Closing Arguments

|15|

Iggy's POV

I was totally off my game. No ifs, buts or confusion about it. The whirlwind that had whisked herself away from the cafe - despite my objections - had left a trail of destruction in her wake.

I'd been lifting less, running slower and missing shots like I'd been relegated to the bench-leagues and I couldn't get the cause of it all to give me an honest answer as to why-the-fuck she'd blasted out of there.

And our library encounter just now had confused me further still - it didn't add up.

Sweat leaked from every cell as I attempted to excavate my soul and frustration one hill sprint at a time. Caning my body had become the only thing that helped, despite its protests. If I was exhausted and riddled with sore muscles it made falling asleep simpler and put the cogs of my mind to rest.

Albeit for 5 hours a night max this past week, I'd take it. Anything to give my mind a break from the whirring thoughts of one infuriatingly evasive brunette in particular.

It didn't help that I had no clue what I'd done wrong. What I'd miscalculated that had caused her to quite literally jet from the cafe. I didn't do this dating thing and unlike on the field or even in class, I had not a clue how to behave.

Coming on too strong, that had to be it. Where I thought I was reassuring Harper I had evidently done the opposite. When I'd made it known that my eyes hadn't wandered elsewhere, my interest was solely on the book worm with a fiery tongue and even more impressive vocabulary.

Fuck, I knew she liked me. So that had to be it? Right? I could be a cocky guy sure, but that confidence came from repeated successful outcomes in life. Where I put in the effort, wins followed. And boy was I exerting all force here to make this a win, to no avail.

Despite her hesitation and outright fleeing, I had no doubt we had something. Her grazing lip movements, that rogue trap of air when I caught her off guard and her breath stilted, to the fact she'd even entertained that not-a-date in the first place.

These were not the markers of an unmatched pair. And as I replayed every interaction in agonising detail to figure out what had caused her flightiness, I drove myself further into a spiral.

Then after a week of bunkering down, today happened. And I was reduced to a middle school boy unsure whether mere eye contact would turn me on or turn me card-red. In this state - both.

I'd been racked with nerves, unsure how to conduct basic human interactions in her presence. Rendered silent on our way to training trying to decompress on how at home she'd felt in my arms.

Summer had offered me a stark warning in our goodbyes, one that hadn't cleared anything up. You've got some cleaning up to do hotshot. Didn't I know it, although it felt more like an oil spill than a trash run.

Exercise offered a release at least. A distraction so welcome I'd overdo it until I'd decoded Harper. So at this rate, without end in sight.

Once I'd emptied the tank on hill sprints it was time for a mini match ahead of next week's game up north. Usually I'd be drilling the lads to rile them up but I didn't have the fuel to keep my own tank running never lone gas anyone else up.

Starting slow I drew my normally singular focus back to the checkered ball at my feet, relishing in the sound of the whistle before I threw myself into the game.

Sending the ball to Prescott on the left I broke forward to drive the defence closer to the goal. Cautious not to taper offside my movements were swift but measured.

Where I'd usually match the fear of my tackling player with a withering glare, I felt my own empty eyes stare ahead in methodical fashion. As if my body could act out the sequence from muscle memory alone and without the need for my heart to really be in it.