The Game of Views

☂Ellis’ POV☂

To be honest, the week went by much better than I had expected. When you put Riley Ellis, in a city like Doncaster and expect her to look after a soccer team of young men, she should be dead in a matter of days.

And yet, I survived, with minimal injuries.

I got moved into my little house, if that’s even what you’d call it… My house is tall and skinny: literally a Victorian house that was smushed between similar houses and an apartment building. It’s fairly short compared to the complex levels of the apartments next door.

It suits me really. Just like my roommate.

My roommate is quite interesting. He’s definitely not what I expected (thankfully).

His name is Oliver Dámonreaux. He’s 18 and rich, though I haven’t figured out why he’s so rich.

Oliver is French which is the only reason I scored this place. French is his only language and I can speak English and French, for the most part. Having a roommate that can actually communicate with you is just a little bit important, and Oliver snagged me the moment I came to town looking to room with someone.

Oliver is definitely attractive. He looks older and has a face that says ‘musician’. He's totally adorable.

Oliver is a brief guy. He isn’t unfriendly or rude, just busy and abrupt. I prefer his personality over almost anyone’s; it aligns well with my own. The best part is: there is no awkwardness. He told me that “we’re mates” the day I met him.

He dresses like a hipster and is a good cook. When the kid wakes up on time, he leaves breakfast for me in a dish: an omelet, chocolate chip pancakes, or even crepes.

I don’t see him much with my new job and him commuting to and from college every day for his classes, also why we switched cars. Rather, he now takes the car and I take his crotch rocket: crotch rocket as in his beautiful, royal blue and white Suzuki r65x. I never thought I’d be a bike kind of girl. Dad would hate it. I learned to love it the second I figured out how easy it was to maneuver. I also dig the hot outfit it comes with, even though it’s a touch too big.

Anyways, Oliver is cool and he did well in making me feel welcomed. He even offered to give up the bigger middle floor for me.

But instead, I graciously took the lofted upstairs. It’s far smaller than the middle floor and the main level is the most spacious. The stairs make an angled ‘u’ before reaching the loft, giving me a sound and privacy barrier.

The loft was originally supposed to be a sort of upstairs living, lounge type area, maybe even a playroom. I made it my bedroom. The short rectangular room is awkward with its slanting ceiling, but so far I fit in just fine.

The room came with empty, pale pink furniture. I quickly filled each drawer to the brim and stashed my luggage in the danky, unused basement (which is more of a crawl space lighted with Christmas lights).

The pink looks adorable against the white, (with patchy bare spots), bricks that line every wall in the two upper levels. It’s antique and feels incredibly homey.

Fantastically, there’s a plush arm chair that sits with a lamp and small table in a corner of the room. Late night Cosmopolitan reading my friends.

My bed frame is a three piece, dark wood book case that demands attention. It fits me. And it contrasts in an appealing way with my bed.

I like my bed, I love it passionately.

Within the three walls of my bed lies my paradise of blankets: two dust-grey cotton sheets, one light aqua wool blanket, and finally a plain white comforter that is extremely fluffy.

And there’re pillows too: one body pillow, some square pillows, and the comfiest feather pillows. Everything about my bed is simple, without a true design or theme.

The bookcases are cluttered with my things already. The side that faces the staircase and most of my room is neat an organized. We aren’t gonna talk about the other, less seen side…

The top shelf holds my athletic clothes: yogas, sweats, and jersey shorts and tees. The middle shelf has three baskets. One contains medical gear, cheap stuff I can grab and use. The middle basket has all of my athletic socks, from booties to knee-highs. And the last holds my dearly important, collection of water bottles. Finally, the bottom shelf displays all 8 pairs of my spikes and indoor booties, neatly alligned.

The book case at the top of my bed is unused as it’s pressed to the wall beneath the only window in the space. A large, rectangle stretching across the wall that gives me a view of the miniature backyard we have.

