Faster, harder, more, more...
Sweat is heavily dripping down my face, my lungs are collapsing with their last breaths, and my legs are turned to jello.
"Fuck," I pant, my lungs burning from the intense run.
"Chill out, Sof," Jordan says, her hands on her knees, also struggling to catch her breath after the gruelling sprint.
"You're making the rest of us look bad," she adds with a laugh, glancing at our teammates reaching the finish line.
I walk towards the sideline, hands intertwined and resting on the top of my head. "I need to get better." My voice is breathless, but somehow it is there.
"You are better," Jordan says, joining me and adjusting her ponytail.
"I have to be the best. As captain, there's no room to mess around and give Dean Dick any excuse to give us less than we already have," I say, reaching for my water bottle, squirting the cool water on the top of my head, and pulling off my shirt, leaving me in my drenched sports bra.
"We should all be better." I drag out my eyes, lingering on our other teammates, either just finishing or continuing their sprints.
"Come on, Sof."
"You're 5 seconds slower, Alo." I snap using her last name.
"Good work, Delezar," Coach Smitty acknowledges without glancing in my direction. She's a tall woman, around 6 feet, with the whitest blonde hair and a stoic expression. I strive to be like herâwell-respected. There's no room for a female athlete or a woman in the athletic world in general to mess around. Guys can get away with foolishness because 'boys will be boys,' but as a woman, messing around is a reflection of our entire gender and an excuse to not be taken seriously.
The rest of the team eventually joins the sideline, packing up their things.
"The boys' team is moving in; I want us out before they can think about bitching and moaning," Smitty states, watching us hustle.
I watch as some of them make their way over, gear in hand, some enjoying the view of sweaty girls in short shorts, and the others preoccupied by their phones and/or ball dribbling.
"Look good out there, Sofia." I hear the familiar voice of Max Popov, one of the taller soccer guys standing at 6'2. My only reason for knowing that is that I stalk the athletic stats account in my free time. He pushes back his blond hair with a thin black headband, and his soft blue eyes linger over my exposed body.
"I try," I shrug, offering a small enough smile to be friendly but not big enough to encourage further conversation. Though his physique is killer and his soccer skills unmistakable, I know my limits on men, and Max exceeds those limits.
"Hey, Max!" Sarah, our goalie, chirps, twisting her hair with her finger, diverting his attention.
Good.
"Oh, come on," Jordan drags as we walk towards the showers.
"He was checking you; I mean, he has been for a while; he's an upcoming captain, y'know?" she states, looking back.
"Did he pay you to talk him up?"
"Max Popov speaks for himself," Jordan states animatedly, throwing her hands up.
"Like I've said many times, I don't do athletes. It's my one rule."
"Your rules suck. Not every guy is like..." Before I can even attempt to listen to the must-never-be-mentioned, I place my earpod in my ears and let the music resume where it left off.
Peace.
+++
I've realized I can be intenseâin other words, not as friendlyâwhen I'm stressed out about something, in particular my ongoing war with the Dean. This is why I'm currently in the on-campus coffee shop buying Jordan her favourite overpriced drink, as I was completely out of pocket snapping at her at practice and then drowning her out with music.
As I wait in line, I'm once again hearing of the one and only Stephen Westerman, against my will.
"I heard he got suspended," a redhead loudly whispers to the brunette beside her.
"I heard that! He was blackout drunk," the other girl answers back.
"No, it was because he-"
Oh fuck this
Earbuds are back in, I guess. I don't need the unsolicited drama about Westerman infiltrating my already turbulent thoughts. Finally, it's my turn at the counter. I order Jordan's favourite, trying to make amends for my earlier behaviour, although I know she understands, which is why I don't have many friends and she's my best one.
I find a seat close to the counter, strategically positioned so that when my name is called, it's not a hike to the drink. I finally settle down, and my laptop sits on my lap, finishing up a paper for my Kin major. Deep in thought mid-sentence, I hear my name indicating the drink to be finished, However, that liquid in a cup can wait for ten more seconds while I finish.
In my peripheral vision, I see someone sitting across from me, but nothing, and I mean nothing, is getting in my way until I finish this sentence.
"Here, "My thoughts are interrupted by an unfamiliar voice. And the mint green drink placed down in front of me.
I look up in a state of confusion. Is this some kind of joke? I look around to see many lingering eyes and whispers. Not that I blame them; I can barely understand why Stephan Westerman went out of his way to grab my drinkâor rather Jordan's drink, which he isn't quite aware of in front of me.
"What?" I slowly close my laptop and stare at him. His eyes are dark, almost bored-looking, while he wears a tight douche black t-shirt, making sure to show off his muscular body, a thin gold chain around his neck if it couldn't get any douchier, and grey sweats paired with socks and slides.
"Most people say thank you," Stephen states with a blatant expression, leaning back in the sofa chair across from me. As much as his presence annoys me, it's even more frustrating to see how their not wrong: sharp facial features, decent head of hair...
Too bad, that's all he can offer.
"I didn't ask you to do that." I tilt my head, crossing my leg over my other.
"I wanted to," he interjects, his eyes trailing down my body ever so slightly, leaving me shifting in my seat.
"Why?" I snap. "Aren't you suspended?" I ask smugly.
"Aren't you a little too concerned about my personal life?" He smiles insensibly, showing off his dimples, his words laced with annoyance.
"I don't think a public suspension is that personal; should you even be on campus?"
"Didn't take you for a snitch."
"Don't take me for anything." I retort a mix of irritation and defiance in my tone.
Stephen smirks, unfazed by my retort. "Fair enough."
"Why are you sitting here, Stephen?" I state, done entertaining whatever this is and where it's headed.
"Since you asked so kindly..." he glances at the name on the drink, "Delezar." The way he says my last name jolts my irritation; I only use it in case there are too many Sofias' in the building, saving me from the confusion.
He continues, "I have a business proposal."
"And here I thought you were just trying to be a nice guy," I roll my eyes, "Colour me surprised," I state blandly.
"Look, I get it. I don't know you," he acknowledges, running a hand through his brown hair. "But I need your help."
I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. "My help; like you said, we don't even know each other, so what makes you think I'd help you?"
"Your situation with Dean Richard." My eyes narrow at him, a silent demand for an explanation. What does he know about my situation?
"I think we're done here." I fake a short smile, packing up my things. As I reach for the drink, he snatches it from my grasp, taking a small sip. "Bitter," he comments, and I sense that his remark extends beyond the taste of the beverage. He hands it back to me, and I accept it with a scowl.
"I could get you the support you need."
"I don't need anything from you."
"But I think your team does... captain."
Point Westerman.
"What's your proposal?" I say sitting back down.
"Since the Dean put me on a short leash," he replies with a nonchalant shrug. "I figured it's time for a little image makeover."
"Be my girlfriend."
The audacity of his request leaves me momentarily speechless. The coffee shop's ambient noise becomes a distant hum as I contemplate the absurdity of his proposition.
Are you fucking with me?