Letters to my crush

ARIA POV

Yesterday, I had stayed late after my late-night economics class, walking past the sports complex on my way to the library. I had stopped near the big metal trash bins outside the locker room doors just in time to see the team filing out, laughing and shouting. And right at the top of the open trash can lay my white envelope, crumpled up, unread, and discarded like garbage.

A bitter wave of shame washed over me again at the memory.

Of course he threw it away, I thought bitterly, tossing the fresh letter into my desk drawer and shutting it tight. Why would the star hockey captain care about an anonymous note from someone who doesn't even have the courage to show her face?

And even if I did, I'd be a joke beside the most popular hockey player. And as what, his girlfriend? I let out a mocking laugh…. “In my wildest dreams.”

I buried my face in my hands, letting out a long, ragged breath. I was tired. I was so tired of hiding, so tired of feeling like a ghost in my own life, invisible to the people I liked and a target for the people I hated.

I grabbed my phone from my bag and stared at the dark screen.

No more letters, I decided, a sudden rush of reckless adrenaline coursing through my veins. If he throws them away, it's because it's too easy to ignore a piece of paper. If I want him to actually see me, to actually know me, I have to talk to him.

My fingers were shaking as I opened my photos app and scrolled back to a picture I had taken two weeks ago in the athletics office. I had gone in to submit my work-study application and had noticed an official paper sheet pinned to the corkboard labeled: CRESTWOOD HOCKEY ROSTER & DIRECTORY.

I zoomed in on the image, scanning the names until my eyes landed on the captain's line:

REED, BLAKE — #88 — [phone]

My heart pounded violently against my ribs. It was stupid and dangerous. If anyone found out I had stolen a player's private number from an executive log, I’d be mortified.

He doesn't know it's you, I reminded myself, my thumb hovering over the screen. He doesn't know your name, your face, or what you look like. You can just be... someone else. His type of girl.

I opened a new text message window, carefully typing the eleven digits into the top bar.

My palms were sweating. I typed out a message, deleted it, typed another, and deleted that too. Everything sounded too desperate, too awkward, or too creepy.

Finally, I closed my eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and let my fingers fly across the keypad before I could talk myself out of it.

[Unknown]: Do you always throw away things you haven't even opened yet, or was my letter just special?

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the send button. My heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears.

Click.

The message sent. A small blue bubble appeared on the screen.

I immediately slammed the phone face-down onto the desk, pushing myself back from the chair as if the device were a live explosive. I stood up, pacing back and forth across the soft carpet of my bedroom, running my hands through my hair.

"What did you just do?" I whispered out loud, terror and excitement twisting together in my stomach. "What if he blocks you? What if he reports the number?"

Five seconds passed. Then ten. Then thirty.

Silence.

I let out a shaky breath, a strange mix of relief and disappointment washing over me. He probably had his phone on silent, or maybe he was out at some wild fraternity party with Jaxon and the rest of his elite friends, ignoring random messages from strangers.

I walked back to the desk, picking up the phone to set it on the nightstand and finally go to sleep.

Just as my fingers touched the glass, the phone vibrated violently in my hand.

A new message notification popped up across the top of the screen.

My breath caught in my throat. I slowly turned the phone over, my eyes widening as I read the reply from the number I believed belonged to Blake Reed.

[[phone]]: I don't usually keep trash. But if you're the one leaving those pathetic notes in my locker... you've got five seconds to tell me who you are before I block this number.

I stared at the screen, a sharp, nervous thrill shooting straight down my spine. The tone was harsher than I expected from Crestwood's golden boy, colder, sharper, almost dangerous.

I bit my lower lip, my hands trembling as I sat down on the edge of my bed. I didn't back down. For the first time in months, hiding behind the safety of a screen, I felt a spark of pure, unfiltered confidence flare to life inside me.

I tapped the screen, typing out a response with a slow, wicked smile spreading across my face.

[Secret Girl]: Make it ten seconds, Captain. And I'm not telling you my name. You're just going to have to guess.