8. C H E L S I E

EIGHT

C H E L S I E

Whoever said that counting sheep was a tactic to help you fall asleep was a complete and total liar.

I’ve been lying in my bed for hours. Hours. Tossing, turning, and shifting into new positions, but nothing seems to work.

I can’t fall asleep.

And it’s not that my body isn’t tired. I feel exhausted. My bones ache, my legs feel limp, hell, even my elbows hurt.

My elbows. Can your elbows even hurt?

I need rest, and it’s not my body that’s refusing to give me the shut-eye I need. It’s my mind.

My mind likes to work against me in intricate ways. Some nights, I lie awake because I can’t get a song out of my head. Other nights, I'm lying awake because I’m thinking. But tonight’s different. Tonight, I’m not humming a melody or entering the deep dark spiral that is my mind, I’m trapped. Trapped in the visual that is—Gary Wilkinson.

It’s pathetic and, frankly, makes no sense. I’ve met the guy twice. Twice . And here I am, lying awake at three AM because I can’t cleanse my brain of his stupid smirk, his stupid laugh, but most importantly, his stupid ability to make me fall for it.

“ Ugh .” I reach for a pillow and place it over my head. Yeah, as if that will stop the thoughts from creeping in. “Go to sleep, Chelsie,” I instruct myself, but it’s no use.

My insomnia is just as troubling as the reality that for a split second I was actually enjoying my conversation with him today.

Is he cocky? Yes.

Arrogant? Sure.

Full of himself? Absolutely.

But I know deep down that that's just a front. Or is it?

Things were going so well until his friends chimed in—exposing him for his real intentions and saving me from the hassle of finding out for myself.

Was I wrong to think he’d be any different than any other guy? Any other footballer?

Him and his posse remind me so much of Simon and his crew. They’ve got the same energy. The same banter. Same shitty catcalls and, most of all, the same arrogant leader…

I whip the pillow off of my face and sit upright.

I curse the thought that lingers in my mind.

I can’t do that.

I can’t compare Gary to Simon.

That’s not fair.

They’re nothing alike.

I know I’ve hardly had more than a couple conversations with Gary, but I know for a fact that he shares not a single comparable trait to Simon.

The way he shielded me away from the sexual remarks being thrown in my direction earlier, all the while telling his teammates off, is only one of the many contrasts.

I’m confident Simon used to love when his mates would pester me with alluding comments and an ungodly amount of attention. It fed into his ego. It made him feel big. Like he had something they didn’t. He saw me as a jewel that shined in his favor. Whereas Gary? I could tell that it made him defensive, and Christ, he didn't even know me.

I run my hands through my messy hair. Maybe I was too harsh? Maybe I should have given him a chance—not only to get to know me but for me to get to know him.

I stare back over at the clock.

3:15 AM.

God. It’s shocking just how quickly time moves when you’re at the mercy of your mind.

I reach for the water on my bedside table, taking a quick sip before I fall back down, accepting my fate.

I’m wide awake.

I rub my eyes before I reach for my phone—my fingers moving faster than my mind when I open up Instagram and type in “Crawfield Football Club.”

Searching for Gary’s team feels far less daunting and way more comforting than his social media page itself. Here, I can revoke an accidental double-tap without anyone noticing.

The page has a substantial number of followers—over 90k—accompanied by a verified logo after the username.

As I scroll, I can see that the page is filled with a mixture of content—highlight reels, season stats, and player spotlights. Just as I’m about to click away, questioning what exactly I’m even looking for, that stupid face reminds me of just that.

Player of the week: Number 13—Gary Wilkinson.

Before I can rationalize it, I click on the post, swiping through a series of photos of Gary in the heat of a play until finally, I reach the very last one.

This time, Gary’s no longer on the field. He’s walking out of what appears to be the changing room— shirtless , with a towel slung over his shoulder as he flashes a cheesy grin at the camera.

With his left hand, he’s visibly trying to slick back his hair, yet doing a terrible job as it messily rests at the top of his forehead while his other hand points directly into the camera.

It’s so hard to focus on his smile when my eyes demand that I stare down at the glistening skin of his chest and the way his biceps flex without him even trying. Not to mention, there’s something downright cynical about how he towers over the photographer in the photo. It reminds me of the feeling anytime he stands by my side.

He’s so fit that it’s annoying, and it’s not just me who feels that way. Rather than locking my phone and cleansing my mind of that picture, I hide in the comments, where hundreds of others virtually agree.

As I scroll mindlessly, the comments vary. Some are just explicit use of emojis to convey how hot and bothered they are from the pictures. Others have no problem saying exactly what’s on their mind:

I have to laugh. Unhinged comments might very well be my favorite part of social media. As I continue to scroll, reading through them all aimlessly, my thumb halts in place when I see a comment from an unsuspecting verified source.

Of course, Gary Wilkinson is the type to comment on a picture of himself. Why am I not surprised?

I roll my eyes, yet lose the plot as I click on his profile—stalking his page with caution. Hell, I don’t even select a single image. All I can do is scroll.

Gary is a chronic over-sharer. He’s got over 250 posts that date back to over five years ago.

Is it bad that I’ve scrolled all the way to the bottom?

I punish myself by locking my phone, tossing it across the room, sinking further into my pillow, and pulling the duvet over my head.

With a firm breath out, I force my eyes shut, yet when I finally start to drift asleep, all I can think of is the torturous way I heard him say my name for the very first time.

“ Chelsie .”

“Chelsie!”

