The Game of Views

ツ Louis’ POV ツ

Before I even open my eyes I know I’m late. I’m sodding late again. I’m wickedly fucked and for the love of god I’m hung over. Disappointment seeps out of my brain, my brain in pain. Why the shit did I even drink last night? Christ, Tommo, get ahold of yourself mate.

My iPhone lights up as I slide out of my temple of rest, (and for last night’s case: unconsciousness). The screen is severely crowded with texts and missed calls, super.

I get to it then. Having slept naked, there’s no need to strip. I snatch some briefs off the floor, that may or may not be clean, and slip into them.

My bedroom can be described in no other way except a complete disaster. I’m pretty sure a bomb had gone off in here, and the clothes had been the shrapnel. Throw me in my own small flat, with all of the shit I’d brought on tour, and this is what you get: explosive suit cases.

My closet doors fight me as I open them, and once I do, a heaping pile rolls onto my feet. It smells like must in there, that’s most certainly what my mother would tell me. From the shelves I grab my training shorts and jersey, pulling them onto my sore body. Finally I throw on a zip up and a pair of joggers.

I slide past my kitchen, only grabbing my keys and a protein bar of sorts.

I skip steps and try my best to not fall down the cement stairs of death. Thankfully, I don’t run into anyone on my way down. Upon entering the garage, I realize it also smells like must. What even is must?

I zip to the field in under five minutes, speeding all the way. As expected, I’m fucked. The whole team is lined up with coaches and a few other official looking people standing before them. As my brilliance precedes me, the door I snuck through slams shut. Everyone turns. I shoot them a half-hearted smile.

Nobody speaks. Nobody even gestures towards me. Stan looks quite concerned, essentially telling me I’m so absolutely fucked. There are two new faces standing next to Coach. The guy looks irrelevant. But guess who the blonde is.

My bottom lip quivers and drops just a mere millimeter. Why the hell is she here? It’s her, it’s fucking her, and this is the introduction she’s gonna get. Wonderful, Louis, wonderful.

I place myself at the end of the line closest to her. She’s looking at Coach, who’s looking at me. Shit.

“Tomlinson, I swear to god this is-,” he begins, but I cut him off as politely as I can.

“Coach, I know. Just cos I’m…,” I pause myself, don’t sound like a gimp, “That guy, doesn’t mean I can be late. I had a bad night, just like any other lad. My bad, Coach, won’t happen again.”

He smirks at me and looks to the rest of the team, this is worrisome. Most of the Rovers like me. A few hate me with a passion that worries me. Maybe they secretly love me and are gay for me, who knows.

“Won’t happen again? I’ll remember that,” he says blatantly and then addresses the team, “How many laps should he do?”

The majority of the team doesn’t say anything, but a few excessive numbers are chortled. This causes the team to laugh. Stan looks like he’s going puke right where he stands.

“12 laps, Tomlinson,” Coach sneers, “And I’m sticking you with the new trainer for the day.”

The team groans, jealous of this. I had been trying very hard to ignore her presence.

“Oi, shut up lads,” he shouts.

“That’s a reward, Coach,” a voice pipes up; I didn’t see who it was.

Coach looks at me. I look to my spikes, putting on the best shameful show I can manage.

“Nah, she has a fiancé or something. Yeah a real big shot out in London,” he explains, more to himself than anyone, “Bit of torture, I suppose.”

I slightly doubt that. She is unbelievably beautiful. Incredibly fit bird, and well, must be a good shag. Anything can happen on a stadium tour with me.

The team goes about in playful banter regarding this. Someone shouts something about s & m. I hear bets being made on who will shag her first and who she will slap first. The coach goes to settle this, failing miserably as high fives begin.

I take two steps to the right to distance myself from these idiots. Looking up at her, I can see how red her face is, although her beauty is evident beneath the blush.

She has a heart-shaped face with clear, beige skin. Though her hair is loosely French braided, it causes her skin comes off as almost golden tan making her out of place here.

