Taming the Varsity Player

CHAPTER 12: THE GRAVITATIONAL PULL

​MIKE

​The digital clock on the sleek dashboard of the sports car flickered to 2:42 AM casting a faint blue glow over the dark leather interior. Outside, the empty state highway was a blur of shadows and thick, low-hanging fog, but inside the cabin, the only sound was the low, steady purr of the high-performance engine.

​And the soft, rhythmic sound of Eloise’s breathing.

​I glanced sideways for a split second, my hands tightening instinctively on the steering wheel. The fierce, sharp-tongued girl who had just seamlessly scaled a twelve-foot brick wall and dismantled a Westbridge security lock was completely dead to the world. She had crumbled into the passenger seat the moment we hit the main road, the massive adrenaline crash finally pulling her under. Her 5'9" frame was curled awkwardly against the door, her long legs bent, and her face turned toward the window.

​The claw clip had given up entirely. Her vibrant ginger hair had fallen loose, cascading over the headrest in a wild, soft copper mane that caught the passing headlights.

​A frustrating, unfamiliar knot tightened in my chest.

​At school, it was easy to play the part. I had a script to follow, a pedigree to maintain, and a family legacy that required me to treat anyone outside our circle like background furniture. When I told her she couldn't sit with us at lunch, when I dumped her at the public drop-off gate, I told myself I was just keeping the social order intact. I told myself I was protecting my own perimeter.

​But out here in the dark? Away from the suffocating glint of Allie Grace’s calculating eyes and the relentless gossip of the senior lot? The script didn't mean anything.

​I reached into the back seat with one hand, grabbing my thick, black-and-gold varsity jacket. Without waking her, I tossed it casually over her lap. "You look untidy, Gilbert," I muttered into the empty car, a classic, arrogant cover-up even though she couldn't hear me. The truth was, the night air coming through the vents was freezing, and seeing her wrapped in my heavy wool and leather, her small hands half-hidden beneath the gold embroidery of my team numbers, did something highly dangerous to my pulse.

​When I finally pulled the car through the heavy iron gates of the Weller estate, I didn't stop at the main mansion. I guided the car down the winding gravel path, pulling up right in front of the dark, secluded guest house cottage.

​I cut the engine. Total silence descended over the yard.

​I looked at her again. She didn't even stir. Her pale face looked incredibly soft in the moonlight, completely stripped of the helpless, cynical defense mechanisms she wore like armor during the day.

​Sighing, I climbed out of the car, my heavy sneakers crunching quietly on the gravel as I walked around to the passenger side. I popped the door open and leaned into her space, the rich, comforting aroma of the jollof rice she had cooked earlier still faintly clinging to her charcoal-grey crewneck, mixing with the cool scent of the night.

​"Gilbert," I murmured, nudging her shoulder. "Wake up. We're home."

​She just let out a tiny, soft sigh, her head rolling toward my chest. She was completely out.

​"Unbelievable," I muttered under my breath, but a slow, unreadable smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

​I reached down, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other securely behind her back, lifting her out of the passenger seat in one fluid motion. Even at 5'9", she felt remarkably light against my chest, her head naturally sinking into the crook of my neck as her hand subconsciously gripped the fabric of my black hoodie. My muscles flexed under the weight, my heart doing a violent, frustrated thud against my ribs as I carried her up the wooden steps of the porch.

​I managed to nudge the cottage door open with my foot, stepping into the warm, quiet dark of her living room. I carried her up the narrow staircase, navigating the shadows until I reached her bedroom.

​Depositing her gently onto the mattress, I pulled the thick duvet up to her shoulders, covering her up. For a long, lingering moment, I stood over her bed in the dark, my breath catching as the moonlight illuminated the copper waves scattered across her pillow.

​"You're a pain in my ass, Ginger," I whispered into the quiet room, my voice rough and entirely devoid of the jock persona I wore like a mask. I turned on my heel and walked out, locking the door behind me, entirely aware that the distance I was trying so hard to maintain was completely falling apart.

​ELOISE

​When my eyes finally fluttered open, the harsh morning light was pouring through my bedroom windows. I blinked against the glare, my brain slowly piecing together the chaotic fragments of the night before. The warehouse. The alarms. The terrifying, electric feeling of Mike’s hands gripping my waist to hoist me through the window.

​I checked my phone. It was 10:45 AM. Saturday.

​I groaned, rolling over, but as I did, a delicious, heavenly aroma hit my nose. I sat up quickly, my hazel eyes widening in absolute shock.

​Sitting on my bedside nightstand was a pristine, beautifully arranged breakfast tray. A stack of thick, fluffy golden pancakes dripping with maple syrup, three strips of perfectly crispy bacon, two sunny-side-up eggs, and a tall, chilled glass of vibrant berry juice.

​Leaning against the glass was a small, crumpled piece of lined notebook paper. I picked it up, recognizing the messy, looping handwriting instantly:

​Hey Gilbert! Mike told us you practically saved our varsity equipment last night. Chad and I felt like absolute jerks about what happened at lunch on Friday. Sorry for the drama. Eat up, you earned it!

- Jake (and Chad, who is too stubborn to write).

