“You’re good.”
Kingsley turned his head toward the source of the voice. Stearns stood in the doorway of the room.
Shrugging, Kingsley looked back up at the ceiling. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath quickened. He forced himself not to think about the reasons why.
“So are you. You played a lot in England?”
Stearns stepped into the room and came toward Kingsley’s bed.
“I did. But I haven’t played in a long time. I was ten when I left that school.”
Groaning, Kingsley sat up and crossed his legs. “This is why everyone hates you, you know. Because you’re so damn perfect. You haven’t played soccer in seven years and you’re better than me. I was scouted by the Paris Saint-Germain. That’s a professional team.”
Stearns didn’t say anything at first. Kingsley waited and stared.
“Everyone hates me?”
He didn’t sound hurt when he asked the question, but Kingsley immediately wanted to go back in time and take it back. He wanted to take everything back—the display of temper on the field, the angry words, the frustration that drove him closer and closer to the breaking point every day.
“Non, pas du tout,” Kingsley said, exploding into a flurry of French. For some reason, he felt only in French could he apologize effusively enough. “No one hates you. I just said that out of…well, I don’t hate you. I just wish I hated you.”
Stearns came even closer. He sat on the bed opposite Kingsley.
“Why do you wish you hated me?” Stearns leveled a stare at him and Kingsley once again noted the dark lushness of his eyelashes and how they made his gray eyes seem even more impenetrable.
Kingsley sighed. He dropped the soccer ball on the floor between them. Gently, he toed the ball and let it roll toward Stearns. Stearns set his foot on top of it to hold it stationary.
“What are you?” Kingsley asked, not knowing what he meant by the question, but needing the answer.
Stearns seemed to understand the question even if Kingsley didn’t. He sighed and tapped the ball so it gently rolled toward Kingsley.
“Father Pierre, the priest who taught me French, he had a theory about me.”
“Was it that you’re the Second Coming of Christ? If so, I’ve already heard that one.”
Stearns said nothing, only glared at Kingsley with his lips a thin, disapproving line.
“I’m sorry. Seriously, tell me his theory. I want to know.”
“Father Pierre had a photographic memory. He had the Bible committed entirely to memory—French and English. He could recall nearly everything he’d ever read decades after one glance. Amazing.”
“So you have a photographic memory?”
Stearns shook his head. “No, not at all. It’s different for me. If I do something once, do it well, I know how to do it…completely, almost intuitively. If I kick a soccer ball, my body understands the game. I learned the scales on the piano and somehow knew how to play. Father Pierre believed I have photographic muscle memory.”
“Football involves your feet. The piano your hands. Father Pierre’s theory doesn’t explain how you’re so good at languages.” Kingsley tapped the ball and sent it back to Stearns.
“But it does. The tongue is a muscle.”
Stearns said the words simply. Of course. Of course the tongue was a muscle. But the implications of the words…that Stearns could use his tongue once for something—a kiss, perhaps—and would forever know the perfect way to kiss…
“I lied,” Kingsley said softly. “I do hate you.”
Stearns only smiled again. “Why?”
“You…” Kingsley stopped. “I think about you too much.”
“That is a problem.” Stearns rolled the ball to him once more.
“Oui. Une grande probleme. I should be thinking about so many things…school, my sister in Paris, my parents, Theresa, Carol, Susan, Jeannine…”
“Who are they?”
Kingsley smiled. “Girlfriends.”
Stearns eyes widened slightly. “All of them?”
Nodding, Kingsley answered, “Oui. Or were. Before I came here. They write me letters, though. Wonderful terrible letters. I could sell those letters at this school and make enough money to pay my own tuition here.” Kingsley wagged his eyebrow at Stearns. “These girls…they want me. I wanted them.”
“Wanted? Past tense?”
“Past tense. Oui. I can barely remember what they look like now. I want to believe it’s because of what happened that I forgot them. But it isn’t.” Kingsley glanced at Stearns and then back at the floor. He barely touched the ball with his toe and the ball rolled between Stearns’s feet.
“What happened to you?”
“The football team. American football, not real football,” Kingsley clarified. “I had this girl—beautiful girl. And she had a brother. A very large brother. He found out we were together, that I’d taken his sweet sister’s innocence…” Kingsley almost laughed out loud just saying the words. Theresa? Innocent? The girl had spread her legs for half the school before he’d gotten to her. But Theresa hadn’t just spread for Kingsley, she’d fallen in love with him. And when he’d slept with another girl the next night…then she went crying to her brother.
Kingsley told Stearns the entire story…the hand on the back of his neck in the parking lot behind the stadium. The seven football players who’d surrounded him…the knife that Troy had drawn on him…the deep slash to his chest that had ultimately saved his life.