Directly across from the window wall is the wall with two skinny French doors that open above the street. They lead onto an even skinnier balcony with a lonely, empty flower box. The roof holding the balcony is flat and just above it there’s a slight slant until it reaches the top of the building.

Instead of using the ladder on the back of the house as I should have, I walked up the slant with my telescope. I discovered a worn, outdoor furniture hang out.

Nonetheless, I found a space and left my telescope up there in its weather proof box. I’ll use it on a good clear night, like the good little nerd I am.

The wall to the left of the window wall is the entrance to my bathroom.

My bathroom is stark white, which is nice and clean cut looking. The shower is combined with the bath tub, my favorite feature. Centered from the doorway looms the grand, claw foot tub that’s totally waiting for me to soak in.

Oliver even put a small basket of bath salts, soaps, and scrubs on the counter as a welcome gift with a note saying “Don’t have too much fun, I’m just downstairs” in his girly handwriting. There was also a winky face. To be honest I wonder about that boy…

So, my temporary home life has settled with me just fine. I even set up times to call Dad and Sam, and skype the one and only Grace.

Bonus: Oliver assembled a cat tree house thingy one day while I was at work. It’s a castle with a bunch of comfy levels, for Prince Topper. I called him crying when I found it. It was the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in England, (er well done for my cat).

Work life has been… Nothing like I expected. The entire team took a liking to me.

Lots of the boys have injuries, nothing major but stuff I’m checking up on. There’s a lot of issues with wrists and ankles, and tendonitis is showing up more than I’d like.

I started them on a new exercise plan, (I didn’t dare try to mess with their diets). There is a shit ton of cardio: running, biking, swimming, and core work outs. (I had to reteach running and core work outs, many of the guys didn’t have the correct form which results in tight muscles and not an efficient work out.)

The boys aren’t exactly the biggest fans of getting into shape, but it gets easier every day.

It’s also getting easier to fit in here. And for once in a long time, I’ve felt important.

I actually like it here… In Doncaster, which I didn’t expect at all. The only thing I’m not liking, is that my cat still hasn’t arrived from quarantine: where the Brits must be testing my cat for alien life forms, I’m sure.

-----

Today is Friday. The shortest practices are on Fridays followed by a brief meeting about the game tomorrow.

But as of right now, I’m free for the rest of the evening; with no plans or friends or work to bring home.

So I’m sitting cross-legged on the quartz counter top in the kitchen; alone on a Friday night, in the middle of a lively city, eating a banana.

I dressed for the occasion too. I wear a pair of Oliver’s grey sweats (that he left sitting on a chair) and a skin fitting tank top with no bra. My nice straight pony tail has taken a toll, it’s loose and wobbly and I’m sure there’s fly-aways everywhere.

I hop down and sway my hips to the beat of the song. I discovered that Oliver likes American country music when I turned on his kitchen audio player. I kind of wish he was here to be honest. We could drink wine and talk life stories maybe.

But Oliver had packed a small bag and said he wouldn’t be back until Sunday night, something about a girl. Although he did gift me with a bottle of wine before he left in my little piece of shit car.

I hope he doesn’t get in an accident. What if he did? Would I meet his family? Would I figure out why he’s so rich? I start to picture Oliver in the hospital and fat, crying relatives fixing his quiffed blonde hair in his unconscious state. My eye twitches at the thought.

My phone rings suddenly on the table and I catapult my banana at the noise, temporarily terrified. I’m home alone for the weekend. I cringe.

Using the long sweatpants, I slide my way over and answer, without registering what the caller i.d. had listed.

“Hello?”

“YOOOOOOO!”

I’m so freaked out by this that I drop my phone back to the table.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I seethe as I pick it up.

“Who the hell is this?” I belt out.

I hear snickering and shuffling on the other side. I can also hear the hum of cars passing by.

I peel my phone from my cheek and read: Louis Tomlinson. My eyes slant in reaction.