Her eyes stand out, seemingly larger than normal. I can’t see the color, but I’m guessing blue. I’ve been imagining them as cerulean beads that light up beneath the sun. Her lips that taunt; they’re the color of cotton candy, only a bit darker. I note that she’s wearing minimal makeup.

As for clothes, clearly she went for simple: black yoga pants that cut off beneath her knee (skin tight, quite alright with me), a bright aqua athletics zip up, and charcoal grey indoor spikes.

I stop absorbing her and mentally slap myself.

Taking in all of these details makes me feel like a soppy idiot. I feel like a woman, really, my mother would notice these things (bless her heart).

I can tell she hasn’t spoken to the team yet. She picks at her sweatshirt’s sleeve and one indoor-booted foot prods the turf. Nobody is paying attention to her and she has the right to speak for herself. My time to make a better impression, I’d say.

“Oi!!! Listen up chums,” I below, finding my deep voice, “Maybe she’d like to introduce herself to you mongrels.”

After running my eyes over my teammates who responded to my bit of authority, I return my gaze to her. She’s looking straight at me with an expression I don’t understand. Her eyebrows are pinched and her lips pout. Beside her, Coach looks at me baffled.

“Um, yes,” she starts and turns to the whole team, “I’m Riley Ellis. You guys can call me Ellis.”

There’s a chorus of hello’s and repetition of her name. She’s American, which catches me off guard.

“Err… I’m from Virginia. I’m 20,” a bunch of guys whistle.

Dutifully, she continues, “I played for Penn State University for two years. And my career ended towards the end of my second year. Uhhum, I’ve worked with a few teams you’d know: Cardiff, Man U, Sheffield...”

She bites the inside of her cheek and looks down. Ten or so seconds pass, devastatingly uncomfortably. Ellis shifts.

“How long will you be with us?” Stanley asks, saving her from the awkward bit.

“Well that’s up to my supervisor. He moves me around a lot. This is my first um actual position as a trainer, I was something of an intern before,” she smiles, gracious for the saving.

Nobody else cares to speak. Coach steps forward once more, not intending for anymore bits of awkward.

“We’re glad to have you, Ellis. The lads’ll be sure to make you acquainted. You’ll get used to us quickly,” Coach smiles at her warmly, then turns to the team, “She’s observing you lot today. Tomorrow, she kicks you arses. Warm ups, let’s go! Tomlinson, shouldn’t you be running?”

Once he turns, I flip him the bird and make distorted faces at his back. Ellis rolls her eyes and her body language tells me I’m an immature twit, I can’t say I don’t agree. Nonetheless, she waves to me shortly. I return the wave and then she follows Coach.

-----

Practice went horribly. The lads that hate me went on about my poor behavior and hacked on me through every drill. Of course, Coach was too preoccupied with Ellis to notice. I was too preoccupied with Ellis to care.

I’ve already showered and cleaned up, extra nice just for her. I was happy to have found my grey knit beanie. I need a haircut and when it’s this long and damp, I look like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.

I shift my weight and look around for Riley Ellis. I’ve made up my mind to ask her about her name, I quite like her first name. Why go by Ellis? She makes me awful curious.

I wonder if I should tell her that I saw her here almost a year ago. I wonder how she’d take hearing me describe how I tried to find her just because of one glimpse. I wonder if she’d think I’m a stalker freak, even though I failed miserably at stalking her. I wonder about what Harry said.

Pulling out my phone, I check the time. Its half past 11, she’s late. I sweep my eyes about the cement hallway, no blondes are present.

I look back down to my phone. I check for texts, there are none. I look for snapchats, again- nothing.

Seeing no reason not to, I open the Google app. I want to know about Ellis and soccer. I search her name, but the results are scattered. I think back to her introduction and search ‘Riley Ellis Penn State’, her university.

The first three results are videos of a football game. The majority of the rest appear to be rosters. It’s hard to imagine a girl like her playing. With small shoulders, Ellis comes off as petite. I click the longest one of three minutes, intrigued.

A navy jersey fakes a white, and passes straight to the middle of the 18 yard box. A blonde in navy receives it with ease, Ellis. She darts past the defender to the center of the box and gets even closer as she fends off another white jersey.

