Deflower

Chapitre Vingt-Et-Un

"Do we really have to be here?" Lourdes voice practically whirled with annoyance, as she questioned Victoria, but she had placed a mask atop her pretty face, one that consisted out of amused eyes and a contended grin—and no man or woman around her could have possibly suspected that she did not feel amused, per the expression on her face effortlessly made them believe, but rather blasé towards what was going on. Untidily mussed but perfectly disheveled, from the nap she had taken moments prior, Lo found it not only arduous to withhold her thick hair from whipping against her face every two seconds, but to keep her eyes open whilst she stared at the field. Others blatantly, outrageously enthusiastic—specially the female members of the audience, but she supposed that that was certainly to blame upon the fact that both Kyle and Allistair were playing—, Lourdes was fairly unenthusiastic.

Her red sweater—paired with a hemmed skirt and black moccasins and white socks—wasn't particularly sufficient to protect her against the fresh breeze that the earliest of the morning brought along with it. Victoria, solemnly standing next to her, as though it was her own honor that the boys upon the field were defending, frowned upon Lourdes' intent reluctance towards the effort the boys were making to rescue the tainted reputation of their town, in regards to sports—it was no secret that the local team wasn't the best of the country, and so had been proven by the opponents time after time. This time, though, the coach had as though sworn upon his mothers very grave, that they'd win. Lourdes highly doubted it.

"Of course we do! How can you be so cold?" Victoria Berlin flipped her hair, her voice accusatory. It was a face Lo had grown accustomed to, for as dulcet toddlers, they were one another's best girlfriends—once Victoria managed to catch the eye of the shallow band of girls, the ones void of self-respect and care for solely clothes and boys, however, she neatly shoved Lourdes to the back of her brain and distanced herself from her—but yet, as Lourdes attentively studied her features, all she saw was a stranger. "Listen, the team should be our pride and joy, not our biggest possession of shame. They're doing their best. And, aren't Kyle and Allistair, like, friends of yours? The least you can do is support them."

Victoria, for once, didn't sound too dumb, and was perhaps, even, right—Lo had to admit that. But on the other hand, Lourdes could only wonder why she, in that case, stood there, vividly cheering for Allistair and the other young boys as though her life depended upon it—whilst he'd disrespected her and had not even recognized his own mistake. But then again, Lourdes knew, and could almost understand—had it not been for her intent belief that women should not allow the other sex to treat them as though they were all foolish and naïve and easily lured into bed by sweet words and listing up their qualities—because Allistairs classically handsome grin had been almost enough to disarm anyone; and perhaps that was how he charmed, and bed, girl after girl without having to try too hard.

Speaking about Allistair—the boy had done his adamant best to not make certain the team would win, but to prance around the field whilst looking his best, as well. He loved standing out and drawing attention. And to him, only, because every time that Lo would even slightly place her eyes atop the figure of another player, Allistair would raise the fabric of his shirt, to reveal a tendon of his stomach—of his toned abs, and no fiber within the rationality of the audience withheld them from enthusiastically—Lo would rather call it foolishly— chanting toward him as though they were lunatic fans to the forbidden British boy group; as though Allistair was one of them, rather than a mere boy from a humble town of no special talents like John Lennon or any of his peculiar comrades.

But if Lo had been obliged to speak the truth, Allistair was the pride of the team. She didn't pay much of attention, but when she did, it was at Allistairs feet that the ball pranced. Otherwise, Kyle was the golden boy of the team—and if watched carefully and objectively, he was much better than Allistair, too—but per he had been forced to take a seat upon the side of the field by the coach, which had led the older man to receive a tirade of cuss words and inevitable profanity, it was all Allistair who took charge of the game. It was he, who, as a closing act, as his own soliloquy, made the final goal—before completely undoing himself of his shirt—that orchestrated the bystanders to scream, to chant, to cheer, with joy. Lo found herself unable to do anything but roll her eyes at this; at both the fans and the performer, as though she had taken the role of the moody and insatiable critic who could not utter a word of positivity. That wasn't even too far from the truth, she had to admit to herself.