Reflection Points

I know that when those of you who are following me see that I've updated (usually just Heather, really, let's be real since I haven't really figured this out yet) it usually means that I have a new addition in the "Murphy and Me" pile. Those of you who somehow stumble upon this and read it, thank you so much for doing so. However, if you look at my earlier posts (Early June and May and before that) you'll see that some of them are reflective and oddly introspective. But, it's not like I'm ripping pages out of my journal for the world to look at it. I'm just...I don't really know what I'm doing, which actually reflects my everyday living habits.

See, there's this whole notion that when you get to college, you automatically either know what you want to do with your life, and you figure it out very quickly once you get here. Well, I'm the type of person that A) I don't know what I want to do, and B) I don't want to limit myself. I like a lot of things: I like to write (which is something, I'm going to say, that I do fairly well), I like to act, sing (sometimes not publicly, and if you catch me singing, then I either know you extremely well or you got really lucky), take midnight adventures, go on general adventures, bake, cook, and simply do and be a variety of things. College is a chance to branch out and explore your horizons. That's what they tell us. When you get there, however, they want to know what you like so that they can put you in classes and maybe channel you into something structured by the end of your freshman year. But you don't actually have to declare until the end of your sophomore year.

I'm a sophomore.

I'm currently going out of my mind this semester because I'm a chemistry major and somehow taking organic chemistry II and physics I not only in the same semester, but back to back. Couple that with my teaching placement twice a week (I was worried about hours and it's fun) and a history class that chugs its way through a chapter of an English Narrative History a day (we meet three times a week, by the way) and it's a recipe for disaster.

Now this is where I would normally say that I also have soccer. But, for the first time in fourteen years of playing, I don't get to say it. I'm still in the program, yes, but I'm completely on my own, doing fitness work to get my fitness level to where it needs to be. It's not what I expected, and certainly not what I wanted. Then again, life is rarely fair. Mr. Murphy and I get along quite nicely, and I don't mean the one in "Murphy and Me" and I sure don't mean the The Boondock Saint. That's the way I've always rolled. And I will continue to roll that way.

This wasn't meant as a sort of free-for-all in terms of bitching about the amount of work to do (it's college, it's meant to be a challenge) but more of a general reflection point because I've had all this bottled up in my chest for the past week and a half, almost two weeks. And it's not even October. But I'm not alone. There are the rest of my sophomore class currently in the same boat, maybe even worse off than I am (I know people who take multiple languages/people who take genetics and orgo in the same semester) and the way we get through it is by doing the little things. Going out with our friends; having movie nights in with the girls; going to the outlets; and, in my case, writing.

Which brings me inevitably to my novel. And how my writer's block on my current composition book is gone, but the one on my typed stuff still remains. Considering that I'm currently "off book" (gone on a tangent, if you will, because it's better than what was originally there) there's not really much I'm going to be able to do until I can kick my brain into helping me get back on track. And I think I know part of the reason that it's such a struggle.

The part that I'm currently at is when, after Ralurick comes back from being captive among the enemy (The Baron) and has escaped with his healer, (Keina, Jack's mother), the love of his life Bella (if anybody so much as mentions Twilight there may be no Murphy for quite a while) says that she's leaving him. Which puts Ral in an emotionally raw situation. Considering the clusterfuck that my love life is, I think my mind is trying to steer away from something potentially reaming. That's all well and good, but I really need to get this written. I really need to finish this thing. And I really need to find a publisher willing to look at an unsolicited manuscript, read, and go "Hey, this chick is good. Let's publish her!"

I'd like to not be on the outside anymore. I'd rather be in the middle, not knowing which direction to look in because everything's happening at once. And the chaos is beautiful.

Murphy and Me X

((Yay!!! Double digits posts!!! Anyway....))

As usual I met Sasha and Cara in the dining hall for brunch the next morning. Not many got up to be there early. If they did, they'd get quite the fashion show.

Meaning the football team lookin' sharp.

Meaning an eyeful of Murphy in dress pants and suit coat.

"You're drooling," Sasha muttered.

I probably was.

Murphy looked around somewhat hopelessly, and was nudged by Devan. They moved for the omelet line, Murphy digging in his pocket.

"Is that Murphy?" Cara asked. I'd forgotten that she didn't know what he looked like.

"Yup." I couldn't help but blush. Which increased when my phone buzzed against my plate. New text. I flipped it open. It was from Murphy.

Hi.

I smiled. It was something he'd send; something little, sweet, and utterly Murphy.

Hello. I sent back.

