The Football Star's Plus Size Obsession

Chapter 6: The Message

Mia's POV

By Wednesday, the whispers have mostly died down. That's how it usually goes, something new always comes along to replace the last thing.

I'm at my locker before third period when Madison's group walks by, I don't look up, but I hear them slow down near me, and my whole body goes tight the way it does whenever that happens.

"Careful," one of the girls says, not even bothering to lower her voice. "Don't want to squish her."

A couple of them laugh, Madison doesn't say anything, but she doesn't stop them either, she just watches, arms crossed, like she's grading the performance.

I keep my eyes on my locker, counting the textbooks I need for the day, slow and deliberate, like if I move carefully enough, I can make myself smaller than I already feel.

"Ignore them," Ines says once they're gone, sliding into the spot beside me like she's been standing guard the whole time.

"They're bored. That's all it is."

"I know."

At least, I'm supposed to know.

I've heard things like that so many times that I should be used to it by now but somehow, it still hurts every single time. The words stuck in my head long after they've walked away.

I don't cry, I don't even feel like crying, I just feel this heavy feeling in my chest, the kind I'm used to carrying around, and for the rest of the morning, I keep it to myself.

Things stay quiet for the rest of the day, allmost too quiet, though I don't let myself think too hard about that at the time. Later that night, my phone buzzes with a message that I wasn't expecting.

It's from a number I don't recognize, but the first line makes my stomach drop anyway, “hey, it's dylan, I got your number from someone because i wanted to ask you something. I stare at it for a long time before I respond. Dylan's never texted me first, not once, not even during the project. It's always been me answering something he already started in person, or the group chat doing the talking for both of us.

I tell myself it's about the project maybe something about the poster, or the presentation, or a detail in the reading he wants to double check.

Sure, what's up?

The reply takes a few minutes, long enough that I read my own message back twice, wondering if it sounded too eager, too flat, too anything. “can you meet me after school tomorrow? by the east field, behind the bleachers, I want to talk about something”

I read it four times, behind the bleachers isn't exactly project territory and it actually isn't anywhere people go for schoolwork at all.

Sure. What time?

3:30 good?

Yeah, see you then.

I put my phone down and immediately pick it back up, rereading the whole conversation like it might say something different the second time but it doesn't, It just sits there, plain and ordinary, giving me absolutely nothing to work with except the fact that Dylan Hayes wants to meet me somewhere private after school tomorrow.

I don't sleep much that night, I tell myself that it's probably about the project, I know that isn't true tho, not really, but it's easier to say than the truth, which is that some small, stupid, hopeful part of me has already started imagining things I have no business imagining.

The next morning, I catch myself staring at my reflection a little longer than usual before leaving the house, I'm not fixing anything tho, just looking, wondering what everyone else seems to see.

Mom asks if I'm feeling okay at breakfast, I tell her I'm fine. She doesn't push it, but she watches me a little longer than usual before she heads out the door.

At school, the day drags in a way it never has before, every class feels twice as long and I catch myself watching the clock more than I watch the board, counting down towards 3:30 like it's something solid I can hold onto.

Ines notices, of course. She always notices

"You're being weird," she says at lunch. "Weirder than usual."

"I'm not being weird."

"You've checked the clock four times in the last two minutes."

I don't have a good answer for that, so I just shrug and change the subject, and she lets me, even though I can tell she doesn't believe me for a second.

"If this is about the project," she says, "just tell me now so I can stop worrying you're about to do something dramatic."

"It's about the project."

"You're lying."

"Maybe a little.”

She doesn't push past that, but she gives me a look on her way to class that says she's going to want the full story tomorrow, whether it turns out to be good news or bad.

By the time the final bell rings, my hands are actually shaking a little. I tell myself it's nothing, I tell myself it's just a conversation, and there's no reason to build it up into something bigger than it probably is.

I don't listen to myself. Not even a little.

I head toward the east field anyway, heart beating too fast, already halfway convinced this is the beginning of something good.