Her head pops up as she looks to shoot, just as the keeper barrels into Ellis like a freight train. Her body flips; head where her feet were, feet in the sky.Her hands panic for the ground, seemingly going for a rolling hand stand.

Another player bumps into her, after attempting to avoid so. Ellis slams into the goalpost, and plummets to the ground.

The tackle happened so quickly, I can hardly believe it.

It replays. The keeper is huge in comparison to Ellis. The point of impact is at Ellis’ knee. They then crash together and cause her body to do a flip. The worst part is seeing her collide with the goalpost and crumple to the ground.

It doesn’t replay again, only focuses on the young player not moving, back to the sky. She landed on her side roughly, then flopped to her front.

People rush to her while the other team swarms the keeper and inches away.

Ellis doesn’t move. Two trainers kneel, talking to the unconscious player as they roll her onto her back. One of them grabs her hand and brushes hair out of her face with his free hand. I know I should be glad that someone tries to comfort her, but really it irritates me.

More than a minute passes. She twitches and then immediately, she twists onto her side. Her arms gravitate to the center of her chest, and her body curls in. The camera zooms into her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut, hair disheveled, lips pursed. She’s in pain.

A stretcher is placed beside her. The one touchy trainer continues to talk to her, more than assess her for injuries. The others assist each other in slowly peeling Ellis into a relaxed position and sliding her to the stretcher. She’s carried off the field, her arms don’t leave her chest and her eyes never open.

The video ends.

I close my eyes in disbelief and lower my phone. I lean back against the wall and try to imagine what injuries resulted.

Someone clears their throat. I open my eyes and stand up straight. Ellis is here. I hadn’t heard her walk up.

I know she recognizes me, it’s highly doubtful she knows random Doncaster Rover extras. She studies me for a moment as if contemplating what I’ll be like.

“Hi, I’m Ellis,” she holds her hand out, all business like.

I laugh at her. Her lips part and eyes dart away in response.

“Ellis, everyone with this team are friends, not co-workers,” I offer kindly.

She makes an ‘o’ with her lips. Just because, I gently grab her hand, raise it to my lips, and press a soft, lingering kiss to her ice cube hand.

“Louis, the Tommo, Tomlinson,” I say like an idiot before I can hold it back.

A dash of pink speckles her cheeks in quick response. Noticeably, her gaze drops to my other hand: the hand holding the phone open to the video of her getting destroyed. The hallway goes eerie.

“Oh, um, I was just…” I choose not to finish the sentence.

She simply looks at me, expression guarded. I was wrong about her eyes: they’re brown, a really deep brown that glows in certain angles of sunlight. She has eyes just like Zayn, same dark eyelashes even.

“You looked me up,” she states.

She begins to walk down the hallway, towards the exit. I follow her.

“Yes,” I say unsure.

She sighs and looks everywhere but at me. Clearly, I’ve disappointed her.

“I didn’t mean to pry, I was,” I hesitate as she bumps into me, “Sorry Ellis. Secrets safe with me?”

I offer a smile and shrug. She doesn’t respond, but instead gives me a look. I don’t see why, but I can never read her expressions. They’re always extremely guarded.

“The lads won’t find out. They’re too dumb to look even,” I badger, “Ellisssssss.”

I drag out her name to annoy her. She rolls her eyes at me again.

“C’mon. I’m grew up here, I’m your first dose of Doncaster. I have to load you with irrelevant information, you’re my tourist sort of,” I say with mock seriousness and puff out my chest, “First, we’ll get your stuff moved into your office. Then, we shall get tea. Or is it coffee that you Americans prefer?”

She narrows her eyes at the word coffee and attempts to hide a smirk. I can’t decide whether I’m flirting or not and if it’s okay. Didn’t Coach mention a fiancé?

“Coffee it is. You can tell me all about your life here and ask me the questions I know you have,” I suggest, then jokingly, “You can even ask me about the band.”

I nudge her with my elbow. She giggles at this and swats my arm away. I’ve already fallen in love with her laugh. It’s contagious, I confirm, as I respond with a short chuckle.