“Tomlinson you fucking prick!” I scream and throw away my now smushed banana.

I’ve gotten onto more friend terms with Louis than I have with the other boys. Louis tends to hang around me as much as possible, and I don’t mind. We’re plenty comfortable with the fact considering we’ve begun practical pranks. He’s the only one I act my age with.

“Scared much? C’mon Ellis,” he draws out and then adds, “Wow, don’t you look chipper this fine evening.”

Setting my phone down, I whip my body around and storm towards the front door. Through the milky glass I can see a shadow. I snap the door open.

“I’m gonna whip your ass and then kick you right in the-,” I begin to promise but fall short of saying balls.

It’s not Louis. It’s a delivery man with a crate in his arms. He looks bewildered and flustered; possibly in shock, might go into cardiac arrest.

“Um, delivery for you miss,” he quips and shoves the crate into my arms.

I hear him fearfully grumble “Americans” as he makes his way down the steps.

I think I see smoke trailing him as he books it down the street.

“I’m awfully sorry,” I call after him, waving my hand like an idiot.

The crate moves by itself and almost falls out of my one arm hold.

“Topper!” I exclaim, instantly knowing, and skip gleefully into my house, dragging the door with me.

I place the crate on the table and release the clips. The door bursts open and out flies Topper. He lands precariously on his feet and they go every which way as he flees the kitchen, struggling on the hardwood.

He won’t be comfortable for another couple hours I’m sure. I’m also fairly certain I’m not gonna see him again until he forgives me for putting him through that.

“I love you Tops,” I call after him apologetically.

Mangled noises come from my phone beside the crate. I pick it up again.

“You’re a dick,” I sigh into it.

“Yeah that dick is on your porch,” he states proudly.

“Doubtful,” I respond quickly, hopeful.

He begins laughing like a villain.

Fuck me. I waddle to the door and slowly open it, silent this time.

Sure enough, basking in proudness, Louis stands casually dressed (skinny blue jeans, light grey cotton hoodie).

“Ellis,” he nods and barges past me, grinning.

“Uh yeah, I guess you can come in,” I scoff and close the door behind him.

He pads his way into the front room, looks around, and then continues into the kitchen. Louis spins around in a circle, taking in everything quickly.

“Does this fit into your standards?” I ask drily.

“Pretty much,” he replies in a serious tone.

He pulls out an island stool and perches himself. Louis does that a lot.

He looks me up and down without shame, smirking. Oh fucking shit I’m not wearing a bra. Brilliant Riley you fucking idiot. Be perky bb’s cmon.

“Problem?” I ask, feigning confidence.

I cross my arms just below my lovelies.

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’ and looks straight at them.

I ignore him a snag a big, red sweatshirt of a hook on the wall. I’m not even sure if it’s mine or Oliver’s. Throwing it on, I hope I don’t like a complete cow.

I look at the navy blue logo on his sweatshirt. It’s some hip looking design of a sailboat, not tacky or childish. It’s more of an outline, a quick sketch where the lines don’t meet.

I realize I’ve been staring at it for too long. My gaze travels to his face. Louis eyes are gleaming, smirking really. His mouth is firmly set in a line; I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

“Anyways… Uh, why exactly are you at my house?”

He yawns dramatically.

“Because Miss. Riley Ellis, you haven’t been out yet,” he states matter-of-factly and hops down from the counter.

I blink defiantly, “Yes I have.”

Then confused, “How did you even know where I live?”

Louis snorts and makes his way to the cluttered portion of the counter, beneath the light switches. He collects a pad of paper and a sharpie, and returns to his spot on the stool. He begins drawing or writing, one of the two, no both I think, and falls into concentration.

Curiosity takes over and I make my way to him. I hop up onto the island once more and look down at the paper.

Crudely, Louis has drawn a map. Of the legibly labeled I read: stadium, Cricket’s, and tubs. What the fuck is a tubs? There’s also some basic geometric shapes, buildings probably.

