2. A New Job

Just as soon as I realise that the man who saved me from the crush of the crowd is the same man who minutes earlier had stared me down by the practice field, he bends slightly and heaves me into a fireman carry, perched precariously over the uncomfortable plastic of his football shoulder pads. I yelp and hang on until I’m set down beneath the canopy of a massive sycamore.

Number 07 says nothing, not even as I steel myself and catch his gaze. I was right—his eyes are that terrible, tempestuous blue-grey and, even though I tried to prepare for it, I’m still struck dumb by its intensity. The world disappears from around us, the din of the parade crowd fading as if we’ve gone under water and the amber light of the setting sun seeming to coalesce around him, around my saviour.

He’s no longer wearing his helmet, so I can make out his features more clearly. Something about him seems familiar in a strange way, like something deep within myself recognises him somehow.

His skin is perfectly sun-kissed, and his hair is an artful mess, each strand a different shade of warm gold, gleaming in the scant and dappled sunlight. He’s got a sharp jawline and a nose just long enough to be interesting.

Otherwise, his bone structure is distinct in a way that might be called delicate if it weren’t paired with such heavy brows, which are heavyset but pale enough to prove that he’s definitely a natural blond. Every piece of his face is perfectly proportioned, except for his mouth, for his smooth lips are pale with tension.

But his eyes—his eyes are what capture me. The more I stare into them, the more certain I am that they are the exact colour and quality of a wintry sea.

I lick my lips. When it becomes clear that he won’t say anything, I finally venture to say, “Thank you. I thought I was going to be crushed.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me. Instead, even as his gaze burns through my soul, the briefest flash of pink appears and disappears at his lips, wetting them, and then they’re suddenly moving, mouthing something over and over again.

I suck at reading lips, however, so all I can make out is something like made and my and you.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “What did I make?”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at me and mumbling those same words.

Is he insane? I clear my throat. “Do we know each other?” Surely, if I’ve met him before, I’d remember his name. “Thank you,” I say for the umpteenth time, “for rescuing me from the crowd.” I shift my weight, wanting to flee. “But,” I continue, “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say to me about—”

I can’t finish my sentence, because all of a sudden, he leans in to cover my lips with his own. I’m so startled that I don’t even close my eyes, staring instead into his, which are so close that I think our eyelashes might touch. Hands lift to hold me in this embrace, one around my waist and one around my shoulder as if they’ve always belonged there.

A strange alertness suffuses me, that sense of danger I felt when we were staring each other down earlier by the practice field. I feel as though I’ve been flayed, pinned down for vivisection, my most tender parts lying exposed to the raw autumn air.

But alongside that horror, that sense of fight or flight that had paralysed me momentarily back then, there is also a full-body sense of exhilaration, a thrum of heat and pleasure that courses through my veins and pools at the pit of my stomach, that makes me throb between my legs.

His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip, teasing at the seam of my mouth, and I suddenly return to myself. I bite my lips together, refusing to part them for this man who seems to think that, just because he’s rescued a girl from near death by trampling, it’s okay to kiss her without any warning at all.

A strange vibration surrounds me, something half way between a rumble of thunder and a bestial growl. The arms around me tighten, the hand between my shoulder blades pressing me in and up and the arm around my waist constricting until I feel lightheaded for lack of air.

Just as I’m about to give in, just as I’m about to lose enough self control to open my mouth to this insistent tongue, to surrender myself to the dominance of this kiss, something suddenly shifts.

The arms around me loosen until suddenly I’m stumbling to support my own weight again.

The man shakes his head a single time, as if trying to get rid of a fly.

I back away by a single step as his lips start moving again. I strain my senses, trying to make out the faint words that this man is saying.

“—can’t be, no, I reject y—I reject it.”

“Excuse me,” I say, trying, as ever, to remain composed and rational. “What was that?”

He straightens, taking a half step forward until he looms over me. For a moment, his stormy eyes seem to flash in an impossible way, pupils glaring gold. I feel pinned again, like a doe staring down the nose of her demise.

He smiles, but it’s not an amicable smile, more a baring of teeth than anything pleasant. “Sorry,” he says, tone unreadable. “I—I have to go. This is a mistake.”

With that, he whirls around, pushing back into the crowd and re-joining the parade.

What the fuck? What just happened? Random football player number 07 just, just saved me from death by trampling, forced me into a kiss, then turned tail and left? Part of me wants nothing more than to chase after him, to kiss him again, but I push that part of myself down.

Just because he saved me doesn’t mean I need to throw myself at him in gratitude. I mean, what was that stuff he was muttering earlier, before he suddenly tried to kiss me? You made? My made?

