His eyes stare down at me, probing. I feel like he can see every part of me. Even the bad parts.
"Still doesn't explain who you are or why you stripped off and decided to do your morning stretches in my locker room." His voice is lower, deeper. The sound rushes over my skin, like a cold breeze on a hot day, making my skin cover in goose bumps.
I have to hold back a shiver.
"Your locker room?" I question, lifting a brow.
"Are you a football groupie?"
"No!" I bark out a laugh.
"Because, if you broke in here, I'll have your ass hauled out with one phone call," he continues, clearly ignoring me.
I slam my hands on my hips, momentarily forgetting I need them to cover the girls, and then I put them back over my chest.
He smirks at me.
Asshole.
"Look, I'm not a groupie, okay? It's my first day here. I got caught in the rain. I came in here, looking to borrow a shirt, as I can't wear this one. You caught me about to change into one."
"And you were bent over for the fun of it?"
"No, I was doing yoga."
"Yoga?" He looks at me like I'm mental.
He wouldn't be wrong.
"I was stressed about my shitty start to the day, and I practice yoga to de-stress. I thought I was alone. I was literally just doing the one pose to help clear my mind, and then I was going to put on a shirt and get out of here."
"And which shirt were you putting on?" He glances over at his changing spot and then back at me, brows raised.
"Uh … " I'm stumbling. Deep breath. "Okay, I was going to borrow one of yours. But I was going to find another to put in its place."
"Okay," he says.
"Okay?" My brows draw together as I look up at him.
"Yep. It sounds plausible. Weird as fuck. But plausible."
I can't help but laugh at that. He laughs, too.
"I'm going to go." Freeing one arm, I stand my heels up and slip my feet into them, appreciating the extra height they give me, but I still look like a child next to him.
"Don't you need a shirt to wear?" he says.
"I'll figure it out."
"Here." He reaches over and grabs a white dress shirt from one of the hangers. "Wear this. It'll be big on you, so you'll have to roll up the sleeves, but it's better than a team shirt."
"Thank you." I smile genuinely. "I appreciate it. I'll wash it tonight and bring it back tomorrow."
"No rush," he tells me.
"Thank you," I say again.
I start to walk past him when he says, "I'm Ares, by the way."
I stop and slide my eyes up to his. I feel a jolt at the visual contact. "I know who you are, quarterback."
He smiles at that. "You said it was your first day."
"Yes," I say slowly, my mouth suddenly drying.
"I didn't know we had a new staff member starting."
So, my dad hasn't told any of the players that I'll be working here. Great.
"What will you be doing?" he asks.
"Oh, this and that," I reply.
He laughs. "You don't give much away, do you?"
I shrug.
His eyes glitter with amusement and challenge. "Do I get your name at least?"
I take a deep breath. "Ari. Arianna … Petrelli."
I watch as my name filters in, and realization dawns on him.
The light fades out of his eyes. His expression shuts down.
And my stomach suddenly feels very empty.
He steps away, putting a good amount of distance between us. His arms fold over his chest, like a barrier. Jaw gritting. "You're Coach's daughter."
I swallow past the dryness in my throat. "Yes."
"I didn't know you'd be working here."
"I … it … " I lift my hands, unsure of what to say.
There's a beat of silence. A moment of nothing. Neither of us says anything.
Then, he abruptly turns to his changing station, giving me his back.
Wow. Okay.
I'm used to people looking at me like shit. But not this kind of reaction. Like I have an infectious disease.
I take a deep breath and find my voice. "Is … is there a problem?"
"Nope." He pulls a team shirt off a hanger.
I stand here, knowing full well there is a problem, but not really knowing how to handle his adverse reaction to me.
He glances over his shoulder at me. There's none of the warmth or humor from before. His eyes are blank and narrowed, looking at me like I'm an inconvenience. I'm gum on the sole of his new shoes.
"I need to change," he states, voice cold.
"Sorry." I step back, holding his shirt to my chest.
His eyes drop to it with a flash of something akin to anger, and for a moment, I wonder if I should offer to give him his shirt back.
But I don't. I keep my mouth shut, turn on my heel, and head for the door.
Before I reach it, I pause and turn back to him. "Ares?"
His eyes flash over to mine. His expression is tight.
I take a small step forward. "Could I ask a favor?"
He blinks slowly and exhales a harsh breath. "What is it?" His voice is irritated.
"I just wanted to ask … could you not mention this to my dad … that you saw me in here-"
"Without your top on."
My face heats. "Yes. It's just … I … " How do I say this? "It's just that I … " Don't want to disappoint him again.
"I won't say anything," he growls and then turns back to his station. "There's nothing to tell."
"Thank you," I say softly.
He huffs out a brittle laugh, shaking his head, and I feel like I'm missing something.
I want to ask why he's so pissed off by me. But I'm too chickenshit to do it.
So, I once again keep my mouth shut and head for the door.
"Arianna."
I stop and glance back over my shoulder. He's facing me now, the same stoic expression on his countenance.
"What?" I say.
"I want the shirt back tomorrow. Clean."
Something in the way he says clean pokes at me.
He thinks I'm a dirty drunk.
I inhale through my nose.
I am not that person anymore.
I'm clean and sober.
And I don't need his stupid shirt. I'd rather walk around with my boobs on show than wear his clothes.
I lift my chin and walk back over to him.
When I'm a foot away, I toss the shirt back to him. He catches it with a single hand, eyes not moving from mine.
"Turns out, I don't need to borrow your shirt after all." Then, I spin around and walk out of there.
I step inside my apartment and close the door behind me, locking it.
I cast a glance toward the corner of my room where my paints and easel are set up. I stare at the blank canvas sitting there, on the easel, praying that I'll feel something. Anything. Even a spark of interest or inspiration would be a start. I'd be grateful for that.
But nothing.
I haven't painted in six months.
Not since I've been sober.
Painting is all I've ever known. All I've ever done.
I'm an artist who can't paint.
It feels like I've lost a limb.
Since I quit drinking, I can't bring myself to put brush to canvas.
There has been only one other time in my life when I stopped painting. After my mother killed herself.
I was the one who found her. Hanging from the clothes rail in her and my dad's walk-in closet. It was a high rail. The one my dad used to hang his shirts on. My dad's tall. Six feet three. My mom was small. Like I am. I look like her, too. I sometimes wonder if that's part of the problem. That I remind my dad of her.
She had used her vanity stool to stand on.
I had come home after studying for a test at a friend's house. My dad was away with the team.
She had known it would be me who found her.
And she hadn't cared.
I took my first drink of alcohol on the day of her funeral.
I was fifteen. My uncle, my mom's brother, handed me a glass of brown liquid. He told me it was brandy and to go ahead and drink it, that it was good for shock, that it would help me get through the day.
He was right.
That single glass of brandy got me through her funeral.
And, when I woke up the next day and everything felt difficult, even just getting out of bed, I had another glass of brandy to help me get through the day.
And where was my dad, you might ask? Well, he was at work. Back with his team. His real family. He'd left me a note tacked to the fridge, saying he wouldn't be long.
And I was left home alone, in the house where my mother had killed herself only five days ago.
Alcohol was my comfort through a difficult time, and it helped me get back to painting. I felt alive and inspired when I drank.
It made everything easier.
And, now that I no longer have that … I'm blank.
Like the canvas that's sitting there, waiting for me.
Sighing, I kick off my shoes. I put my bag on the kitchen counter as I pass. Then, I tug off the shirt I borrowed from my dad as I pad down my tiny hallway. I stop by the bathroom and toss the shirt in my laundry hamper. I take off my bra and my jeans, followed by my panties, and toss them in the hamper, too.