OBSESSED.
Gage Weston has a stellar reputation that extends from the
classroom to the football pitch. West Dale High’s football god, a
knight–in–shining armour to the girls, and everyone’s personal
favourite. But this all fades away in senior year. Family issues and scrapes with the law waters down everything he’s built and
now he has no option but to be tutored or he’ll get kicked out of
the championship game.
One look at Stella McCartney, and his world comes tumbling
down.
She’s beautiful. She’s kind. She’s the quiet, campus genius, and
she sets his adrenaline racing. His methods of keeping her to
himself are nothing short of extreme. Will he ruin this one last
good thing too?
1: Gage.
On the way to my new tutor’s dorm room, I want to punch a hole
in the hallway wall.
It’s like this all the time now. The relentless anger slithers inside
of me like oily snakes. I’ve worked myself to the bone on the
OBSESSED
football field in an attempt to exhaust the roiling emotions
inside of me, but nothing ever gives. There’s a bowling ball
sitting on my chest, pressing down, down, so hard that I can’t
breathe sometimes and the only thing that relieves it for even a
moment is destruction. Breaking shit. Acting out as my college
counselor calls it.
She can call it whatever she wants–it feels good.
Rebelling is the only thing that helps melt the resentment lately.
On my way past a room of students, they look up from their
phones and gasp.
“Is that Gage Weston?”
Yeah, it’s me, assholes. Take a good look.
During my first three years of school, I would have waved and
flashed them a smile that’s going to earn me millions of dollars in endorsement deals one day, when I’ve been drafted to the NFL. But now? I give them the finger and keep walking, the
constant roaring in my ears growing louder. I already hate this fucking tutor. Stella McCartney. She’s going to be smug as hell, I bet. She’s the only thing standing between me and the championship game next week. If I don’t pass my Western Civilization test, I don’t play. I’m already skating on thin ice after getting picked up by the cops for being drunk and disorderly in
OBSESSED
public. Breaking into a few cars, just because I could. Because I
needed to distract myself from the pain.
So I’m sure Stella McCartney–what a stupid name–is getting off on a major power trip right now, telling all of her friends that
she has Gage Weston by the short and curlies. As long as she helps me pass the history course, she can brag all she wants–1
just need to be on the field.
Lately, being on the gridiron has been less about football and
more about the temporary relief I get from the constant anger
when I’m tackled hard. But that’s another story.
I stop in front of her closed dorm room door and wrap my hands
around the jamb. She’s in there, chattering away on the phone,
and I have to resist the urge to kick in the door, splinter it right
there on the hinges. Just to set the tone. I’m going to let her
teach me the shit I need to know to pass the test and play in the
championship game, but that’s where it ends. I’m not her
shortcut to popularity or claim to fame. God, I hate her already. I
hate everyone.
Especially him. For leaving. For checking out early.
What the hell is the point of this anymore?
Breathing through the wave of emptiness that passes through
me, I bang a fist on the door, ready to finally meet this chick.
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Stella. Apparently she’s the campus genius. Too bad she
sounds like a basic idiot from this side of the door.
And when she opens that door and we come face to face, I’m
relieved to be right. Already I can’t stand her. She looks like
every other fucking cheerleader or co–ed who follows me around
campus with dreams of babies and a mansion in their heads.
Fuck that. I want nothing to do with any of them, especially
since the funeral. I had hundreds of them during my first three
years at the university and I can’t recall a single face, so what would be the point, anyway?
My scowl doesn’t stop her from twisting hair around her finger
and giggling. “I can’t believe it. Mr. Gage Weston himself in my
dorm room.”
“Yeah, Stella,” I grit, bitterly, wishing I had a fifth of whiskey in
my hand. “Lucky you.”
“Oh, I’m not Stella,” she laughs, as if it was a wild assumption.
“Stella is my roommate.” She cups a hand around her mouth
and whispers, “Poor you.”
Irritated that this girl, who is apparently not the campus genius, has wasted a full minute of my life, I duck beneath the door
frame and enter the room, my stride pausing when I see the
other occupant. She’s sitting on a twin bed with her head
bowed, curtains of messy blonde hair hiding her face. Her green
COSESSED.
cardigan is old and thin, buttoned up to her chin, knees pressed
together in her leggings. There’s a Western Civilization book in
her lap and she appears to be holding on to it for dear life.
“Stella,” I say, my voice a hell of a lot softer than when I
addressed the other chick…and I have no idea why. “Are you
Stella?”
She nods, her knuckles turning white around the textbook. Is
she scared of something? I wouldn’t blame her. She looks like
she could be picked up and carried away by a gust of wind.
“I’m Gage Weston.” I duck down a little, trying to see her face,
frowning when she only hides it further. “Obviously you remember we have a tutoring appointment since you’re holding
the book. Are you…?” I really don’t understand the weird
discomfort in my chest. Different from the ever–present anger. More like concern or anticipation. I don’t know. “Is everything
okay?”
She nods again. Says nothing.
Frowning, I look around the dorm room. The girl who answered the door is back to sitting on her bed and she’s taking sneaky pictures of me, as if I wouldn’t notice. I’m sure they’ll be all over Twitter and Tik Tok by tomorrow morning, but I can’t find it in me to give a shit.