“You see this?” He taps on his map with the sharpie.

I give him my best ‘duh’ look.

“We’re gonna have a go at Doncaster,” he says, mischievousness practically dripping from his voice.

I frown internally. He knows I don’t have plans and don’t plan to go out around here, ever. I don’t like that he can read me this way.

“But Louis, I have wine and stuff going on,” I try, not meeting his eyes.

Our heads are too close together. I can’t look into his eyes without being too close to his lips.

He stays silent for a minute thinking. I feel his body tense rigidly beside me.

“Don’t try that with me, Ellis,” he murmurs quietly.

There’s something more to that. A sort of bitter sadness he tried to conceal.

It annoys me. Why can’t he be quirky, loud, obnoxious Louis around me all of the time? Why do I have to know this part of him exists? What even gives me the right? It’s been one week for god’s sake.

“Listen to me,” he turns to face me.

I can smell him now. He smells like cologne and coca cola. Basically, he smells like the greatest things in the world. I cautiously inhale, taking it in purposely now.

“…You can’t.”

Shit. He was talking.

“So you’re coming, dressed or not,” he confirms.

I finally look at him. He’s really close, inches from my face, only slightly lower. Good choice of counter position Riley.

His eyes are steady on mine, a dominant force. They’re definitely blue right now, steely blue, like the color of the front room. They deserve to be a paint color honestly like they’re too damn perfect.

“Okay,” I give in, feeling too happy about this.

ツLouis’ POVツ

I feel way too happy to be here. I probably shouldn’t be here. And yet I’m here and I’m a whole different Louis. Way fucked up.

I could’ve waited downstairs while she got ready. I should’ve. But no, I wanted the bloody tour. Sodding idiot.

I know I shouldn’t be lying in her bed. Probably shouldn’t be analyzing her scent. Definitely shouldn’t be imagining things happening on this bed.

It’s been a couple days since I met her and I’m chilling in her bed. Bloody brilliant.

“What the fuck do I wear Tomlinson?” She calls out irritated, that’s clear enough.

I laugh into her comforter, still face down. I love when she swears.

“Comfortable. Able to make getaways,” I report.

“So: tight everything and anything with the least amount of fabric,” I add quietly, joking to myself.

“Can do Tommo. So this dress for clubbing,” she responds after hearing that bit, with nothing to her voice.

Is she serious?

I don’t think, I just react. With my arms, I boost myself up and immediately spot her: half naked.

There, in the fading rays of the sun, Ellis stands in a solid black bra and panties, more like girl briefs really. She looks hot as hell, both pieces cling to her just right.

I spot a pink bow in between her breasts and two on each side of her panty-shorts. Her tits are perked up just enough to brim the cups of that bra. Fuck.

Hot. I feel hot. Extremely hot. And bothered. Yup, definitely bothered.

Don’t Louis. Don’t go there you fucking arse. I tense up and stop breathing.

She’s smirking, proud of her joke. She fusses with something in her hands and then… She knows. Her head whips up and eyes widen in surprise.

“Fuck! Lou! Joking!! Agh!!!” She shouts and frantically covers herself.

I dive my flaming cheeks back into her bed.

I can’t think of what to say. Sorry for looking at- nope. It was an accident? Fuck me? Shit shit shit. Shit for brains really.

Instead I just go with, “You called me Lou.”

Yeah that’s genius.

…Fucking dumbass.

Her shuffling pauses for a second.

“So?” She fires at me.

“Just saying,” I reply gently.

I liked her calling me Lou, but I don’t say so.

“Well, I’m ready,” she huffs.

I shove myself off the bed, hands greeting the floor first. I slide out like a snake and stand up, unfurling like a jack in the box.

Ellis stands before me, amused.

She wears beige skinny jeans, showing off the curves of her legs in every which way.

A black crewneck sweatshirt drapes over her torso, better fitting than the one she had on earlier. And yet she looks tiny in it. Gotta be those little shoulders, because I know for a fact that she has curves.