“You won’t find it weird to be around a fan?” Ellis asks innocently.

These are the first words she’s spoken to me that didn’t feel stiff.

“You’re a fan?” I respond, genuinely surprised.

She nods shamefully and looks up at me. She does have a rather large set of eyes, in gorgeous chocolate shades. I’ve never understood the whole ‘puppy dog eyes’ until now.

“Um, Ellis?” I almost trip.

“Um, yes?” She parrots, I enjoy hearing her mock me.

“Not to be weird or self-obsessed, but why aren’t you freaking out or at least nervous?” I question slowly, a bit concerned.

She laughs as she opens the door and steps into the damp parking lot. I’m glad I wore my beanie, its lightly raining. I can see her process this weather, deciding she likes it. At her side, her hands fan out and catch rain drops while her fingers stiffly play an invisible piano.

“If you want me to, I can,” she replies, smiling, “I dunno, I’m not exactly a big fan. My best explanation would be my dad. He’s a screen writer for shows and well, meets the people who get to act them out. Since I was little I got to meet the actors too. I guess I’m just use to it.”

She looks as though she might say more, but she halts herself. She fishes her keys from her pocket as she walks. I am lead to a blue piece of shit. Seriously, her car is an ancient, sky hunk of metal. There’s no rust shockingly, but I can’t imagine this little thing runs safely. I keep my mouth shut about her car, though this takes much effort.

Ellis pops the trunk and shoves a few things to the back. She points to a square box and I pick it up, it’s mildly heavy. Next, she places a smaller box on the ground and closes the trunk, but not before I catch a glimpse of a navy football bag. I bite my lip, preventing myself from asking.

“Let’s go, I’m cold,” she remarks and snatches the box from the ground into her arms.

Obviously, she doesn’t want to be alone with me out here any longer than she has to be. Why else the haste?

We walk back into the stadium in a comfortable silence. I hold the door open for her and she curtsies on her way in.

After a few foot scuffs, I tell myself to end the silence. Don’t be weird Tommo. Learn some things.

I’m about her ask her about her name when I realizes she’s breathing heavily. Actually, I’d hardly call it breathing. She’s subtly gasping for air, wheezing sort of. It sounds like there must be gaping holes in her lungs. Although, Ellis doesn’t look like she’ll acknowledge it.

“Hey, Riley, I can take that box you know,” I offer gently, accidentally using her first name, still pondering it.

She sets the box down and leans against the cement walls. Resting her hand on her forehead, Ellis tries to act simply flustered. She’s gone vividly colorless in the cheeks.

“It’s Ellis,” she whispers at me, but I ignore it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, giving up the ‘not trying to pry’ campaign.

I set my box down. Her body pivots to face me and she rests her back against the wall. She looks into my eyes and freezes. She looks scared and alone. Worry is clearly stamped on her forehead.

My hands go to her waist in an attempt to steady and comfort her. They gently rest just above what must be a high set of hip bones. I can feel her shake beneath me, like a leaf quivering as it tries to hold on against the wind.

“Ellis, it’s okay,” I keep my eyes on hers, “Just take a minute.”

This is my best advice. And I don’t want to overstep my rights in comforting her, so I don’t do anything else.

☂ Ellis’ POV ☂

I’m pissed at my body’s reaction to a ten pound cardboard box. I can feel myself shaking like a scared puppy. A steady throb works its way into the back of my skull. I feel like an idiot as my breathing returns to normal.

I look into Louis’ eyes as he speaks to me. I’m not comprehending what he’s saying, but it’s still making me feel better.

“You’re alright Ellis,” he says, ah my hearing has returned.

“I’m fine now,” I say quickly and step out of his grasp harshly.

He ignores it and watches me. I try my best not to, but I sway a little. In attempt to defy him, I raise my eyebrows as if to say “What?”.

I can see him struggling to decide what to do. He’s biting his lip again.

Finally, he scoops both boxes into his arms. He takes one long look at me and then his face rids itself of concern.

