My Obsession

*Caroline*

Noah Stark might be God’s gift to the female population here at Ohio state University,

Good at football, bad at love. Obsessed with scoring, refuses to play by the rules. Cruel. Relentless. Brilliant. Intoxicatingly attractive. But I want nothing to do with the dark-haired football player.

The guy is an attention seeking know it all who soaks up attention from fans like it’s his due in life for being “hot and talented.”  Despite his demanding reputation and propensity for being the most arrogant a-hole ever to strut Our University’s picturesque campus, everyone wants a piece of him: coaches, scouts, and pretty little campus fangirls with pouty lips and perfect top knots.

All right, fine...I’ll grudgingly admit that Noah is, decent looking. I suppose. I mean if you’re into guys who resemble Greek gods with abs of steel and chiseled pecs, then sure, one could consider him attractive.

Am I guilty of having a tiny, practically non-existent crush on him that started after I moved to  Pennsylvania my sophmore of high school?

I’d prefer not to answer that question.

Thankfully, I quickly came to my senses and have made a concerted effort to steer clear of Noah ever since.  It hasn’t been easy, considering that his face is plastered all over campus with those stupid football posters. College was suppose to be my fresh start, away from him. Away from the rumors a small little town inspired.

My mom wasn’t at fault for taking his fathers job.

Noah’s father was an insufferable asshole, who got fired by his own accord. Apparently their lives went down hill and Noah almost wasn’t able to go off to college.

My first day at a new high school and everyone hated me just because the “it” boy told them too.

Four straight years of infuriating bullying means I was done with his bullshit.

They say, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

But to that I have to  say, “Why not both?”

With a nervousness that makes me annoyed, I take one last look in the rearview mirror to check my hair and makeup. My long, blonde hair is braided in two loose plaits, the soft red streaks peeking out here and there. Makeup is smoky eyes and carefully filled-in brows. Lipstick is dark pink. In a perfect world, I imagine my style gives me a sassy femme fatale look, but the reality is I’m just a short nerd girl with curly hair that I barley am able to maintain. 

The first night back from summer break is always one for the books, the bars in our little college town going all out for the return of students. But going out always run the risk of seeing him with his arm wrapped around some bottle blonde staring at him like she's in love. 

I get out of the car and stop at the heavy wooden entrance. Dread, thick and heavy, stirs around in my stomach as I contemplate how I’m going to react when I see him. Just ignore him Care, it's the best way to have a good year.

I swallow down queasiness as a chilly gust of wind blows, pushing me closer to the door.

Fuck him.

You may not be the most beautiful girl in the room, but that’s not why people dig you. Show Mr god gifts to women themselves that he doesn't bother you and never will again.

The bustling sounds of the bar fill my head as I enter, people laughing and Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” on the jukebox. Fitting. With tables on one side and pool tables and an arcade on the other, the place is decorated like an old-fashioned diner with black and white floors and red stools at the bar. Vintage cars on neon signs blink on the walls

Playing cool and acting as blasé as possible, I take off my coat and drape it over my arm. Tiny beads of sweat form on my face, and I chalk it up to the stares of everyone in the place. They aren’t looking at me, per se, but they are watching the door, waiting for the football gods to arrive.

With a deep breath, I inhale the greasy, yummy smell of fried food. My stomach growls, and I tell it to chill out. There’ll be no messy pizza dipped in ranch tonight. This stupid dress my roomates made me wear is skin tight, leaving no room for anything else.

“There she is! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a person we haven’t seen in these parts in ages. The elusive Caroline Lockwood! Give her a hand, y’all!” The announcement comes from Jessica, the cardigan-wearing, champagne-drinking president of my sorority.

Head floods my cheeks. “Stop that. Attention is what I do not need or want right now.” I scan the room with lowered eyes.

She straightens the headband on her shiny, straight blonde hair and gives me a pointed look. “He isn’t here, Care,” she says, her Southern accent sweet as iced tea. “But I'm sure he will be eventually, you know the football Gods. They love to show up late and steal the show.”

“Who isn’t here?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for it. Nice outfit, by the way. Bold with the red stilettos—makes quite a statement.” She arches an elegant yet somehow condescending brow as she hooks her arm in mine and tugs me toward the front of the bar. Normally, I wouldn’t be so acquiescent to her telling me what to do, but she’s taller than me, and I use her as a shield, hunkering down next to her as we walk.

She stops at a big table right out in the open with a clear view of the arcade,  pool tables, and bar.

Great, just great—right in the middle for everyone to see.

I sigh. “What time did you arrive to score a front-row seat?”

“Chi-Os get the best. I aim to please.”

Jess is a Type A tornado on her way to Yale to get her doctorate in medicene. We’re nothing alike, but we manage. She thinks I’m a little wild, and I think she has a stick up her ass. She's still my bestfriend anyways.

My eyes scour the bar again, and I straighten my shoulders. Be carefree. Be nonchalant. BE THE OLD YOU. Right. Only, there’s a pinch on my right big toe from my three-inch heels, and I end up standing on one foot like a flamingo to ease the pain. To make matters worse, my skin is flaring up all over from the stress of being here and starting the new year. Especially in this outfit. It was a big mistake to wear this, yet I know where my roomates head was when she picked this for me. 

“You’re lupus is flaring up quite a bit tonight with that butterfly rash on your face. Have you been taking your medication?” Jess squints at me.

“Dude, I’m fine.” 

But I’m not. My face and chest feels like a tiny fire is burning underneath my skin. I’m mid-scratch, trying to be discreet as I reach a spot on my neck, when a group of rambunctious partiers pushes past me to get to the pool tables. I stumble in the process, and someone’s cold beer spills down the front of my once awesome but now terrible dress.

Crap.

Double crap.

Well, shit.

I stare down at my wet chest and let out a wail. At least the coldness makes the burn feel a tiny bit better.

The guy in question utters a half-mumbled apology and scurries off towards the pool tables.

“How rude. By the way, I can now see your nipples,” Jess says as she takes a sip from her champagne flute with a giggle.

“Perfect—a flamingo with erect nipples,” I mutter.

He isn’t even here yet and this night already sucks.