She has a soccer player’s body, that’s for damn sure: muscular thighs, tight calves, and a strong set of hips. Her hip bones are large, going up higher than expected. From there, her torso dips. And at the ribs her torso goes out just a bit once more, slimmer than her lower torso. From ribs up, she gets small. She has really tight, compact shoulders that are very pointed looking. I’d hate to get knocked by one of those.

“Hello, earth to Louis,” Ellis throws a shoe at me.

It lands on the bed, not even coming close to me. I focus again, eyes on her sweatshirt. I walk over to her.

She must be about... 1.7 meters... She's just above my shoulders.

“Penn State… Soccer,” I read the all caps print out loud.

I allow my finger to trace the Nike swoosh on her shoulder. I can feel her start to flinch away, but she stays put.

“Yep, been there done that, good times,” she brushes it off, laughing nervously.

The corners of her mouth say otherwise; the cotton candy color tugging downwards.

“You can talk to me about it, you know,” I tell her, giving her my loyalty.

“Thanks,” she says stiffly, looking behind me.

I feel like I should say something else, but I know she doesn’t want me to.

“So are we going? Do I need anything? Is this okay?” Ellis changes the subject, gesturing to her outfit, unsure.

She looks timid. Like a bird, ready to fly away, to get away from anything that’s moving.

“Er, yeah good. Let’s go,” I say unsteadily, voice shaking slightly.

I can tell she’s done being upstairs with me. So I don’t wait for her, just dart down the stairs, ready to be outside.

At the front door we pull on our shoes. Vans were a good choice by me. Ellis slips into a pair of light blue or aqua Nike high tops. Somehow, they are perfect for her.

“Damn, Ellis, I like ‘em,” I comment.

“You better,” she winks at me.

I notice she didn’t fix her pony tail and her ears are exposed to the max.

“Here,” I say, pulling my hat of my hoodie’s pouch.

She takes it and twirls it in her hands, questioning it.

“It’s cold,” I explain, slightly leaving out the fact that I wanna see her in my hat.

She shrugs and removes her hair from the pony tail, blushing as she does so; she knows I’m watching. Finger brushing it, she parts her golden hair in the middle. Most girls would look juvenile like this, but she has enough volume and descending lengths and the front. It suits her, but I think I’d like her hair better this way with waves.

Ellis pops the hat on and adjusts it. She could almost pass as a skater chick, but the light colored, shoulder length hair and minimal makeup give her away.

I love that she doesn’t wear much makeup. I know who she is this way and yet it’s just enough to make her stand out.

Mascara is the one obvious thing I can see. There is no way her lashes are that dark and long, (not like Zayn, who’s got genetics on his side). Powder or cover-up or whatever that skin colored stuff is too, though I’m not sure why; I don’t see any obvious marks that need hiding. It makes her skin look baby soft though, I constantly want to touch her cheeks if that’s not so weird. I haven’t seen any lip stuff, just a chapstick, which I’m glad about, even though her lips are so fucking distracting.

Christ Louis shut the fuck up already. You want to shag her not make her a model. Wait, no I don’t. She’s my ‘co-worker’ or trainer or whatever, just barely a friend. Shut up you idiot.

“Ready?” She asks, waiting.

I look down at her. Her pin straight hair falls evenly and silently beneath the hat, (I never noticed how thick it was until now).There’s a bit of space at the top of the hat, sagging over. The white, soft fabric makes her skin glow. She looks like a fall girl ready to play some football or tricks. I’m glad I gave her the hat.

Ellis will look good tonight and I’m pleased that she’ll be with me. I’ll let anyone think what they want.

She gives me a goofy look, brown eyes smiling.

“Oh yeah… Roll out!” I shout in my deepest voice.

I link her arm with mine and tug her into the streets of Doncaster, immediately being hit by a gust of the promise of winter.