Page 53 of Our Secret Moments

I’ve always beenone to do thingsbeforethinking. I can’t help it sometimes. Ideas, thoughts, words, all come to me spontaneously and without warning, so often and so strongly that I forget what I’m trying to say or do.

It was worse when I was a kid.

I put my poor parents through hell as they nervously watched me from the sidelines whilst I was fully convinced that I would become the best footballer in the world. I’d put myself through rigorous training sessions, encourage my family to go on a juice cleanse just to forget about it a few days after.

My mom and dad were good sports about it. They’d wake me up every day at four and we’d go for a run. I’d try to help cook breakfast and we’d go through more drills throughout the day.

Those phases would only last a few days – weeks if I was lucky – before I’d get back into doing the normal amount of exercise for a fourteen-year-old when the initial adrenaline wore off. There would be days where I’d doubt myself, feeling worthless for not doing the absolute most at all times and I’d go back and forth from giving my all to just doing my best.

I once spent all day in a library researching the different kinds of muscles I could pull whilst playing, making myself sick over recovery dates and survival rates. I’d get lost between websites and books that I wouldn’t even know what time it was. All that I knew was that I had to be careful in every way possible.

I wish I had a reason why I used to do stuff like that, where I’d get my heart set on something for a few days before abandoning it. There’s always going to be that fear that still lingers, that worry of not being good enough or being strong enough, but I know that no matter what, football will always stay as a constant in my life even if I don’t make it to a pro team.

Another constant? The way I feel about Catherine Fables.

You’d think she’s an angel, fucking harps playing in the background and a halo on her head whenever she walks with the way I practically drop to my knees whenever she’s around.

Even as I walk with her now, getting ready for another group interview of the team, she’s trying to ignore the way she was all over me the other morning.

It’s one of those things where I feel like my body knew before my brain did when it comes to her. Having her house across from mine growing up, our little friendship group formed from so young, I always tried extra hard for her to notice me.

At first, I didn't know why I was doing it. I just knew that I wanted to see her smile. She had no siblings, just two parents who loved and cared about her more than anyone in the world.

I remember how shy she was at first, so used to staying in a bubble with her mom and dad, and she was petrified when Wes tried to show her his pet worm he kept in his back pocket, famously namedKangaroo the Worm.

The sound of her hysterical screams was burned into my memory for weeks after that.

After Nora and Eleanor scolded Wes for scaring their new friend, I tried to talk to her for the first time. We sat on thesidewalk after she took a minute to calm down and I brought her a candy bar.

“Why does he have a pet worm called Kangaroo? That’s so weird,” she mumbled, rubbing her nose with her sleeve as she pulled her knees to her chest. I watched the trees in the distance, almost too scared to look at her for too long so I didn’t scare her off. I broke apart the Kit-Kat, holding out a piece of the wafer. She looked at it for a second before taking the piece.

“Wes is weird like that,” I said, laughing at the thought of my friend as I took a bite out of the chocolate. She sighed in response, and I turned to her then, realising that this is probably not how she saw one of her first days interacting with her new neighbours going.

She looked at me, those huge brown eyes still glistening with the tears she had finished shedding as she chewed thoughtfully. I had wanted to touch her for the first time then. I just wanted to hold her the way I would want to be held if I were in her situation.

“Areyouweird?” she asked. She looked like she really needed the answer. I shook my head and her eyes squinted. “I don’t buy it. I think you’re weird. Fun-weird, like me. Not worm-weird like Wes. You’re quiet, too.”

I shrugged. “I thought you were quiet like me. You didn’t talk to me all day yesterday when we played in the sprinklers.”

She shrugged. “My mom says I talk too much, sometimes. She calls me a chatterbox. I didn’t want you all to call me that too, so I didn’t say anything,” she mumbled. I remember thinking to myself that she sounded way smarter than any of the other seven-year-olds I knew.

“I’m not going to call you that,” I said, and her eyes lit up.

“You’re not?” she asked, swiping the melted chocolate from the side of her mouth. I shook my head, grinning, knowing exactly what I was going to say.

“Nope. I’ve got my own nickname for you,” I said, standing up from the sidewalk. I held out my hand, not knowing if I was doing the right thing or not, but she slipped her hand in mine and stood up. Our fingers were messy and sticky with chocolate, but neither of us seemed to care. “I’m going to call you Kit-Cat.”

Her jaw dropped open, completely mortified. “You’re not,” she challenged.

“I am,” I replied, my mouth hurting from the smile it was plastered in. I stood there for a minute, waiting for her to freak out again, but she didn’t. She got used to the idea quickly as a smile formed on her lips and she soundlessly slipped her hand out of mine and started walking in front of me.

As we walked back up the lawn, she turned back and said, “Fine,Connie. Call me whatever you want.”

I thought she was the most fascinating person I have ever met.

I still do.

Especially now, as she walks beside me, clearly aware of the fact that I’ve not been able to stop looking at her since we walked from her dorm to the sports classrooms.

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