Louis strolls past me and continues down the hall without another word. My eyes follow him, confused. First he freaking googles me and now he doesn’t even try to badger me for an explanation? I can’t say this doesn’t make me happy. I’m actually really happy I don’t have to explain myself. I’m just really whiplashed by his behavior.

I jog up to him and fall into pace by his side.

“Thank you,” I say gently.

“Mmhmm,” is all I get.

Upon entering the trainers’ room, I realize I’m going to love it here. I have plenty of cushioned tables pressed to the walls and shelves that must hold medical supplies. The walls are solidly white with the exception of the wall you face directly as you enter. This wall is coated in photographs and posters and even notes. Some of these depict the team, others of One Direction, there’s even what looks like banter between certain people with obvious inside jokes. It’s a cluttered and colorful masterpiece. I smile at the wall and begin observing every item.

“This gonna be okay doc? Got all your goodies?” Louis prods seriously.

I turn to him and gawk at the words ‘your goodies’, on purpose, knowing he didn’t mean it that way. His face drops.

“Uh I mean medical stuff,” he coughs, acting casual.

I smirk at him and slam myself down into the wheelie chair, sliding a few feet. Louis crosses the room and begins to fidget with a stereo, tuning it.

With swag, I scoot over to my desk and unload the small box. I packed it with skilled organization. Literally all I have to do is take an item out and place it where I want on my new desk.

Carefully, I angle my favorite snapshots onto my desk. One of Grace: my best friend who is currently, most likely, ordering some women around as she plans one lucky gal’s wedding. Another of my brother holding my cat fits in right beside it.

Beside it, I place my favorite family picture. It’s tacky as hell, but I still love it. The setting is my dad’s cabin in Duxbury, Massachusetts. My dad sits at the lowest step of the porch with a genuine smile displayed while he looks up at my brother. Sammy had probably just told a joke and is looking just below the camera with a half grin on his face. I’m holding my cat Topper, who was barely a kitten at the time. He sits in my lap, posing as I admire the moment between my two favorite guys. Topper is the only one caring to look into the camera.

I nudge them to a safe corner and continue to unpack. My office supplies fit neatly on my desk with no complications, and I’m done with my little box in under five minutes.

I look up to see Louis watching me from his perch next to the stereo. He’s seated comfortably on a padded table, and looks at me shamelessly. My stomach squeezes and I look at the stereo. ‘Royals’ by Lorde is playing, shockingly.

He’s still gazing at me. I chase away the blush by wheeling towards him and avoiding his eyes. Instead I look at his knee, that I primarily noticed when he came in late. It’s clearly inflamed.

On the table, he is much higher than I am while I sit. It makes me feel small. I can feel his warmth radiating, and even subtly it feels nice. I’ve noticed any bit of warmth around here feels heavenly, especially in this concrete contraption.

I cup his knee without warning and he flinches away, but immediately his leg returns to my hand. Gently, I massage the swelling, in circular patterns on the outer part of his knee cap. His skin is extremely hot under my arctic hands.

“What happened?” I ask softly.

I look up at his pretty eyes, I haven’t decided on what color. I know they’re blue from pictures but they look different all of the time.

He shifts uncomfortably.

“Just a bit of a twist,” he steers away from my question.

Louis pushes my chair away and hops down from the table. Obviously he doesn’t care to be bothered about it. He holds his hand out for me. I pretend I don’t notice it’s there and stand up independently.

Bored, I walk out of the room with Louis trailing. I hear him sigh.

“Look, Ellis,” he starts, exhaling loudly.

“Please don’t,” I beg immediately, feeling a speech coming on.

I’ve been waiting for him to bring up what he saw and probably read about. Most of it is absolutely horrible.

“I just want to um, to tell you,” Louis pauses awkwardly and gestures with his hand, “Look, I won’t ask you anything you don’t want me to.”

I didn’t expect him to say that, so I don’t speak. I square off my body with his offensively and boldly look into his eyes as he continues.

“Obviously, your um accident isn’t something you like to deal with.”

“Don’t call it that,” I snap, surprising myself with my tone.