Kingsley turned his head toward the source of the voice. Stearns stood in the doorway of the room.
Shrugging, Kingsley looked back up at the ceiling. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath quickened. He forced himself not to think about the reasons why.
“So are you. You played a lot in England?”
Stearns stepped into the room and came toward Kingsley’s bed.
“I did. But I haven’t played in a long time. I was ten when I left that school.”
Groaning, Kingsley sat up and crossed his legs. “This is why everyone hates you, you know. Because you’re so damn perfect. You haven’t played soccer in seven years and you’re better than me. I was scouted by the Paris Saint-Germain. That’s a professional team.”
Stearns didn’t say anything at first. Kingsley waited and stared.
“Everyone hates me?”
He didn’t sound hurt when he asked the question, but Kingsley immediately wanted to go back in time and take it back. He wanted to take everything back—the display of temper on the field, the angry words, the frustration that drove him closer and closer to the breaking point every day.
“Non, pas du tout,” Kingsley said, exploding into a flurry of French. For some reason, he felt only in French could he apologize effusively enough. “No one hates you. I just said that out of…well, I don’t hate you. I just wish I hated you.”
Stearns came even closer. He sat on the bed opposite Kingsley.
“Why do you wish you hated me?” Stearns leveled a stare at him and Kingsley once again noted the dark lushness of his eyelashes and how they made his gray eyes seem even more impenetrable.
Kingsley sighed. He dropped the soccer ball on the floor between them. Gently, he toed the ball and let it roll toward Stearns. Stearns set his foot on top of it to hold it stationary.
“What are you?” Kingsley asked, not knowing what he meant by the question, but needing the answer.
Stearns seemed to understand the question even if Kingsley didn’t. He sighed and tapped the ball so it gently rolled toward Kingsley.
“Father Pierre, the priest who taught me French, he had a theory about me.”
“Was it that you’re the Second Coming of Christ? If so, I’ve already heard that one.”
Stearns said nothing, only glared at Kingsley with his lips a thin, disapproving line.
“I’m sorry. Seriously, tell me his theory. I want to know.”
“Father Pierre had a photographic memory. He had the Bible committed entirely to memory—French and English. He could recall nearly everything he’d ever read decades after one glance. Amazing.”
“So you have a photographic memory?”
Stearns shook his head. “No, not at all. It’s different for me. If I do something once, do it well, I know how to do it…completely, almost intuitively. If I kick a soccer ball, my body understands the game. I learned the scales on the piano and somehow knew how to play. Father Pierre believed I have photographic muscle memory.”
“Football involves your feet. The piano your hands. Father Pierre’s theory doesn’t explain how you’re so good at languages.” Kingsley tapped the ball and sent it back to Stearns.
“But it does. The tongue is a muscle.”
Stearns said the words simply. Of course. Of course the tongue was a muscle. But the implications of the words…that Stearns could use his tongue once for something—a kiss, perhaps—and would forever know the perfect way to kiss…
“I lied,” Kingsley said softly. “I do hate you.”
Stearns only smiled again. “Why?”
“You…” Kingsley stopped. “I think about you too much.”
“That is a problem.” Stearns rolled the ball to him once more.
“Oui. Une grande probleme. I should be thinking about so many things…school, my sister in Paris, my parents, Theresa, Carol, Susan, Jeannine…”
“Who are they?”
Kingsley smiled. “Girlfriends.”
Stearns eyes widened slightly. “All of them?”
Nodding, Kingsley answered, “Oui. Or were. Before I came here. They write me letters, though. Wonderful terrible letters. I could sell those letters at this school and make enough money to pay my own tuition here.” Kingsley wagged his eyebrow at Stearns. “These girls…they want me. I wanted them.”
“Wanted? Past tense?”
“Past tense. Oui. I can barely remember what they look like now. I want to believe it’s because of what happened that I forgot them. But it isn’t.” Kingsley glanced at Stearns and then back at the floor. He barely touched the ball with his toe and the ball rolled between Stearns’s feet.
“What happened to you?”
“The football team. American football, not real football,” Kingsley clarified. “I had this girl—beautiful girl. And she had a brother. A very large brother. He found out we were together, that I’d taken his sweet sister’s innocence…” Kingsley almost laughed out loud just saying the words. Theresa? Innocent? The girl had spread her legs for half the school before he’d gotten to her. But Theresa hadn’t just spread for Kingsley, she’d fallen in love with him. And when he’d slept with another girl the next night…then she went crying to her brother.
Kingsley told Stearns the entire story…the hand on the back of his neck in the parking lot behind the stadium. The seven football players who’d surrounded him…the knife that Troy had drawn on him…the deep slash to his chest that had ultimately saved his life.
