Trying to get through the year, Louis Tomlinson takes a small turn when the new hipster kid from a reform school texts him by mistake.
Thursday, November 22nd, 2012 (2:00pm)
“Hey, twat-face!” Grimmy waved a hello as he walked to the back of our fourth period class, AP Physics with Mr.Kells, and slid into the seat next to me. With a wide smile, he rolled up the sleeves of his messy plaid shirt and looked towards me, “You coming to the footy game after school today?”
Scoffing, I raised my brows, “Footy? Not really my forte.” I explained, grabbing my bent-up textbook out of my bag and placing it on the working station in front of us.
“At least come for the support, man,” Nick reasoned, “Zayn and I have to be there, and we’ll grab a bite after. It’s indoors, too, so it won’t be cold or anything.”
The short, black haired teacher closed his book with a loud thump and looked at Nick and I, expectant, “Now, I don’t like to yell at my students. But when they’re being complete dickheads, I think a yell or two is in order.” Mr.Kells stated, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses were perched, “Mr. Styles,” He started with a sigh, “For someone who is at the top of this class, you really know how to be a complete moron.” He said, looking more irritated by the minute, “And Mr. Grimshaw, don’t get me started on your attendance record. Are you two done? Can we get back to the lesson?”
“We’re definitely not done talking, but you can get back to the lesson,” Nick shot back with a grin, clearly getting under the teacher’s skin.
“Grimshaw, I’m not going to say it again. Shut up, or get out.” Mr. Kells said, turning his back to the class and continuing with whatever was on the board.
“Just as I was getting comfortable, you pull that on me, sir.” Nick commented, “I’m offended. Hurt, even.”
As much as teachers tended to dislike our attitude and overall participation, they couldn’t help but like our wit and overall work performance.
“So, are you up for being the best cheerleader you could be, Styles?” Nick nudged me, a little quieter after the pep-talk we had gotten.
“Sure, why not?”
The tri-tone ring of an iPhone went off, and I grabbed the phone that was resting in the pocket of my leather jacket.
Thursday, November 22nd, 2012 (2:24pm)
Are you just as bored as I am?
What class are you in?
Are you sure you’re not a creepy old guy just waiting for your moment to attack? Writers Craft. You?
AP Biology. It’s about as dull as a class can be .x
Wait, Biology? Since when do you take year twelve classes?
Since I live off of the thrill of a challenge x
And what would your definition of challenge be?
my definition of a challenge? Something that is possible to achieve but not without effort .
Not to be a mood killer or anything, but would *this* be considered a challenge?
Thursday, November 22nd, 2012 (3:30pm)
Why the fuck did I come to watch a bunch of teenagers passing around a ball on a fake grass field?
Surrounded by the obnoxiously loud talk of chav girls and male douchebags, I kicked my combat boots up and pulled out my phone, scrolling through past conversations with this challenging Lou that I had yet to meet.
“Come on, Tomlinson!”
My head shot up at the mention of the name.
Okay, not to be creepy or anything, but I went on a facebook stalking spree to find out the name of the feather-haired boy with bright blue eyes to actually find out what his name was. I didn’t know his name (and felt a little too embarrassed to ask such a question) but I did know the names of his friends – Liam Payne in particular. Zayn wouldn’t shut up about him.
So, I went through Liam’s facebook profile to see his recent friends included this feather haired boy and I found out his name was Louis.
He would be a hot fuck.
But of course, he was straight.
I watched him on the field with total control of the ball. A small smirk crossed his features as soon as he was in proximity to set up a great goal.
And then it happened.
A team member from the opposing side came out of butt-fuck nowhere and smashed his foot into Louis’ ankle, achieving the ball.
A yelp of sheer agony was heard and a whistle was blown as Louis dropped to the floor in pain.
I don’t know what came over me, or why I let my guard down, but suddenly I was away from the bleachers and onto the field. It was panic – the connection that I’ve had with this boy since day one in the hall overcame me, and I had to do something.
“God, what happened? Who saw what happened?” The ref yelled out and none of the team members could respond. Louis’ yells were still being heard and I dropped to the ground beside him. I placed my hand on his ankle, adding a bit of pressure to his ankle.
Another scream of agony.
“Fuck, he sprained his ankle!” I screamed to the group of confused players rushing towards the scene. When the coach (nor the ref) made no movements what-so-ever, I had to take it into my own hands, “He sprained his fucking ankle, you twats! Get someone, now!”
Nodding, the coach grabbed his phone to call for paramedics, rushing off with the other adults in the area.
“Louis, I need you to listen to me,” I spoke over the sound teenagers. Louis looked up to me, eyes wet with fresh tears. He bit back from letting them spring free and worried his lower lip, making it become plump, “Louis, where exactly is the pain?” A hand dragged to the area that was kicked, holding still, “It’s a sprain, nothing too major. It’ll be okay. Just keep your mind off of the pain while the paramedics are being sent for. What is one thing that you become excited for everyday? One thing.” By the look on his face, you could tell that it was hard for Louis to keep his mind off of the ankle and the pain. With another moment to think, he cleared his throat to speak.
I almost chocked.
Louis with a gay beard.
Louis with the blue eyes.
“Well, if there’s no proof, I can’t get a red card, can I?” A voice spoke from behind me to his team mates, smirk prominent in his voice.
Oh, that was bad timing on his part. I almost felt sorry for him.
Because nobody fucks with my Lou.
So, to put it simply, I turned around and gave him something to ‘smirk’ about. I pulled my fist back and slammed it into his face, causing a gush in his cheekbone area to open.
“Is that red enough for you?”My voice was at an unusually loud volume, which caused silence about on the field and I turned back to Louis, dropping down beside him again. A smile of appreciation was found, and I shrugged in return, “Well, this Hazza is a lucky fellow if he’s the one to cause that smile every day.”
Thursday, November 22nd, 2012 (11:12pm)
Was the rest of your day as boring as the first part?
No, not at all. You?
Quite eventful, actually. What happened?
I almost broke my fucking ankle. Thankfully, it was just a sprain. But this guy that I’ve been eying all year practically came in full shining armor and made my day a lot better.
How did you manage to sprain your ankle?
A stupid football game. Luckily, Stiles or whatever his name is kicked the dude’s ass – the one that fucked up my foot.
Oh, so you’re on the football team?
Ugh, when will you ever stop being creepy?
Ha ha ha, trust me, it’ll come soon enough.
Oh, and thank you.
Why? What did I do?
Thanks for being the one thing that keeps me alive every day. Stiles asked what makes me happy, and I answered you.
This “Stiles” guy seems better by the second. You sure he’s not gay?
Positive. I mean, he wears leather. No gay wears leather. It’s like in a book somewhere.
Is leather a bad thing?
No, definitely not but… Why are you asking this anyways?
He just seems like an interesting character.
Well, he’s definitely a character I would like to get to know better. The paramedics wrapped up my foot and as soon as I got back to the field, he was gone.
You said he punched the dude, right? Maybe he got in trouble for it and had to leave.
Probably. I didn’t see the arse who fucked up my ankle for the rest of the game, either. I had to sit out, though.
I hope you feel better.
Same. I hope Stiles actually talks to me soon.
If he does, I’m sure he’ll be very vocal about it.