“I’m sorry love,” he responds quickly.

He steps close to me, standing just before me. I feel his heat again. This time I can also feel his breath.

I should step back, but I don’t. We’re co-workers, we barely know each other. Personal space you fucker. I move to step back, but he speaks up.

“I just, christ I…god fucking shit!” Louis exclaims randomly.

I jump and step back confused. My back presses into the never ending hallway wall. He steps close again, but there’s more space between us this time.

How bad is it that I’m picturing him pinning me to this wall and… God Ellis don’t be that dumb little girl who crushes over One Direction.

“I’m sorry I looked you up. I won’t bother asking or looking. But, Ellis,” he hesitates on my name.

I like the way he says it. I wish he’d call me Riley again. I also wish he’d ask about what happened to me.

“Dammit Ellis,” he’s breathing forcibly, “Don’t be alone. You don’t have to be alone here.”

His eyes leave mine, looking down and his sloppily tied vans.

I hold my breath and wait. I have no fucking clue what’s happening.

It pisses me off. I hate that someone new to me can affect me like this. I hate how I don’t care that this practical stranger-celebrity can be this personal with me without even being personal. I hate that any second I feel as though I will lose my normal human qualities and turn into a screaming fangirl.

“Talk to me. Be my friend, I need more than Harry and the boys... Fuck Ellis,” he rushes, “Let me get to know you.”

I cringe.

“I can already tell what you’re like: you’re shy and sad. You won’t give a huge effort to gain friends here. I can see it, you put yourself there. I’m there too, there’s only a handful of people that actually want me here. Just, please, let me be there with you,” he rants.

His breathing is heavy. Why is he proclaiming this to me? Normal people don’t do this; normal people don’t even talk to me. He’s right though. So far, himself and that brown almost black-haired friend of his have been the only two I’ve considered socializing with.

Louis suddenly steps back from me and paces off down the hall.

“I have to go to the loo,” he explains loudly.

I’m left in silence as he veers into a doorway.

ツ Louis’ POV ツ

“Hello?” Harry answers finally.

“Christ, H, help me,” I plead, sitting on the counter in the locker room.

“What is it mate?” He asks, groggy voice laced with concerned.

I exhale loudly before going on.

“It’s her, it’s bloody her. You know that girl that you believe doesn’t exist?” I don’t wait for a reply, “She fucking does and she fucking works here as of today. I’ve already googled her and then almost pinned her against a miserable wall trying to tell her about how I’ve seen her before. She makes me fucking mental, Harry!”

He bursts into laughter on the other end. I frown and kick my feet as they dangle.

“Oh fuck me Lou. You’ve got so many girl problems,” he chuckles.

“Harry,” I complain seriously.

“Calm down Louis. You can’t freak her out. Are you still there with the team and all?” He questions.

“No, no, no. It’s just me and Ellis that I’ve seen.”

I hear him swallow his spit.

“Her name is Ellis?” He quickly ponders.

“Nevermind that! Take her to lunch or get a cuppa. Play your sweet, Doncaster charm,” he proposes.

“But you gotta remember not to freak her out. You’re strangers Louis! Get to know her, you idiot,” he advises.

“But, Harry,” I whine.

“Hush up. You can do it. Bye Lou,” Harry hangs up.

Fuck you Harry, more like fuck me I’m fucked already for probably the tenth time today.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I readjust my fringe and settle.

“Ball up you twit,” I order myself.

I return to Ellis and act as casually as manageable by this point. She’s fidgeting with the bracelet on her left wrist. It’s all hues of brown and looks terribly mangled.

“That mean something?” I ask curiously, pointing at it.

She immediately stops touching it and looks up at me. She nods, but doesn’t elaborate. Frustrated, I don’t know how to respond. This frustrates me more. I need to be in my hot tub eating some toast for christ’s sake.

“So… You said you’d buy me coffee?” She asks deviously, grinning at me flirtatiously.

I give her a smile, enjoying her ploy.

“Yeah. My car though. C’mon, Ellis,” I tug her towards the exit, then curiously ask, “Anyone else you want to bring?”