Chapter 22: Xavier

Chapter 22: Xavier

I wonder what she’s writing.

She’s bent in half, huddled over her desk, almost like that Horton Dibble in school who was terrified that everyone was trying to cheat off him, so he had to protect his paper at all costs. He was a bit of a dunce, so no one ever wanted to copy his answers, but that’s neither here nor there.

One dark plait makes a line down her back while the other is tucked in front of her shoulder. She’s changed into her sleep clothes, complete with fuzzy socks that look like something my mum would wear on a cold winter night.

Instantly I’m hit with a pang of homesickness that feels as if someone has slammed into me while charging for the ball. What would Mum think of this situation? I know she’d love to have me home with her and Da, but she also wants me to play, no matter the cost.

I’m going to have to read that bloody contract to see what it says about telling our families. Not that Mum would think poorly of Ophelia for entering into this arrangement. In fact, she’d probably smother her with love for helping me out. I do think the two of them would get on famously.

It would be easy to do, smother Ophelia with love. She’s earnest and open, reading like a book. She’s sweet and naive almost. Maybe to a fault. She doesn’t have a devious bone in her body.

Of course, that’s what I thought about Phaedra too before she hung me out to dry and all but ruined my career. Hell, I’m here in this predicament right now because of Phaedra’s innocent looks and her pleas for help.

But Ophelia Finnegan, in her baggy pajamas and plaits, with a mouth that rambles on saying whatever pops into it, is about the furthest thing from Phaedra Jones as you can get. Not that I’d even be tempted to be sucked in again. And I was trying to help Phaedra, a fat lot of good it did me. This is totally different because Ophelia is helping me.

There’s nothing she wants from me and nothing I can do for her.

And that’s how it needs to stay.

All business.

So I should probably quit standing here, staring at her like a creeper, watching her work. But she seems so absorbed that I hate to disturb her.

On the other hand, I can’t just stand here forever, so I clear my throat.

"Oh!" she exclaims, sitting up quickly and slamming her notebook shut. Her blue pen skitters across the desk. She whirls around in her chair and clutches the book behind her back.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looks guilty about something. But what could she have been up to, with paper and a pen? It’s probably simply another Ophelia quirk. I have a feeling I’m about to find out that many more exist.

And each one is more adorable than the last.

I nod toward the couch as I step closer. "Thanks for getting this set up for me. If you don’t mind, I’m going to turn in."

Ophelia stands up, still clutching her hands behind her back. "No, you’re not staying out here. I want you in my bed."

I blink, knowing what she means, but also not able to stop my brain from going to a place that she’s not referring to at all.

Ophelia squeezes her eyes shut tightly and pinches her mouth into a flat line. "That’s not what I mean. I don’t want you in my bed. I mean, no offense because you’re smoking hot, and I bet you could squeeze a lemon with those thigh muscles." Her words stop as abruptly as they started, but it’s too late. They hang in the air, like a cartoon thought bubble.

"I’ve never actually tried that, but the next time you get a hankering for lemonade, let me know, and I’ll see what I can do." If I were cheeky, I’d wink at her.

Now her mouth flops open for a moment before she slams it shut, swallowing hard.

Right then. Perhaps that was a bit out of line. "Sorry, I’m not sure why I said that. Let’s chalk it up to late-night fatigue. And I’m not taking your bed while you sleep out on the couch."

"The couch is too short for you. You’ll be more comfortable in the bed, and that’s final. You told me that you value your sleep, and this is the best way for you to get it. Also, I have to get up for work in the morning, so this way you can sleep in undisturbed. I’m still working from home. Right here." She points to the desk.

I don’t know how to let her know that I’m usually up by five to work out. Nevertheless, I appreciate what she’s trying to do for me. When you’re a professional athlete, even a lesser-known one, most people think about what you can do for them. How your hard work, your blood, sweat, and tears, can be of a privilege to them.

It’s probably why I don’t have many people in my life, short of Tony, whom I pay to be there, and Alastair. Sure my mum and my da, but they too benefit from my career. I’m sure they’d tell me playing football doesn’t matter to them, but I don’t know how they’d still be in business if it weren’t for me.

Ophelia doesn’t seem to want anything from me. She’s more about what she can do for me than vice versa. I’m going to have to make this up to her.

"That’s certainly nice of you."

Ophelia slides the notebook onto her desk before taking a few steps toward me. "I mean, well, I don’t know what I mean. This is weird, right?"

I smile at her. "Without a doubt."

She walks past me, motioning for me to follow her to the bedroom. Mirrors line the entire wall behind the bed. Before I can help myself, I burst out laughing. "You know, I’d have bet money that Trent was the type to have mirrors on his ceiling and everything. I didn’t picture you for having a secret kinky side."

Ophelia’s cheeks blush a deep scarlet. "It’s because this room has no windows. The mirrors were here before I got here, I swear. I think they were trying to make it seem more open or not like a cave, which it sort of is. It’s not because I’m kinky. I’m not that adventurous. I mean, I could be, if I found the right person, but we all know how that’s going. I even bought slutty lingerie for someone else to appreciate."

Suddenly, my mouth has gone dry as I get a mental image of Ophelia clad in something much more revealing than she’s currently wearing, staring back at me in the mirror while I hold one of those plaits.

I shake my head quickly to empty that image away.

No, I cannot be thinking something like that. Not at all. This would never work if I was thinking things like that.

Ophelia’s now staring at her feet. Without looking up she says, "I’m just going to go flush my head down the toilet. If we could never speak of this again, I’d appreciate it."

Without another word, she leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind her. I stand there, unsure of what to do, but fairly confident it’s going to be a long night with a host of inappropriate thoughts running through my head.

I can’t even get a proper wank on because Ophelia’s in the other room. Also, because this is all business, and if I were to wank off thinking about Ophelia and these mirrors and her slutty lingerie, this whole thing might not work.

It’s got to stay business. No matter what my willy is thinking about.