OBSESSED.
So I’m sure Stella McCartney–what a stupid name–is getting off on a major power trip right now, telling all of her friends that she has Gage Weston by the short and curlies. As long as she helps me pass the history course, she can brag all she wants–l
just need to be on the field.
Lately, being on the gridiron has been less about football and more about the temporary relief I get from the constant anger
when I’m tackled hard. But that’s another story.
I stop in front of her closed dorm room door and wrap my hands around the jamb. She’s in there, chattering away on the phone, and I have to resist the urge to kick in the door, splinter it right there on the hinges. Just to set the tone. I’m going to let her teach me the shit I need to know to pass the test and play in the championship game, but that’s where it ends. I’m not her
shortcut to popularity or claim to fame. God, I hate her already. I
hate everyone.
Especially him. For leaving. For checking out early.
What the hell is the point of this anymore?
Breathing through the wave of emptiness that passes through me, I bang a fist on the door, ready to finally meet this chick. Stella. Apparently she’s the campus genius. Too bad she sounds like a basic idiot from this side of the door.
And when she opens that door and we come face to face, I’m
OBSESSED.
relieved to be right. Already I can’t stand her. She looks like
every other fucking cheerleader or co–ed who follows me around campus with dreams of babies and a mansion in their heads.
Fuck that. I want nothing to do with any of them, especially
since the funeral. I had hundreds of them during my first three
years at the university and I can’t recall a single face, so what would be the point, anyway?
My scowl doesn’t stop her from twisting hair around her finger and giggling. “I can’t believe it. Mr. Gage Weston himself in my
dorm room.”
“Yeah, Stella,” I grit, bitterly, wishing I had a fifth of whiskey in
my hand. “Lucky you.”
“Oh, I’m not Stella,” she laughs, as if it was a wild assumption. “Stella is my roommate.” She cups a hand around her mouth and whispers, “Poor you.”
Irritated that this girl, who is apparently not the campus genius, has wasted a full minute of my life, I duck beneath the door frame and enter the room, my stride pausing when I see the other occupant. She’s sitting on a twin bed with her head bowed, curtains of messy blonde hair hiding her face. Her green cardigan is old and thin, buttoned up to her chin, knees pressed together in her leggings. There’s a Western Civilization book in her lap and she appears to be holding on to it for dear life.
“Stella,” I say, my voice a hell of a lot softer than when I
OBSESSED.
relieved to be right. Already I can’t stand her. She looks like
every other fucking cheerleader or co–ed who follows me around campus with dreams of babies and a mansion in their heads.
Fuck that. I want nothing to do with any of them, especially
since the funeral. I had hundreds of them during my first three
years at the university and I can’t recall a single face, so what would be the point, anyway?
My scowl doesn’t stop her from twisting hair around her finger
and giggling. “I can’t believe it. Mr. Gage Weston himself in my
dorm room.”
“Yeah, Stella,” I grit, bitterly, wishing I had a fifth of whiskey in
my hand. “Lucky you.”
“Oh, I’m not Stella,” she laughs, as if it was a wild assumption.
“Stella is my roommate.” She cups a hand around her mouth
and whispers, “Poor you.”
Irritated that this girl, who is apparently not the campus genius, has wasted a full minute of my life, I duck beneath the door
frame and enter the room, my stride pausing when I see the other occupant. She’s sitting on a twin bed with her head bowed, curtains of messy blonde hair hiding her face. Her green cardigan is old and thin, buttoned up to her chin, knees pressed together in her leggings. There’s a Western Civilization book in her lap and she appears to be holding on to it for dear life.
“Stella,” I say, my voice a hell of a lot softer than when I
OBSESSED.
addressed the other chick…and I have no idea why. “Are you
Stella?”
She nods, her knuckles turning white around the textbook. Is
she scared of something? I wouldn’t blame her. She looks like
she could be picked up and carried away by a gust of wind.
“I’m Gage Weston.” I duck down a little, trying to see her face,
frowning when she only hides it further. “Obviously you
remember we have a tutoring appointment since you’re holding
the book. Are you…?” I really don’t understand the weird
discomfort in my chest. Different from the ever–present anger.