Oh! Or my maid? But that still doesn’t make much sense…

I shake my head to clear it. This is too much. No more parade for you, Cissy, I tell myself

Instead, I return to the safety of the nearly empty street bordering the practice field, lined with colourful stalls that advertise various sports-related student initiatives.

The young man lounging in the sports medicine tent perks up when I approach him. “Hello, are you interested in signing up as a volunteer?”

I give a hesitant smile in return. “Med assistant, actually. Claire Duchamp, the TA for Intermediate Biochem? She said you were short on people.”

“Oh. Uh… What year are you in?”

“Sophomore,” I say.

He smiles apologetically. “We usually only accept applications from students in their final years of study. Without passing the lab section for Advanced Human Physiology or equivalent experience, I don’t think we can hire you. I really don’t know why Claire would—” He shakes his head, then meets my eyes with a politely tilted head. “You didn’t sign on as a volunteer last year, did you? I think I would have remembered…”

Equivalent experience… I square my shoulders. “Oh, it might be because I was talking to her about my volunteer work at the local HSUS. I’ve been there for almost five years, working as an assistant in their in-house clinic. Does that count for experience? I can get some references, too, if that’s necessary.”

﹒﹒﹒

The next Tuesday afternoon, lab report handed in and free of any major assignments for at least another week, I make my way down to the campus stadium. It’s an unseasonably sunny day, as if summer is trying to make one last claim on the year, and I’m glad for the air conditioning when I walk into the sports medicine office.

I sent in all the relevant paperwork over the weekend, and the verdict was that I’d be accepted on a probationary basis at half pay for a month, and be promoted to full assistant status if they decide to keep me on.

The pay is more generous than I’d imagined, but it means that the next month will be busy for me as I juggle this, my college classes, volunteering at the clinic, and working at The Caspian. (I don’t want to quit my waitressing job too early in case I get demoted to volunteer status with this lot.)

“Miss Thornhill?” asks the receptionist as I walk in. She’s a cheerful lady in her forties or fifties, bleach-blonde hair in a french twist that would pass for professional if it weren’t falling apart.

I nod, glancing discreetly at her name plate. “Ms. Ashton?”

She smiles. “Please, call me Debbie. We’ll be seeing plenty more of each other soon.” She rifles through her papers. “Now, they told me you’ll be our newest medical assistant and that you’ll be available for most evening practice times, which limits you to water polo, football, hockey, and basketball.”

The moment she began talking about administrative matters, her air of materteral kindliness disappeared. She speaks in a brisk, no-nonsense sort of way before peering up above the wire frames of her reading glasses for my confirmation.

I nod.

Before I can recite my availability, however, she continues, “If I’m not mistaken, Dr. Moore is still missing an assistant for water polo and basketball on the Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday shifts, and Dr. Vaisley has no assistant at all for the football and cheer teams. Dr. Cortez is full up on assistants for hockey, which is just as well—he’s not the easiest to get along with for newcomers, so I don’t recommend you go for him.”

She pauses, then adds, “Otherwise, you can always wait until the spring season, but those practices won’t start up for another couple months.”

I smile in return even as my insides ice over. Football? For some reason, I hadn’t linked my decision to sign on with the medical team with that number 07 football player from the homecoming parade, but… “I don’t think I can commit to anything that requires Saturday shifts,” I tell her. “I don’t live on campus, and I have work on the weekends.”

A strange expression comes over Debbie’s features—pity, maybe? But then it disappears as she sighs and says, “Football it is, then. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, assigned to Miss Cecilia Thornhill.” She marks it down on a sheet of paper before typing something into her computer.

She looks up when she finishes, saying, “You’ve missed yesterday’s shift, but Dr. Vaisley doesn’t have anyone right now, so if you want to rush down to the practice fields, I can count today as a make-up shift.”

I thank her, beating a quick retreat even as nerves begin to swamp me. I’m just the assistant to the team physician, I tell myself. I won’t have to interact with the players too much. I’ll just do my best to avoid number 07, and everything will go just fine.

By the time I make it to the practice field, I’ve almost got myself convinced. The sky is a peerless blue, and the late afternoon sun beats mercilessly down on fields of synthetic green. Past the bouncing silhouettes of the cheer team, two dozen figures clad in practice jerseys run drills—from one side of the field to another, left of one pylon but right of the other.

I pay them no mind, instead trekking towards the small canvas canopy erected off to the side, in the shade of which sits a slight figure. Only when I get closer do I realise that Dr. Vaisley is a woman, slim like me but much taller, her skin an even walnut brown and her hair pulled back in a tight bun, sleek and severe.

“Cecilia, isn’t it?” Dr. Vaisley says, standing up. “Glad to have you.”

