Emerson Castell loves facts.
Enjoying the how and why of everything, she never fails to let her obsession seep into every aspect of her life, including her relationships - or lack thereof.
Leo Caruso is no stranger to a busy social life, but after...
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Whether we like to admit it or not, we all have an ego.
Guys especially.
Every now and then I pondered the exact reason as to why there seemed to be a surplus of guys with inflated egos but the personalities of a collection of rocks. They were the ones always insistent they were capable of certain things even when they weren't.
The only simple, logical answer I came up with was that we're assholes.
When I thought about it more deeply, I realized that it came from the ingrained characteristics in most of us. We had to be tough and impressive, we had to know what we were doing, or else—God forbid—we looked weak.
And even no matter how many people protested the attributes society pressed, I didn't think many guys would change anytime soon.
I wasn't exempt from this either. In reality, I had no idea how to act around someone like Emerson. I felt like she could always see my motives, even if I tried to hide them. I didn't know how to impress someone like her, but more importantly, I didn't even know what we would do today.
I actually told here I was free today when I still had no idea what to do with that free time.
That slap was still pretty fresh in my mind.
"Heads up, Leo!"
The ball came sailing towards me, and I stopped it at my feet. Our coach believed that no one on the team had any talent in passing, so it was another practice almost solely dedicated to that. I found it absurd that that was the only thing he felt we needed to work on. We had more losses and ties than wins, but it was because everyone seemed to forget the "team" part of "soccer team."
Maybe if they did, I wouldn't have had to be at an additional Sunday practice at eight in the morning.
I let out a yawn and passed it on to the guy next to me eagerly awaiting time with the ball. Santiago received it and then kicked it across the field to the next person in one clean shot. I jogged towards him.
"I don't know why Coach is so obsessed with passing," I told him, placing my hands on my hips. "Did he just give up hope on us?" I glanced at his face, and unlike most times, he seemed upset. His mouth was downturned and there were dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't had a good night's sleep in a while.
"It's ridiculous, I know," he answered, rolling his eyes and stretching out his arms. There were faded bruises scattered across the tops of them. "The only reason we even have any wins is because of us."
"Hey," I began, darting my eyes to his arm and then eyes once again. "Are you okay?"
Santiago raised an eyebrow. "Why are you asking?" His tone didn't sound defensive, which made me wonder if I was wrongly concerned or he had become great at dodging this question.
