Practice makes perfect, and when you're fighting to be the best in your sport that is especially true. Ryder and Francesca are no exception. They are dedicated to their sport and refuse to let anything distracted. But when a scheduling conflict forc...
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I throw back another drink despite Francesca's disappointed look. I can't tell which is fueling my drinking more, her face as she looks at me like some broken child or my phone vibrating as both my parents continue to berate me and remind me I was never wanted. Either way I hold up my empty cup, signaling the bartender for another. I already know I am going to be hurting at practice tomorrow, might as well make the pain worth it.
"Same thing," he asks, coming closer to grab the empty cup.
"Yeah."
"No," Francesca interrupts. "You're done and we are going home."
"We aren't going anywhere," I correct. "If you want to leave, no one is stopping you."
The bartender looks between us before slinking away. I can't even fault him for it because Francesca looks like she wants to reach out and strangle me. If it wasn't a look I grew accustomed to at the beginning of our friendship it might scare me more. But from the outside looking in I would not want to be in the middle of this either.
"Ryder please," she tries the softer approach again. "Can we just go back to your house? If you want to drink there I won't stop you. If you want to be alone once you're home fine but until I know you're home safe I am not fucking leaving you." Her voice catches at the end and every ounce of hatred I have for my parents is monetarily replaced by the overwhelming urge to not be the reason she cries.
"I don't want to be alone," I mumble looking down at my feet. I can't handle her sad look for me anymore. I don't need sympathy, sympathy won't change things.
Francesca steps between my legs and I wrap my arms around her leaning my head against her shoulder. I can hear her telling the bartender to close my tab but I don't pay close attention as her fingers skim up and down the back of my neck. "Ready?" she asks softly.
I lift my head and suddenly we are face to face. So close if I move my nose will brush hers. My eyes dart down to her lips and she pokes her tongue out wetting her bottom lip. Her lips are pale pink and her breath smells like the lime water she had been drinking the past few hours. "Ryder," she breathes, snapping me from the drunken mess I was about to create if I closed the gap and kissed her.
"Ready." I get up, stumbling a little but Francesca wraps an arm about me to steady me. When we get outside the cold air feels great against my skin. Francesca is holding my hockey jacket while I walk toward the car in just a t-shirt and sweatpants. I get my footing enough to detach myself from her, distance I need to get my racing heart under control again. I really need to be more careful drinking around her because 2 or 3 more drinks and I don't think I would have been able to stop myself.
I get into the passenger seat of my own car, which feels weird. Francesca climbs into the driver's seat but given our height difference she can't reach the wheel or the pedals. "I have to adjust the seat."
"I figured," I laugh. It takes her over a minute to get the seat in the correct position before she starts the car. The poor girl is clearly very nervous as she clutches the wheel until her knuckles are white, with the car still in park. "Beck, you do know how to drive right?"