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No, what draws my attention, instead, is the way the dorm room
is divided.
Stella has been limited to the island of her tiny bed, while this
girl’s stuff is everywhere. She’s taking up ninety percent of the
room with her Taylor Swift posters and furniture and clothes. It’s
obvious where her section of the room ends and Stella’s begins,
because my tutor’s portion is bare and sparse and small. Tool
small for a person to breathe in, let alone live.
“Hey,” I bark, jerking my chin at the cheerleader–type. “Is this all
your shit?”
The phone drops into her lap and she goes from flirty to
belligerent in about two point five seconds. “She said I could have most of the space.”
“Did you say that?” I ask Stella.
Several ticks of silence go by.
Then she looks up at me, the blonde hair falling back to her shoulders. And my stomach takes a dramatic dive, the way it does when a roller coaster plumets from a great height. Why can’t I fucking breathe? I actually lurch for the wall to stabilize myself, but I don’t–I won’t take my gaze off of her. Jesus. Jesus.
OBSESSED
She’s so solemnly beautiful with her big, serious eyes. What
fucking color is that? Purple? Some undiscovered shade of
blue? Her mouth is unpainted and soft and wide. And I don’t
know how I can tell she rarely uses it to speak, but I do. I just
know. I just know everything she’s thinking in a single instant, almost like we’re using telepathy.
“No, she didn’t,” I growl at the other girl, without taking my
attention from Stella. “She didn’t say you could take up the
whole room. Have it fixed by tomorrow or I’ll do it for you.” I
point at the door. “Right now? You can leave.”
“Leave?” she screeches, shooting to her feet. “This is my room.
“Cool story. Find another one.”
It takes her a minute to gather up her things and stomp out of the dorm room, slamming.the door behind her. During that minute, I can’t look away from the quiet little genius sitting in front of me, shivering as if she’s scared. Of me? Oh God, I don’t know why, but I absolutely cannot have that. My whole life is about intimidating other people, that’s how I’ve been an All- American two years running. But if this fairy is afraid of me, I think it might tear me open like a knife through a sack of flour.
“It’s okay,” I say, gently as possible.
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Her chest starts to rise and fall quickly.
“Should I not have made her leave? Are you scared to be alone
with me?” When she only continues to watch me like a timid
rabbit, I have no idea what comes over me. I have no idea, but I
kneel. I kneel down and slowly remove my jacket, tossing it on
the floor, holding up my hands. Showing her I’m huge and
strong, but I’m just a man? I have no idea. I have no idea what’s
happening at all, but my heart is going to burst out of my body
any second now. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Stella.”
“I’m not afraid,” she whispers.
My world grinds to a halt. That voice. That voice. Every syllable
out of her mouth is like a warm washcloth being dragged across
the grime inside of me, wiping me clear. Cleansing me. I have to dig my fingers into the back of my neck to prevent myself from
crawling forward and burying my face in her lap. “Why are you
shaking?”
“You stood up for me.” Her tone is totally incredulous. “I didn’t
expect it.”
“You needed me to, right?” I look around at the possessions
encroaching on her space and I want to throw it all through the
glass window. “Right, Stella?”
Slowly, reluctantly, she nods. “Thank you.”
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My throat is too dry to swallow. “What else do you need?”
I sound like a complete idiot. My voice is hoarse, I’m practically
growling at this girl to give me another mission to complete for
her. What is going on here? Yes, she’s gorgeous–though most
of her beauty is hidden behind hair and oversized clothes. She’s
obviously sweet, too, with an angelic voice. Apparently she’s
smart as a whip. All of those things make her impressive, but
nothing explains my intense reaction to her. No, it’s coming.
from somewhere deeper. Jesus, it’s coming from my fucking
soul. The soul that is about to leave my body if I don’t touch her.
If I don’t establish that she’s mine.
Suddenly, I’m feverish and aching and burning with that need.
To make her mine.
“Should w–we get started?” Stella asks, her cheeks flushed.
Probably because I’m staring at her like a wolf who has just
crossed paths with a lamb..
Hands trembling, she opens the textbook in her lap and blinks at
response. “Do you mind me asking…” She tucks some hair
behind her ear, cheeks coloring. “It’s none of my business, but I
overheard my roommate saying you got in trouble for v-
vandalism. Among other things. And the dean told me you’ve
DBSESSED
always been a good student, but you’re having trouble now.” Her
delicate throat works with a swallow. “Did something happen?”
“Yes.” I haven’t spoken to anyone about this. Not the therapists
arranged by my coaches. Not my mother or friends. No one. But
as soon as this girl asks me to open up, everything spills out of
me like water from a dam. “My father died. He…fell asleep
behind the wheel.” Frustration wells inside of me. “What the
fuck? Why the hell did he do that? A ten–minute drive from the
office to home. I don’t…I don’t get it.”
There’s no pity in her expression. Only quiet understanding.
“You’re mad at him.”
“Yes.”
But that’s when I realize, the anger inside me has gone silent for
the first time in months–and I go toward her like a thirsty man
goes toward a well.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.