The Player

Chapter 12

Brielle

12:47 PM

"Would you rather go to jail for five years or get punched hard in the face every hour of every day for

five years?"

I scratched my head, trying to decide. Each had their own pros and cons.

"I think I would rather get punched every hour," I responded, dipping my fry into ketchup.

Christopher and I were currently in his car, on the way to my house. Since I hurt my ankle, my plan of

walking home was a no go. He must have felt really bad, because he insisted on giving me a ride

instead of me just waiting for Sam to pick me up. I was surprised when we walked up to a cherry red

convertible, instead of his usual black sedan. The car was looked like an antique. I could imagine riding

in it to a drive-in movie in the 60s.

He had insisted that we played a game of would you rather as we drove to get my mind off the pain I

was feeling. Right as I was about to protest, a sharp pain ran up my leg, reminding me that a distraction

might not be so bad after all. He had stopped at the Chick-Fil-a by the school and bought me food as a

way of apologizing. After I took one bite into my chicken sandwich, all was forgiven.

"According to my calculations that would be a total of 43,801 punches," he slurped loudly from his now

empty drink. "You're going to be brain dead after that."

"Settle down Einstein," I mocked, throwing my crumpled-up napkin at him.

My mind wandered to what happened in the Athletic trainer's office, how close his face was to mine,

and how in that brief moment, I was hoping that he would do something. In the back of my mind, I think

that I wanted him to kiss me, but I keep that idea as repressed as possible. Even if that was what I

wanted, it was probably just injury-induced craziness. Nothing more.

"You're just dodging what I said because you know I'm right," I snapped out of my thoughts, looking up

to see a smug look on his face. I refocused myself, brushing off what I was thinking beforehand.

"I know myself. I wouldn't last a single day in jail. I have no clue how to make a shank and the only fight

I've been in was in a bouncy house when I was nine."

He smiled in amusement. "What in the world were you fighting about?"

"Don't ask."

In the fourth grade, I punched my classmate Jason during Sam's fourth grade birthday party for saying

that I looked like a Christmas tree without a star. I wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but it seemed

worthy of a fight to me.

"Ok my turn!" I clapped my hands together in excitement. "Would you rather swim in poop or eat dead Content rights by NôvelDr//ama.Org.

bodies?"

He shot me a look, his face turning a light green color. I decided that maybe right now wasn't the best

time to ask that question.

"Never mind," I laughed, finding humor in Christopher's nausea. "Would you rather be handsome and

poor or ugly and rich."

He flashed a smile at me. "I'm already handsome and rich." I rolled my eyes at him.

The nerve of this boy!

"Come on," I whined," Seriously, you have to pick."

"Then I would rather be ugly and rich. Then you can get all the plastic surgery in the world."

I nodded my head. "Exactly! It's much easier to make yourself pretty with money than to make yourself

rich with looks." I was surprised that we thought the same way.

Over the last week, I learned that me and Christopher had a lot more in common than I thought.

Besides having extreme passions for dance and football, we also both liked English, hated math, and

had a minor obsession with the Jonas brothers when we were younger, which I had to pry out of him.

We pulled up in front of my house and I quickly grabbed my backpack before hobbling out of the car.

"You should probably leave before my brother sees you here."

"I'm not afraid of your brother."

I eyed him up and down. Christopher was muscular in a lean way. However, Scott was much bigger. He

had gotten into weight lifting about a year ago, and ever since he looked like he could play Thor in a

superhero movie. If the Christopher and Scott battled it out, my money would most definitely be on my

brother.

"Whatever you say," I teased, turning around and heading for my door.

"I'm not!" he yelled, before driving off.

When I reached my front door, I pulled my key out from my backpack. Right as I was about to insert it

into the lock, the door swung open. Sam stood there, her hands crossed over her torso.

"You're twenty minutes late!" She groaned, walking into my living room as I trailed behind her. "I was

starving and was waiting for you so that we could order food."

Just then, her eyes zeroed in on the crumpled-up Chick-Fil-A bag in my hand.

"You sneaky wrench!"

I choked, which caused me to cough for a few seconds. When I gained my composure, I couldn't

control my laughter.

"Did you just call me a wrench?" I laughed, my eyes filling with tears.

"My mom said that if I kept cussing she would take my phone away." She squinted at me. "And I don't

appreciate your judgement."

I limped over to my couch, before plopping down, elevating my foot on the table. Sam's eyes softened

as she spotted my ankle.

"What happened?" She questioned, concern evident in her voice.

I explained everything to her, including the moment that me and Christopher shared in the trainer's

office. After hearing all of it, she stayed silent for a little, thinking, before finally responding to me.

"How do you feel about Christopher?"

I scratched my chin, confused at she'd ask. "I feel like he's somewhat a friend..." I trailed off. "What is

the point of this question?'

She studied my face. "After seven years of knowing you I can tell when you're lying, even when you're

lying to yourself."

"And..."

It was her turn to scratch her chin as she studied my face. "I'm still deciding."

I threw a pillow at her head as I let out a huff. "You're no help. And trust me, I only think of Christopher

as a friend. That's all."

"Then how do you explain what happened." She crossed her hands over her chest expectantly.

"I don't know, injury-induced craziness?" I had decided in the car that thiswas the official reason. I

heard stories of mothers lifting cars that weigh thousands of pounds to save their kids. That's kind of

the same thing, right?

She popped her lips. "I've decided. You definitely like him." My jaw dropped as I grabbed another pillow

near me and chucked it at her.

"I do not!"

She stared at me knowingly. "You developed a crush over Tommy Fuller just because he gave you a

granola bar when you forgot your lunch." I spent the first half of seventh grade trying to get him to

notice me, but with no luck.

"You just can't help it, you get crushes too easily."

I grabbed the last pillow on my couch and smashed my face into it. I'm certain that I don't like

Christopher. Well, I was about ninety percent sure. And even if I did, it would never work. He was too

obsessed with Melanie to ever like me back, and I had vowed to never date anyone in high school after

what happened between me and my last boyfriend.

I groaned one more time into the pillow for good measure, cursing my stupid teenage hormones. Sam

came up to me, patting me on the back sarcastically. "It's okay Brielle, we'll get through this together."

I refused to accept that anything was going on between me and Christopher. If I even allowed myself to

think that for a second, then I knew that I would start to develop a crush. I turned towards Sam,

composing myself.

"I'm telling you, I have no feelings towards him whatsoever." She gave me a pity nod, which only made

me more persistent.

"No, I'm serious. I could never like him. He's dating Melanie for Pete's sake! He literally can't dance if

his life depended on it." At this point, I didn't know if I was trying to convince Sam or myself.

"And when we were driving home today, I told him that going forty-five miles per hour when the speed

limit is thirty is illegal, and he called me a grandma. Who does that!"

I didn't know if my tangent actually convinced Sam, or if she decided that it would be better if we left the

topic alone, because she changed the subject to how much she's going to hate her calculus teacher. I

tried to listen to her, but all I could think of was Christopher, and how Sam had made me think about

feelings that I never thought about beforehand.

I shook my head, somehow thinking that it would shake the thought out of my mind. When I had no luck

with that, I tried instead to refocus my attention on Sam's story. There was no need to fester over

feelings that weren't even there.

Right?