heat down only slightly for me.

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