Page 14 of Poke the Bear

The experience was a weird one. I mainly served female customers at the cafe I worked at because guys just didn’t… see me. Their eyes skated over me and flicked to one of the other girls working behind the counter, putting their coffee order in, and I rarely challenged that, because things got exponentially worse when I did. Their eyes would narrow, their nostrils would flare. Even blokes old enough to be my granddad would do the same. it was as if by alerting them to my presence I somehow annoyed them for existing.

But not Adam.

Those blue eyes lit from within with a fire that threatened to consume me, and just like a clueless little kid, I wanted to reach out and touch the flames. But they’d burn me, mark me forever and that wouldn’t work for me.

I didn’t experience desire the way other people did. Looking at pictures of hot guys or thirst traps on social media didn’t do it for me. They were just a series of images of people’s bodies and while I could appreciate their beauty, they just left me… empty. But if I saw that actor or model on the screen? If I got to know their character, saw more clearly who they were, the floodgates would open and out it would all come.

I’d want them and it would hurt in a way, the intensity of it. It’d rush in and overwhelm me, take me over, sweep away all of my rational thoughts and feelings. That longing would just throb and throb inside my chest until I’d stop the movie, or pull away from the person I was speaking to, just to get a break.

And that’s how I felt right now.

What was happening with Adam didn’t make sense. We’d hardly had an in-depth discussion and yet here I was. My chest was heaving, the corset and dress Jack had made me wear constricting on every out breath, making it harder and harder to suck air in until Jack laid a hand on my arm.

“You like him.”

She looked at me in wonder and I knew why. I’d so very rarely talked about being attracted to anyone. Probably because of this.

I could count on one hand how many people I’d been truly drawn to and right up the top was Mark. He was a guy who hung out in our social group at school, that the other girls thought was hot. But to me he was funny, sweet, shared my love for drawing and brought me some of his stash of cool indie comics to read.

And that’s when I fell for him.

It hit me like a ton of bricks, feeling like my legs were cut out from under me. I fell down, down, down into an intense swirl of emotion I’d never really felt before. I got on well with my parents and siblings and there was no major trauma there. I felt like I was always hovering on the periphery of the family, not quite belonging, but not due to neglect. I was quiet, well behaved, as a child, so that gave my family the opportunity to focus on my siblings, so nothing prepared me for this.

All of a sudden I was painfully aware of the way Mark smelled of Lynx body spray and a sweet masculine scent of clean sweat. I noticed the way his long sensitive fingers held a pencil, watched him draw superheroes in his art journal with rapt fascination. I struggled to put words together when he asked about the most recent comic he’d given me, my throat closing up, needing to so I could keep the other words I wanted to say down.

That I noticed at least five different shades of brown in his hair, from almost black to a rich chestnut. That he had tiny little flecks of green in his brown eyes. That the skin around his mouth was always tight, so he had lines around it from smiling all the time. That there were exactly thirty-four freckles across his nose. That his voice changed when he talked about art, comics and what he wanted to do when we left school, illustrating indie comics in an attempt to catch the eye of Marvel or DC and then join the ranks of the artists he loved. I didn’t even give a shit about superhero comics, but I could listen to him talk about them for hours.

Right up until he started going out with Abigail Hartley.

If this was what everyone else felt, this crushing feeling inside my chest so damn intense it made me Google heart attack symptoms, then they could have it. Love Hurts was a song on the golden oldies station Dad always listened to, but it was only now that I understood what that meant.

I didn’t know Adam, the man, not the player, so this response didn’t make any fucking sense, but right now? I felt like I did. That throbbing sense of connection, pulsing inside me, making me feel alive, but that wasn’t the poetic thing people said it was. It forced me to feel the rush of my blood in my veins, the throb of my heart, the whistle of wind sucked into my lungs and the race of my brain.

When I blinked, I saw it, the tumble of Adam’s long blond hair, that softness at odds with the sharp black cut of his suit, and then there was his hand. Big, solid, like he could hold the whole world in it, and somehow I knew he would. Nothing I saw on the replays of his games made me think any different. If anything, it made it worse. He moved like a big cat, full of strength and grace, which had me wondering what else he could do with such skill. But where the fuck had that thought come from? Desire hit me hard, low in the gut and that had my head spinning.

“Shit, you do.” Jack’s focus shifted to the ballroom, not looking at the players as her clients now, but as my best friend. Her eyes narrowed when she stared at Adam, before her attention returned to me. “Normally I wouldn’t let a player within ten feet of you. Some are nice guys, some aren’t, but the life of a WAG? It can be real ugly. Even if he’s good to you, the fans they can get… intense. But Adam… I’ve never seen him take an interest in anyone.”

She shrugged.

“I figured he was some cute closet case who probably had a string of hot boyfriends on the side. Coming out as gay in footy? No one’s ever done it while still playing. But…” Jack looked me over closely. “But he likes you too, doesn’t he? He rushed over like his pants were on fire, and for a second I wondered if they were, wondering where the hell I’d have to find a spare pair, but—”

“It’s OK,” I told her. “This doesn’t matter. I’m not WAG material. It just kinda hit me when I wasn’t expecting it. I thought he just wanted someone by his side to keep groupies away, but…” When I looked back, Adam was still watching us, right up until someone gave him a nudge. He didn’t want to focus back on the screen and I wanted to scream that he shouldn’t, that he needed to look at me and only me. “But I guess I suck at fake dating.”

“Honey.” She stepped in and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You’re in control here, remember that. Nothing happens that you don’t want to, otherwise Aunty Jack is gonna bust in with her romper stomper boots in and kick arse. Fuck the team.” Her elbow poked into my side. “You’re my ride or die, so…” She nodded at the screen. “You want that boy?”

Yes! A voice I’d never heard inside me screamed. Suddenly Adam was all the chocolate baked cheesecake and pizza with extra cheese in an endless buffet. I wanted it, him, the feeling currently a low simmer down in my gut, one the heat would turn up the minute I got closer to him, but Jack was right. It was my choice how the night went and that was kinda dizzying.

I’d never had sex with anyone, never had long, slow, open-mouthed kisses. Never been touched, never been sucked, never had a burning trail of lips down my body, driving me—

“Yeah,” I finally croaked out and her eyebrow shot up right then. “Yeah, I think I do.” I let out a sigh, feeling some relief on admitting that. “But first I’ve really gotta pee.”

“The shit of being a woman,” she said. “C’mon, I’ll show you the way and help you with that dress. Floor-length satin is gorgeous, until it’s trailing along the floor of a public toilet.”

Chapter 8

Freya

“Who the hell is that girl with Adam Farrelly?” someone said.

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