Soccer Darling

[ f o u r ] - Broken Feelings

A/N: Here's a little fact—Ernie is a nickname. His real name's Ernest Landon. Ironically, he's not earnest in any way possible.

James Arthwood is one of Lizzie's best buds, and he goes by plain, plain James. He still wishes he has a better name.

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"Ouch," said Ernie, huddling closer to look at the nasty gash on my arm. Then he shuddered and retreated, a look of disdain on his face. "That's awful," he added, stretching the last word.

"The roses," I replied, caressing the dried wound. It wasn't that bad, in my opinion, but in anyone's eyes, they'd most likely think it was. "They've got a new batch of thorns."

"They grow a lot, which is why I tell you to wear gloves," Ernie reprimanded, being the son of Seattle's most well-known florist. His mother Julia's gotten nearly the whole idea of flowers in his head ever since he was a kid, and now he's got this small garden he grows on his rooftop—it's absolutely beautiful, and he's a guy at that—which he modified himself to suit his hobbies. The system's pretty complex, with the automatic sprinklers and all for such a small area of land, so maybe he's part-mechanic too, like his father, who stopped being one because he got a job offer worth a lifetime of noble salary. But still, on occasions, he'd stop by, put his autographed Yankees cap on and fix a fab Porsche or even an old-fashioned 90's lawnmower.

"He loves his old job," Ernie once told me."When things don't go well in the office he'd go and fix everything technical in the house and won't stop till everything's in shape. Then he revs his Jeep up for a drive, just to test his baby out."

"I can't believe he's your dad," I giggled breathily. "He sounds like a moody teenager with manual skills within his fingertips."

He chuckled. "Believe it or not, it doesn't matter."

In conclusion, Ernie's got a happy family, a beautiful garden and I don't need to ask where he gets his bizarre traits from.

Said boy was now foraging through the contents of his messy backpack for some bandages. He keeps it for safety purposes, since he's a very practical guy, so he doesn't need to run to the pharmacy for a roll of it. I watched curiously as his nimble fingers dressed my wounded arm carefully. He seemed to take extreme precaution in avoiding contact with the wound, and by that act alone I found myself unconsciously smiling. It was sweet, but then again Ernie's never been not. When he was done, he stepped back to admire—or what seemed like admiring—his little work.

I averted my gaze to my neatly wrapped hand as well, feeling grateful for the treatment, but somehow my face contorted in what felt like irritation bubbling up from my gut.

"Rose thorns," I cursed.

"That's what makes the rose a dangerous beauty," Ernie said fondly. "And to think that they're one of the main stuff you need to get for Valentine's Day cracks me up."

I paused. "Is it tomorrow?"

He raised his head, confused. "What, Valentine's Day?" he said, pondering for awhile. "Yeah."

"Time sure flies fast." I smiled. "I don't remember the last time I had a valentine."

"I thought you dated someone already," he said, trying to reconfirm his opinion.

I paused, tongue-tied on what to answer him. Would it be an embarrassment to tell him that I had never dated anyone before, much less gotten close enough to any guy besides my best buds, is a question I would never speak of to anyone.