With You

01. The Boy and The Book

01. The Boy and The Book

The grass was slippery with morning dew. I juggled the ball on my knees, catching it with ease and bouncing it off my chest for added flourish. My breath condensed in a cloud of white in front of my lips and I stilled, catching the ball beneath my cleated boot, and stretching my arms up, lifting my chin and cracking my neck.

The sky had turned golden with the sunrise, orange kissing the edges of clouds, washing over my skin, and turning the ball all hues of dawn. Soon, the sky would pale into a cold blue and the real training would begin.

My arms fell to my sides and I rolled the ball under my foot, my joints groaning at the movement.

My muscles ached, sore from a week of training, still not used to my schedule after almost a month of college.

It was intense.

Not only did I have a full schedule of classes to attend, but the coach had set us training four days a week, in the mornings and afternoons, not to mention the strength training and conditioning we were completing before the season began in a couple of weeks.

The exhaustion had quickly settled into my bones. I sighed, pulling my ear to my shoulder, and stretching my neck out again. Just a few more weeks. I could do this.

I tugged at my collar, feeling my shirt sticking to the sweat of my back. I'd tugged the front curls into a hair tie to keep them off my forehead, and I wiped the back of my wrist against it, feeling the sweat slip over my skin.

I turned, kicking the ball up with the tip of my cleats to catch it in my hands. I still had time. I would practise striking for a few minutes before the team arrived and we started training for the morning.

The grass was soft and wet beneath my boots as I traced my path towards the nearest goal post. There, tucked away in a corner just to the left of the goal, sat a boy.

He always sat there, on the floor with his legs folded in front of him. In fact, he'd been there every morning since I started training individually, sitting with his back pressed up against the brickwork. Sometimes, he'd have a cigarette tucked between his lips. All the time, he had a book split open in his lap. Always a different one.

He had dark skin, and his hair was thick and black. His jaw cut sharply towards his chin – strong and square. He seemed like he should be out on the field playing with us.

I wondered dimly why he was there – why he was always there.

It didn't seem like he was there to watch us play, not like the others who came and went, pausing on the sidelines to watch the practise. He just read. Constantly, on the edges of the field, tucked into the corners, blending into the shadows. He sat so still that it was easy to glance right passed him.

Abruptly, the boy blinked, as if realising he was being watched, and slowly, his eyes dragged up to meet mine. I blinked back.

Brown, I thought stupidly.

Brown eyes. Kind of like Aspen's, if not a bit darker.

He stared at me and I stared back. Staring at each other. Then his lips pulled and slowly – it seemed like everything he did was slow – he smiled at me. An arrogant smile. The type that tilted at the corner.

I felt my left eye twitch and spun around – away from the boy, away from the goal post. My fingers were gripping the ball tightly now, heat coursing through my body.

What was his problem? Acting all arrogant just because I'd been looking at him. Obviously, I'd look at him. He was right beyond the goal post!

And, I mean, who even did that? Sitting on the edge of the soccer field, reading a book before sunrise, like it was normal?