More like concern or anticipation. I don’t know. “Is everything
okay?”
She nods again. Says nothing.
Frowning, I look around the dorm room. The girl who answered the door is back to sitting on her bed and she’s taking sneaky pictures of me, as if I wouldn’t notice. I’m sure they’ll be all over Twitter and Tik Tok by tomorrow morning, but I can’t find it in
me to give a shit.
No, what draws my attention, instead, is the way the dorm room
is divided.
Stella has been limited to the island of her tiny bed, while this girl’s stuff is everywhere. She’s taking up ninety percent of the room with her Taylor Swift posters and furniture and clothes. It‘
OBSESSED
s obvious where her section of the room ends and Stella’s
begins, because my tutor’s portion is bare and sparse and
small. Too small for a person to breathe in, let alone live.
“Hey,” I bark, jerking my chin at the cheerleader–type. “Is this all your shit?”
The phone drops into her lap and she goes from flirty to belligerent in about two point five seconds. “She said I could have most of the space.”
“Did you say that?” I ask Stella.
Several ticks of silence go by.
Then she looks up at me, the blonde hair falling back to her shoulders. And my stomach takes a dramatic dive, the way it
does when a roller coaster plumets from a great height. Why
can’t I fucking breathe? I actually lurch for the wall to stabilize myself, but I don’t–I won’t take my gaze off of her. Jesus.
Jesus.
She’s so solemnly beautiful with her big, serious eyes. What fucking color is that? Purple? Some undiscovered shade of blue? Her mouth is unpainted and soft and wide. And I don’t know how I can tell she rarely uses it to speak, but I do. I just know. I just know everything she’s thinking in a single instant, almost like we’re using telepathy.
“No, she didn’t,” I growl at the other girl, without taking my
OBSESSED.
attention from Stella. “She didn’t say you could take up the whole room. Have it fixed by tomorrow or I’ll do it for you.” I
point at the door. “Right now? You can leave.”
“Leave?” she screeches, shooting to her feet. “This is my room
”
“Cool story. Find another one.”
It takes her a minute to gather up her things and stomp out of
the dorm room, slamming the door behind her. During that
minute, I can’t look away from the quiet little genius sitting in
front of me, shivering as if she’s scared. Of me? Oh God, I don’t
know why, but I absolutely cannot have that. My whole life is about intimidating other people, that’s how I’ve been an All-
American two years running. But if this fairy is afraid of me, I
think it might tear me open like a knife through a sack of flour.
“It’s okay,” I say, gently as possible.
Her chest starts to rise and fall quickly.
“Should I not have made her leave? Are you scared to be alone with me?” When she only continues to watch me like a timid rabbit, I have no idea what comes over me. I have no idea, but I kneel. I kneel down and slowly remove my jacket, tossing it on the floor, holding up my hands. Showing her I’m huge and strong, but I’m just a man? I have no idea. I have no idea what’s happening at all, but my heart is going to burst out of my body
any second now. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Stella.”
“I’m not afraid,” she whispers.
My world grinds to a halt. That voice. That voice. Every syllable out of her mouth is like a warm washcloth being dragged across the grime inside of me, wiping me clear. Cleansing me. I have to dig my fingers into the back of my neck to prevent myself from crawling forward and burying my face in her lap. “Why are you shaking?”
“You stood up for me.” Her tone is totally incredulous. “I didn’t
expect it.”
“You needed me to, right?” I look around at the possessions
OBSESSED.
Gage Weston has a stellar reputation that extends from the classroom to the football pitch. West Dale High’s football god, a knight–in–shining armour to the girls, and everyone’s personal favourite. But this all fades away in senior year. Family issues and scrapes with the law waters down everything he’s built and now he has no option but to be tutored or he’ll get kicked out of the championship game.
One look at Stella McCartney, and his world comes tumbling down.
She’s beautiful. She’s kind. She’s the quiet, campus genius, and she sets his adrenaline racing. His methods of keeping her to himself are nothing short of extreme. Will he ruin this one last good thing too?