“Yes, doctor,” I say, “but I’ll be taking the Monday-Wednesday-Friday shifts. Debbie said that I should come down today anyways, so I could make up for my missed shift yesterday?”

“None of that—call me Emily, please. And yes, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

“I’m pleased to be here. Emily,” I say, feeling a bit awkward.

She smiles. “Let’s walk.”

I nod and follow as she starts out across the field, heading (to my horror) in the direction of the football coach.

“It’s a shame that the second-day shifts aren’t as popular. People like their weekends too much, I guess,” Emily says.

Before I try to explain myself, she continues, “It’s fine, I’m just teasing. The problem is, if you’re sure you’ll be staying on, you should know that I’ll be scheduling most of the more labour-intensive testing to the days that you’re here, and that’s a mighty heavy burden to give you, new as you are. Are you sure you want to stick with me?”

“I don’t… I mean, it’s not that I mind the work, but why will you be scheduling things that way?” As she pointed out, I’m relatively new to this. No matter how much experience I’ve had tending to animals, cheerleaders and football players are probably a bit more difficult.

Emily grimaces. “You’re not one for gossip, are you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Everyone considers our football players to be a bit… a bit rowdy, let’s say. What I mean is, the Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday shifts are almost certainly going to go unclaimed—the most we’ll get is volunteers.”

She hesitates, then continues, “If you hadn’t signed on, I might have been able to push administration into hiring a spare healthcare assistant from the campus clinic to come in and help, but our budget isn’t vast by any stretch of the means, so if you decide to stay with us, it won’t matter that you’re as green as they come—they’ll reject my case for hiring a professional.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not that I’m not glad to have you, Cecilia,” she quickly adds. “Claire was my last assistant, and she mentioned you to me even before she decided to transfer. I trust that you’re capable; I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. It’s not too late to back out.”

Except I don’t really have another option. “I’m sorry to be an inconvenience, but I’ve got other commitments on the weekends—a part-time job and volunteering. This is the only option that won’t require me to come in on Saturdays. I’ll hand in my notice at work the moment they confirm that I can continue here as an assistant, but the admin told me I’d be on probation for at least a month.”

She sighs. “And the season will almost be over by then.” Too late to gracefully switch out of football, in other words, not when it’ll be the middle of the tournament season.

“Speaking of, why did Claire transfer half way through the season?” I thought she seemed like the eminently responsible sort. I glance at Emily when she takes too long to respond, but I quickly look away again; her expression is not friendly right now.

When Emily speaks again, it’s a non-sequitur: “You seem like a nice girl, Cecilia—I did some research on you—top of your class, one of five scholarship students in the pre-med track, and now you tell me you’ve got volunteering and a part time job besides everything else. You must be very busy, keeping up with your classwork.”

I fight a blush in response to her blatant praise. “I guess. It’s been easier this year than last.”

“I hear that a lot,” she says. “Well, it’s a very impressive resume, but what about the campus social life? Are you involved with any of the clubs or sororities?”

I shake my head. “I’m a bit of a homebody,” I admit. Socialising is difficult enough, but club events and sorority parties are even worse. Getting intoxicated—on alcohol or otherwise—is a bit of a nightmare scenario for me.

“What about a significant other?” The questions seem offhand, but there’s an edge to her tone, and I’m not sure what to make of it. She comes to a stop just out of earshot of the football coach, who’s yelling at his players to partner up and practise passes.

“No,” I say as I step slightly behind Emily, using her to break my line of sight to the football players. “I haven’t had enough time for either of those.” I glance at her, trying to gauge how she’s doing.

She glances back, meeting my gaze. “Good,” she says. “Let’s keep it that way—all of my previous assistants left due to relationship drama, and I would very much like it if you don’t.”

I clear my throat, a bit baffled. “Relationship drama?”

She nods emphatically. “It’s the football players mostly, though the cheerleaders certainly don’t help. Both their coaches advise them not to involve themselves in any serious relationships, but Rob lets his players get away with fooling around. I had some issues in the previous years, but it was never quite this bad.”

She hesitates, then continues with a lowered voice, “I think it’s their new quarterback—Emeric Garvalle. Claire refused to say, but I’m sure he had something to do with her dropping out of the program.”

At this point I’ve realised that she’s serious. I look over at the two neat rows of college boys and ask, “Which one is he, then, this quarterback that everyone’s been talking about?”

Emily seems surprised. “Didn’t you watch the homecoming game?”

When I shake my head, she jerks her chin towards the end of the line, where an eerily familiar figure has just dived to receive a low toss.

From this angle, the numbers on the back of his jersey aren’t very legible, but even before Emily answers, I know what she’s going to say: “It’s him, lucky number seven.”

Yup. It’s the guy who kissed me at the parade on Friday—the one who ran off afterwards.