One Good Man: a novella by Emma Scott

Author:Emma Scott [Scott, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-04-17T04:00:00+00:00

But that week, whatever I’d been hoping to happen with Adrien’s story never came to fruition. Over the next four days. I hung out at La Cloche with the footballer group, ignoring Olivier’s crude jokes and innuendo, and becoming better friends with Brigitte and Lucie.

“Olivier’s a bastard, but he’s one of the best defenders in the league,” Brigitte had told me on Monday night as we sat gathered in their booth—our booth, now that they welcomed me as one of their own. We drank kir and listened to a never-ending stream of American music.

“He’ll probably get called up by scouts, too,” Lucie said, her lips pinched, “where he can be an ass to a whole new set of teammates.”

Things were tense between Olivier and Adrien, which made Robert nervous. But Adrien ignored Olivier. Most nights, he joined the group late and left early, though he never brought another girl around like he used to. More than once, I found him watching me, his eyes heavy with something that looked like longing, but I couldn’t let myself believe it was for me. On the field that Sunday, I’d asked Adrien to deny his playboy reputation and he never did.

And I refuse to be another notch on his belt.

But Antoine’s snide commentary played in my mind. Was I prolonging the article just to spend time with Adrien? What did I think was going to happen all these nights at the club? That Adrien’s story would miraculously break open?

So I sat, wedged between the girls every night, and not talking to Adrien. The guys ribbed him about the fast-fading bruising under his eyes, but he never told them how he got them. Every night, a different story. Once, he walked into a pole. Another, Sophie had punched him.

He joked the questions away, and never looked at me as he did.

By Friday night, I’d begun to feel like an extra in a movie, taking up the same spot in the booth, steadfastly trying not to look at Adrien. It had become painful; the sight of his beautiful face conjured a frustrating mix of emotions.

I wanted him to take me seriously as a journalist and as a woman, but some moments, a surge of heat would rush through me to remember him on the field, sweaty and fast, and better than any player there. In those moments, I had wild fantasies of him taking me home with him, of being one of his women. To lose myself in him and damn the consequences.

I felt stuck, immobile with confusion, and irritated at my girlish heart that couldn’t stop thinking about him.

That Friday night, the club was playing all of Jefferson Airplane’s album, Surrealistic Pillow. When “White Rabbit” came on, Brigitte and Lucie decided we had to dance. They tugged me to the dance floor where, under beams of white and blue light, the dozen or so dancers looked as if they were underwater.

I was self-conscious at first, but it was just what I needed. To stop thinking so damned much.

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