​A soft, unexpected smile broke across my face. I shook my head, a warmth blooming in my chest. Jake and Chad were chaotic, but they had genuine hearts. Mike, on the other hand? He was a complete riddle. I hated that he had found a way to force us into talking last night after acting like a total monster in the hallways, but I couldn't deny the thrill of what we had done.

​I demolished the breakfast in record time, the sweet pancakes and savory bacon giving me a massive burst of much-needed energy. Today was a historic day. It was my first official day at Spin City Records. My absolute dream job.

​Before getting dressed, I pulled up my phone and opened my text messages. My breath hitched slightly, but I forced my fingers to type out the message to Mrs. Gable, the owner of the stables where my mom and I had worked for years:

​“Dear Mrs. Gable, thank you so much for everything, but I am writing to inform you that I have to step down from my position at the stables effective immediately due to my senior year academic schedule. I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity.”

​I hit send before I could talk myself out of it. A massive weight lifted off my shoulders. I hadn't told the boys yet—especially not Mike—and I intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.

​I jumped out of bed, bursting with excitement as I headed to my closet to curate the perfect first-day aesthetic. I wanted something artsy, comfortable, and vintage. I chose a pair of high-waisted, wide-leg corduroy pants in a rich chocolate brown, paired with a fitted, cream-colored ribbed baby tee. I left my ginger hair completely down, letting the vibrant, copper waves cascade down my back in all their wild glory, and slid a few beaded bracelets onto my wrists. I looked real. I looked like myself.

​Thirty minutes later, I caught the downtown bus, my heart fluttering with anticipation as the urban, bohemian streets of the arts district came into view.

​Walking into Spin City Records, the bell above the heavy oak door chimed musically. The store was empty of customers, the warm morning sun filtering through the giant storefront windows, illuminating the endless rows of retro vinyl and colorful cassette tapes.

​"Look who it is," a smooth, melodic voice called out.

​Ethan Grey stepped out from behind the counter, and my breath instantly caught. He looked effortlessly handsome. He wore a loose, oversized vintage plaid flannel shirt left open over a clean white tee, dark-wash denim that fit his six-foot frame perfectly, and classic canvas sneakers. His soft, tousled dark curls were perfectly messy, and his warm hazel-brown eyes crinkled at the corners, that endearing dimple flashing on his left cheek as he smiled at me.

​"Welcome to your first day, Gilbert," Ethan said, handing me a small silver key to the register. "My uncle already put you on the system. You’re officially the boss of the vintage catalog."

​The next few hours flew by in a glorious, happy blur. Ethan showed me how to organize the 1990s alternative rock section, how to log the incoming vinyl shipments, and how to operate the classic, heavy metal cash register. It didn't feel like work at all.

​Midway through the afternoon, while Ethan was in the back storage room sorting through a new batch of classic cassettes, a soft, nostalgic 90s indie ballad began playing over the store’s vintage speakers. The melody was beautiful, the acoustic guitar strings resonating deeply with my soul.

​Completely wrapped up in my own happiness, I grabbed a feather duster and began lightly cleaning the top shelf of the vinyl crates. Without realizing it, I started humming along to the track. The humming grew warmer, expanding in my chest until I couldn't help but sing the lyrics softly into the empty aisle, my voice carrying a raw, melodic sweetness that echoed beautifully against the brick walls.

​I finished the chorus, hitting a soft, perfect note—only to hear a slow, rhythmic clapping sound from the end of the aisle.

​I spun around, my face instantly flushing a violent crimson as I clutched the feather duster to my chest.

​Ethan was leaning lazily against the wooden pillar at the end of the row, his arms crossed over his plaid shirt, a look of profound, stunned admiration in his hazel eyes. His dimple was prominent as his smile widened. "Wow," he murmured, his voice low and incredibly genuine. "I knew you were brilliant in English class, Eloise, but your voice? That was... stunning. Seriously. You have a gift."

​"I-I didn't know you were listening," I stammered, my cheeks burning hot as I looked down at my corduroy pants, a wave of awkward, flustered shyness washing over me.

​"I'm glad I was," Ethan chuckled sweetly, stepping closer. He reached into a small brown paper bag he was holding behind his back and pulled out a tall, chilled plastic cup topped with whipped cream and a bright pink straw. "Here. A reward for the best performance Spin City has seen in years. Strawberry milkshake. Extra whipped cream, just how you like it."

​I looked at the milkshake, then up at his warm, attentive eyes. My heart did a frantic, happy flutter against my ribs. "Thank you, Ethan," I whispered, taking the cool cup from his hand, my fingers briefly brushing against his silver rings, sending a pleasant spark up my arm.

​By the time 6:00 PM rolled around, we closed up the shop, flipping the neon sign to CLOSED. The evening air was crisp and cool as we walked out to the parking lot. Ethan hopped onto his motorcycle, kicking the stand down, and handed me the spare black helmet.

​"Ready to go home, rockstar?" he smiled, revving the engine.

​"Ready," I grinned, sliding the helmet over my copper waves. I climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping my arms securely around his waist, holding the strawberry milkshake tightly in one hand as the motorcycle roared to life, speeding away from the curb and carrying me into the sunset, completely blissed out.