[COMPLETE]
Emerson Castell loves facts.
Enjoying the how and why of everything, she never fails to let her obsession seep into every aspect of her life, including her relationships - or lack thereof.
Leo Caruso is no stranger to a busy social life...
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I finally bit the bullet and joined the soccer team.
They were so desperate for the chance to finally have a season with more wins than losses, all the guys welcomed me with open arms, and it didn't take long before I remembered why I loved this sport. Whenever I was out on the field, I wasn't the same person. A buzzing surge of energy would wash all of my thoughts and worries away, laser focusing me on the adrenaline rush that might come from a couple goals. Even my headaches seemed to fade whenever I was out there, which was probably because exercise was, in fact, good for you, but I liked to believe it was also this sport's magic.
By the time practice had finished, I'd exchanged numbers with almost every guy on the team except for Franco, who reminded me of an Italian-American mama's boy from New Jersey. He'd shot me glances seeping with anger and confusion and something else I couldn't figure out the whole practice, but I wasn't going to ask why. He probably thought I had only tried out to steal his spotlight, but if that was the case, he had me figured out wrong.
I barely wanted to be a part of this town.
Wiping a thin line of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, I turned the corner that led to my neighborhood. As I walked a few steps ahead, a kid around a few years younger than I was knocked into my side as he hurried past me with his head hung low. He had a thick sweatshirt, even though the weather didn't require one, his hands stuffed into his pockets.
"Hey, man, how about looking ahead when you walk?" I asked him, not even sure he would turn around.
"Sorry," he mumbled, before darting his sleepy brown eyes to me. He looked sad more than anything.
"Something wrong?" I asked him. I never met the kid before, but his features looked awfully familiar.
"No," he bit back. He waited a beat before adding, "Why would you care either...?"
I shrugged, moving my foot out to roll my soccer ball on the ground back to me, and looked up. "Maybe because it doesn't seem like you do."
He pushed his hood back, revealing hair about the color of mine, and for a second, his eyes seemed damp before they turned hollow again. "I guess," he mumbled, before turning around and walking out of the neighborhood.
If this was what the next generation of high schoolers was like, I couldn't be happier I had only eight and half months left.
I jogged back home and took a long therapeutic shower before throwing myself down on my bed and looking over at the unfinished homework in my bag. Most of it was calculus, and I wondered how much of a difference on my grade it would make if I didn't finish it, considering I already understood the concepts. Then, I thought of Emerson, who hadn't noticed me watching her finish the homework problems in class before our teacher, Mr. Abrams, had even finished his droning lecture on the continuity of a function.
I normally never needed to study as much as everyone else to get the grades I had. My father used to take my lack of studying as me being a slacker when it was the opposite.
