Racing Down Sunset Boulevard

Chapter 10

Nate's POV

My chosen spot was far back enough that even if by any chance either of them were to look for me in the crowd, spotting me would prove on the positive side of impossible. Wearing a baseball cap and a pair of aviator sunglasses, I had no qualms with the burning sun as I watched the stadium gradually fill with an astounding variety of people.

From family members of the team players standing out with painful obviousness decked head to toe in their son's team colours like miniature mascots, to football enthusiasts eager to witness the debut game in the Champions league and even a couple notable people who seemed to mean business, flocking together in their box seats, undoubtedly cursing their decisions to wear custom made suits to a clammy stadium but nonetheless acting as if our superiors, too high up for us to hear more than their hearty practiced laughs.

But my attention wasn't focused on the enthusiast, families, agents or the baby girl wailing on the far side of my row about dropping her cotton candy. Numb from my lack of movement, I shifted, scooting lower into the slightly rotten plastic chair, which not only gave me the prefect view of the goal keeper's gate Gage would be defending in approximately fifteen minutes from now, but also the front row seat which despite the onrush, had remained stubbornly empty.

Not for much longer now though, as I watched a lithe figure make its way through the settling sea of sweat and anticipation, which paid little heed to a head of long hair shyly parting the crowd with moonstone arms, hair a thousands shades of gold, copper and silver as it caught the light of the setting sun and cast a kaleidoscope of colours reflecting on every available surface. The ghost of a smile shadowed my lips but was quickly stopped from taking root lest I split my lip any further than I want it to. The point is to elicit sympathy for a handsome and unfairly beaten up man, not pity for my mangled face. Thin line to walk.

Gingerly, I brought a hand to my swollen eye, now ugly and blackened, trailing it down to the cut hazardously cut by my pocket knife two days prior and satisfied with the swollen sensation, brought it to massage the tender spot at the back of my head, a full fledged bump hidden under my precariously placed baseball cap.

The sudden roar erupting from the crowd made me refocus my attention on the field, where the teams had both just made their appearance. It wasn't difficult to spot Gage, easily towering over a good part of his teammates and seeming busier searching the crowd for a certain someone than paying attention too his coaches last minute motivational glib. Let gage be the one to put personal matter over team morale. I scoffed loud enough to earn myself a side eye from the man sitting to my right, sporting a potbelly and a salt and pepper moustache. As for the generic foam nb. 1 oversized index finger, I had slightly more creative ideas for its use than nonsense and uncoordinated air waggles.

Gage's POV

I've never felt such jitters during a match before. Even when placed for the first time in front of a cheering and jeering crowd, there was no cold sweat, or tremors. I had always been considered a crowd swooner and had never felt any kind of stage fright. But today, quakes of anxiety and anticipation rose under my skin as I searched for the designated seat, praying for her to be there.

Despite having her confirm she'd come, I couldn't help but loose a sight of relief when I saw her small figure in the crowd, standing out starkly in monochrome, clashing with the sea of red and greens around her. I could faintly hear coach give us some last minute memo, instead allowing myself to take her in, and solidify my resolve. Those amber eyes flecked with gentle gold flakes that had always reminded me of something curious yet dainty and fragile, yearning to be uncovered. I wasn't sure I'd see them again. I had felt her pulling away, turning cold and resolute.

Too frightened of what her voice might sound, I limited myself to text, which allowed my imagination to roam unchecked, and of course, in my detriment. Imagining her in Nate's arms, looking at him with the same yearning she used to look at me, the same vulnerability, was enough to make nausea roll through me in waves. Ari was the one who had told me that something unvoiced isn't truly real, but wasn't believing it to be real just as bad? Seeing her here, like so long ago, when I first invited her to watch me play on a dreary November morning, gave me hope.