I wake up to the same sound as when I fell asleep, only this time, it’s not Gary; it’s Ruby pounding on my bedroom door as I stare at the clock.

1 PM.

“Chelsie?” Her fist continues to make contact. “Are you awake?”

I rub along my face, sitting up. “Yeah…” I croak, stretching my arms out to either side. “I’m awake.”

My voice is less than convincing as a yawn escapes my mouth—all the while, she twists the doorknob and steps inside.

“Chelsie.” She frowns, watching as I fall back into bed, nestling between the sheets. “You can’t keep going to bed so late. You’re sleeping all day and up all night.” She guides her way over to take a seat at the end of my mattress. “Why can’t you sleep, Chels? What’s keeping you awake?”

I rub my forehead. In no way, shape, or form am I about to admit that last night, the cause of my insomnia was none other than Gary Wilkinson. Though I’m sure if I showed Ruby a photo of him, she’d more than understand. She might not play for that team, but she gets it—anyone would.

I sit up again, this time placing my hand on top of hers. “Just restlessness, Ruby.” I try to ease the look of concern in her eyes. “That’s all. I promise.”

She nods, though a part of me can’t help but dwell on the fact that I know she knows there’s more behind my words.

There always is.

“Well…” She re-adjusts herself. “I didn’t want to bug you, but I just wanted to stop in because I was just on the phone with Mum and Dad.”

I gulp at the revelation.

“Really?” I messily brush my hair out of my face, sitting up a bit straighter. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Just small talk,” she explains. “But they did tell me that they were going to give you a call soon. They’re planning something for their anniversary. I’ll leave them to explain the details, but I just thought I'd give you a warning that a call is imminent.”

Relief washes over me at the forewarning, and as if they were listening in, my phone starts to ring from across the room. I stand up from my bed, racing towards it.

“I’ll be here if you need anything,” Ruby tells me, and the second she closes the door, I accept the call.

“Mum… Dad…” My voice is nervous, prompting me to awkwardly cough. “How are you?”

God, I'm terrible at playing it cool, and they haven’t even said anything yet.

“Chels?” It’s my dad who speaks up first. “Everything okay, love? You sound… flustered .”

I clear my throat, pulling myself together.

“Yeah, Dad.” I pace by my bed. “Just busy studying. I’ve got a big assignment I’m working on. Busy, busy, busy. You know me.”

Idiot.

My mum comes to the line. “That’s our girl.” It’s as if I can hear her smiling through the phone. “We won’t keep you long then. We just wanted to call you to let you know some big news!”

“Big news?” I suck in a breath. “What kind of big news?”

“Well…” she speaks up. “Your dad and I are getting married.”

I stop in front of my mirror—furrowing my brows as I ponder their words. Is this the sleep deprivation talking, or did they really just say that?

“Married?” I repeat, voice full of confusion. “Didn’t you and Dad do that like… twenty-five years ago?”

They both laugh.

“Yes, we did,” Dad clarifies. “What your mum meant to say is that we’re renewing our vows. We’re going to get re-married .”

I lean against my dresser. “Really?” I question. “When?”

“Next month,” Dad’s quick with an answer. “It’s going to be a big party. Everyone is going to be there, and we were hoping…” his voice lingers at the end. “That means you’ll be there too.”

My chest tightens. I haven’t seen my parents since the last “party” they held. One that ended in catastrophe. The word is enough to trigger my fight or flight.

“We both know you’re busy with school, sweetheart,” Mum jumps back in. “But it would mean a lot to us if you could come.”

I suppress the urge to release a long, drawn-out sigh, instead, inflating my voice with inquiry. “Where is it going to be?” I can’t help but wonder. “At a venue?”

“Nope,” Dad clarifies. “At the house. We’re getting a vendor to set up something nice in the garden. A tent, perhaps? We’re not sure exactly on all the details, but what we do know is that we’re going to go all out.”

When has a Windsor party not been “all out”?

My parents have always maximized the fact that our family home is situated on a few acres of land right along the water.

Mum and Dad used to say our home was the Hull version of Windsor Castle—I used to love living in that fairytale fantasy. Sure, we’re not royalty by any means, but that didn’t stop my parents from making my childhood feel like one. I never went without. They did everything for me.

“So, what do you say?” Dad’s voice breaks me free from that thought. “Will you be there, Chels?”

I toy with the options in my mind until, ultimately, I know what my answer needs to be.

“Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Mum squeals through the line, her voice full of excitement. “Ah, it’s going to be lovely, Chelsie! We’re so excited. Now, we mustn’t keep you, but we do have to ask: will you be bringing Simon as your date?”

Just the sound of his name is enough to make my legs go limp. I steady myself. “No…” I can barely force out the word. “We broke up, remember? I told you both this.”

Mum releases a sigh of defeat. “We know, but he’s been calling around here saying he can’t find you on the campus. It sounds like he wants to get back together with you. Are you avoiding him, Chelsie?”

My heartbeat intensifies. I can’t believe he called my parents. Christ, talking about Simon was not on my list of things I wanted to do today or ever again.

I need to get out of this conversation.

An idea comes to mind.

I knock on my dresser repeatedly.

“Oh, you hear that?” I continue to knock. “Sorry, Mum… sorry, Dad.” I pretend as if someone is at my door. “Someone is here. We’ll just have to talk later, okay?” I pick up my voice. “Talk to you soon, bye?—”

I end the call before they can so much as breathe.

“ Ugh .” I groan out, falling right back onto my bed. “I should have stayed asleep.”