Page 11 of I Got You

I approach the front desk, where a girl looks up at me from her open textbook and smiles. After a second, she starts playing with her hair and tells me she'll scan my card. It's not that I'm not used to women flirting with me, but these college girls really need to cast their net somewhere else.

I clear my throat. "I’m looking for Maggie Matthews’ office. I was told this is where she teaches.”

The girl’s eyes widen. “Um, Miss Maggie doesn’t have an office, but I think she’s teaching in studio A. If you go around the corner, it’s at the end of the first hallway. I can show you if you want.” Her smile grows wide as she pushes up to stand.

“No, that’s ok. I can find it.” I turn in that direction, and she stops me.

“Um, sir.” She’s standing now and leaning over the raised counter, one hesitant cheek scrunched. “Um, if you don’t have a member card, you really can’t go back there un…supervised.”

And what is she going to do, stop me? I let out a low grumble with a curse word mixed in that I keep to myself. “I have a faculty ID. Will that work?”

“Oh, yeah. Ok. Can I see it?” I pull my campus ID out of my wallet and hand it over. She looks at it and then looks at me. “Ok. Sorry. It’s my job. Had to make sure that you weren’t some crazy stalker hunting Maggie down.”

I bristle at the thought, and it makes me want to ask if that’s been an issue in the past. The shock of even thinking it and the protective instincts it sets off takes me back. I keep my mouth shut.

I turn back around, passing the free weights, where a couple players stand off to the side talking to girls rather than working out. I tip my head and keep moving, not feeling in the mood to chat. I’ll see them later on the field. I just want to get this over with.

I make my way down a hallway, passing studios until I get to A. From inside, I hear classical music and the rhythmic counting by someone I assume is Maggie. As I get closer, I can see her through the picture window. She’s standing in front, watching the students take turns moving across the room.

Her sweatpants are rolled down at the waist and pulled up on her shins over some kind of skin-tight black leotard thing. The mirror reflects the straps that cross all down her bare back. No wonder the players don’t complain about coming to her class.

“Good, good!” she hollers over the music to one of the students. The next second she hits a button to stop the music as she demonstrates something. I watch her move effortlessly, doing precisely what the others should look like.

“Ok. Great class, guys. Practice, practice. I want to see improvement next time.”

The students mill around the room, changing shoes and collecting their things, so I wait as they take their sweet time getting out. Of course, one student has to stay behind and ask questions. I want to groan, but I don’t.

When the student finally leaves, I enter, ready to get this over with so I can get on with my life. Maggie peeks up at me from where she’s digging through her bag. Her surprise is apparent but quickly turns to the same fierce determination I recognize from the other day in the stands. I’ve seen this kind of blatant fierceness pointed at me before on the field, but I’ve never met a woman who has the ability. It makes me want to identify and push every big red button she has.

“Sorry, I require ballet shoes and tights in my class.”

I’m not delusional in thinking she’d be happy to see me, but the glare I’m receiving seems a little overkill. “The guy just in here didn’t have tights on.”

“Well, he’s one of my advanced students. You’d definitely need to be in the beginners class, and tights are required.”

“Huh.” I scratch my unshaven chin. “I’ve spent years in football pants, which aren’t much different. I’m not worried, but that’s not why I’m here.”

She stands and crosses her arms over her chest, her head barely meeting my shoulder. Her blue eyes stare into me as she rolls her lips, waiting. I see the hint of a dimple on one cheek as a piece of her brownish hair comes free from her short ponytail and slides down the side of her face. She just lets it hang there like it doesn’t bother her. That severe stubbornness makes my skin prickle, but I ignore it.

There have been few times in my life where I’ve just wanted to see how far I can push things, and for some reason, she makes me want to find every loose string she has and give them all a good hard tug. I have no idea what it is about Maggie Matthews, but this just tells me it’s time to get on with it and get out.

“I came to….”

Her phone starts ringing, and she holds up her finger gesturing for me to wait. I huff. She clearly thinks I have all the time in the world.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. “Hey, Amy. Everything ok?”

I watch as she listens, all color draining from her face like a tank with a leak. Her shaking hand moves to cover her mouth, but she’s not saying a word, just listening. One tear slips out of the corner of her eye and down her cheek.

“How long?” is all she says, closing her eyes. And then, “Ok.”

She hangs up, looking back up at me before squatting to the floor with her head in her hands. I squat in front of her, not knowing what to do as she sits shaking, trying to take deep breaths.

“Hey. Are you ok?” I’ve suddenly gone from increasingly annoyed to concerned.

As if my voice snaps her out of it, she’s immediately up and moving. “I have to go.” She grabs her bag and frantically starts digging through it.

“Hey.” She doesn’t acknowledge me or slow down her panicked search. “How about I drive you wherever you need to go?” There isn’t a chance she should drive herself anywhere in this state.

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