Catch and Cradle

by Katia Rose

She’s so fucking cute. I shouldn’t think it, but I do anyway. Hope Hastings is dangerously cute.

I spent way too much of my summer trying and failing not to imagine what it would be like to see her again this semester.

She shuffles her feet again. She’s extra cute when she’s embarrassed.

Somehow, it took me all of two minutes to completely forget the reason she’s here.

I’d always noticed her before. Anyone would. She’s hot and cool and funny, and the way she moves on the field is breathtaking. It’s a combination of grace and aggression I’ve never seen in a player before. She’s triumphant.

I always noticed her, but I never let myself want her like this. I cut myself off. I kept distance between us. I barely even spoke to her outside of practice because I knew from the second I saw her just how dangerous the pull I felt could be. I fought it for so long I could convince myself it wasn’t there, but now it tugs on my limbs even when she’s not around, dragging me closer to her shoreline.

I shouldn’t stand here watching her until she’s out of sight. I should turn around and head inside to close the door on all of this as I pull it shut behind me. But I don’t. I’m still standing there long after she’s gone.

There’s an insulated box pressing in around just the two of us, one that blocks out every sound and traps the heat between us until it’s hard to breathe or think or do anything except want each other.

There are a few drops of water sliding from her hair and down the back of her neck. I want to lick them off her skin.

I don’t want them to either. I want her to keep looking at me like that. I want her to keep looking at me for so long one of us has to do something about it.

I want to wipe all her hurt away. That same burning need to protect her roars to life somewhere deep in my chest.

The way my name sounds coming out of her mouth has me digging my nails into the back of my hand. Even that’s barely enough to keep me from pinning her to the lockers and finding out if her lips taste as good as they look when she says it.

When I walked in and saw the smooth, pale skin of her back with her bright red hair pushed forward over her shoulders, I almost dropped to my knees. She’s that beautiful. She’s more gorgeous than I’ve ever even imagined, and I’ve imagined a lot. The freckles on her face match the ones dusted along the tops of her shoulders, and that tattoo was so delicate, so poetic, like a hidden piece of her I’ve only ever glimpsed and finally got the chance to see spelt out across her skin.

Becca laughs, and the low, husky sound makes my breath hitch.

I’ve never wanted someone so bad for so long. Even before things shifted between us, I still wanted her.

My brain is chanting her name, using it as a metronome to pound out the rhythm of my pulse. In this moment, she’s everything. I need her. It’s more than just want.

My eyes close. For a moment, we stay completely still. I feel numb, like I’m floating outside my body, but then her lips shift. She breathes in, and all my senses roar back to life. My hand reaches to cup her cheek, and now we’re kissing—really kissing.

FINALLY (I say, even though we’re only 25% through)

Of course, asking myself why I kissed Hope just makes me think about kissing Hope.

I wanted to touch so much more of her, but it wasn’t just about the touching. I wanted to be close to her, in any way I could. Sitting with her in her room felt like stepping into another world. Her world. I wanted to learn about everything: the pictures on the walls, the clothes in her closet, the lines inked onto her skin. I wanted to know her. I wanted to explore her step by step like a new city. I wanted to memorize every street and neighbourhood, learn how they looked in the morning and how they sounded at night.

I didn’t just want to kiss her. I wanted to be with her.

I’m more convinced than ever I need to pull the plug on anything besides a cordial acquaintanceship with Hope. No matter how gorgeous her eyes are. Or how fucking amazing she is at kissing. Or how she makes me laugh with all her dorky moments. Or how being alone with her feels like putting the whole world on pause and just being for a while.

I’ve only really gotten a taste of what spending time with her is like, but I haven’t clicked with someone like that in a long time.

I can’t lie about it or explain it away: I don’t want Hope to leave.

She laughs then—a real laugh, not a nervous chuckle or quiet huff of air. The full, throaty sound feels like the sun on my face, warm and bold and unafraid of anything.

She laughs again, and I can’t get enough of the sound. It’s like I’m drinking it up drop by drop, always thirsty for more.

I want to hear more—about her, about what she likes, what she doesn’t, how she sees things, what she feels. It’s like I’m taking an Intro to Becca course and it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever studied.

I take another sip of my drink and realize I’ve gotten to the bottom of the cup. Becca’s about finished too. I should have gone slower. I could sit here with her for hours.

Hope keeps cracking jokes that wipe all the nerves off the prospective players’ faces and have them chatting and making jokes of their own. She just sparkles when she’s doing stuff like this.

I never could have ignored her, not really. I’m tuned into her now, like a radio signal that lets me adjust the volume but never fully turn things off.

She types something out and then looks up at me before I have time to glance away and pretend I wasn’t already staring at her.

Just a casual summer evening spent having an impromptu picnic in the park with a girl who’s kissed my neck. Nothing non-platonic about that.

She’s a whole universe slowly unfolding itself in front of me, and there’s something humbling and precious about that.

If anything, the distance just makes me burn with an even stronger need to be close to her.

I’ve always noticed her. I’ve always felt her like a change in seasons, like a shift of scents and colours, of sounds in the air and wind on my skin. Sometimes she’s the first crackle of dried leaves in the fall and sometimes she’s the mud and melting of spring, but she’s always a change. She’s always a collection of warning signs there to remind me I spend every day of my life pulled around the sun by a force I can’t feel or see.

what being a friend means: believing in the people you love so much that they always find their way back to believing in themselves.

She looks proud, and something in my chest roars to life at the sight. I want to spin around and throw my arms around her neck. I want to tackle her to the ground and kiss her right here on the field.

She’s directly across from me, and we keep locking eyes, smiling and looking away, then locking eyes again. It’s very gay.

That does sound very gay

Becca is just so gorgeous—always, but especially in moments like this when she lets herself go and shrugs off the weight of responsibilities she always seems to carry with her.

Her breathy laugh zings through my body, lighting me up.

“If you were outside right now, I’d come down and...fuck, Hope, I’d kiss you again. I can’t stop thinking about kissing you again.”

A lump rises in my throat when she looks at me with more longing than I’ve ever seen in her eyes before. I’ve never felt so wanted in so many ways. None of my crushes during my wild kiss-all-the-girls days back in first year made me feel this way. Not even Ethan made me feel this way in the whole time we dated.

“So kiss me, Becca.” For a second, I think she’s going to pull back, but then she lunges for me. One of her hands fists in my hair and the other grips my waist. Her mouth crashes into mine, desperate and demanding.

I’m just as hungry for her. I moan against her as I cup my hands behind her neck, pulling her closer. I always need her closer.

Kissing her blocks everything else out. I’ve never felt that kind of freedom. I’ve never really, truly understood the words ‘live in the moment’ until I first had my lips on hers.

I like everything about her. When we hugged on the field today, I almost kissed her right then and there. There’s something about her I can’t ignore, no matter how many reasons I have to do the complete opposite.

We have to. This isn’t just a crush on some girl. I don’t know exactly what this is, but it’s already stronger than any rule I’ve ever made for myself.

It’s almost not even worth going to my lectures; I just sit there thinking about her.

My backs of my eyelids are streaked with gold. Everything is gold when I’m kissing her. She makes the whole world melt down into nothing but precious metals.

I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her right here.

I’ve never had this feeling with a girl before: like I need everyone to know what she means to me, like I want to scream it out for the whole city to hear.