We watched him dig for his phone, Devan looking over his shoulder. His shut and seconds later mine buzzed. Sasha and Cara leaned in.

Hi hi. good morning. what'd u have 4 breakfast?

I looked at my mostly-eaten waffle and send him a message back. He hit back pretty quick.

& thats wheat?

I didn't really know what to say, so I sent it wont kill me.

We spent most of our separate but combined time having a conversation in little 160 character messages, all while carrying on social niceness with the people sitting around us. Sasha and Cara couldn't stop looking at each other, then at me, and grinning. I decided I didn't want to know.

My inbox got one last message as the football team stood.

see u there.

Which I dutifully sent back, good luck!

"You are so gone," Cara said. "So gone."

My cheeks attempted to incinerate themselves.

We left shortly after, already having worked out that I would walk up to Cara and Sasha's, pick up Sasha (Cara had dance rehearsal) and we would go to the football game together. But first I needed to get some things - like a sweatshirt, and my backpack - first. The fourth floor walk was nothing anymore, but I stopped short when I saw my door.

There was a hat hanging on my door handle. More specifically, a baseball cap.

I picked it up and a note fell out. I looked at the inside of the hat and crouched for the folded piece of paper. M. MacRiley was written on the underside of the brim. I unfolded the note. In untidy, slightly slanted writing was:

Olivia,
Didn't think you had H-gear, so I'm letting you borrow my hat. It's been Febreezed, so don't worry. See you at the game.
-Murph

The edges on the brim were frayed from use. It looked well-worn. On the back by the strap was an embroidered 54. I was guessing his jersey number.

I couldn't help the grin as I opened my door, packing my bag and then standing in front of the mirror, the hat in my hands. Murphy's hat. I had to move my messy bun of hair lower and tighten the strap. It was beat-up, slightly gnarly, and on my head. Which meant I would soon start to smell like Febreeze.

There were a few stares as I left, earbuds firmly in place for the trek up the hill. Sasha was sitting on the steps to her building. She looked at the hat.

"That's not yours," she pointed out.

"I know. It was on my door."

"So you put it on your head?" which, honestly, I expected and therefore turned the lecture she immediately launched into, with me adding only to the conversation by mumbling something about Febreeze and boys.

We found places to sit in the stands after the National Anthem was played, glad that our team was on our side of the field. It had been a while since I'd gone to a football game, I'd forgotten how certain things worked. Well, minor details, really, not big concepts. I knew the point of the whole thing. I'm not a complete dumbass.

Sasha pulled a "program" from somewhere and we confirmed that, indeed, Murphy MacRiley was number 54. We located him on the sideline, standing next to - hey, who would have thought - Devan Starrett, 47.

We must have lost the coin toss because after the kick off the defense was on the field. Including Murphy.

"Here comes Macho Man," Sasha muttered. I shoved her shoulder.

I then, based on my next observation, concluded that Murphy was either channeling a particularly violent spirit hellbent on destroying anything and everything in its path or wanted to impress me very badly. He did this by sacking the opposing quarterback two plays into the game.

When he trotted off the field, his duty temporarily done, took off his helmet, slapped his teammates high fives and other manly things, and started looking through the crowd. I knew when he found me - he grinned bright orange. He'd forgotten to remove his mouth guard. I grinned back.

"Okay," Sasha said, leaning on the bench behind her as though she were relaxing on a couch. "Let the chest-thumping begin."

Murphy and Me IX

Quite honestly, Friday came too soon.

It was a little like being blindsided.

I sat in the locker room, the newest Jay-Z song thumping through the speakers, my leg bouncing with nervousness. First game of the season. Sasha, next to me, nudged my leg with hers. Out of the team, she knew. Sasha was the only one who knew of Murphy.

Which, now that I had the name bouncing around in my head my heart kicked it double-time. That actually happened on a fairly regular basis, come to think of it.

"You'll be fine," Sasha whispered.

I gave her a small smile.

"Do what you always do."

"Which is?" Now I was a bit confused. Did she mean do what I do when I ran into parked cars or when I actually did something marginally useful, like my physics homework?

"Be you. And kick ass."

We stood together and I was reminded of the fact that not only were we best friends off the field, we were close on the field as well. She was my fellow central defender, my left foot, so to speak. And no matter what happened with Murphy, she'd always be beside me (figuratively and literally) and always have my back (again, figuratively and literally).

With that, we left the locker room.



Lord Almighty I didn't want to move.

I was at Mac's, ice strapped to my perma-swelled ankle and one hell of a bruise forming at the top of my shin. Not my fault the girl didn't come quick enough to get the damn ball and it had almost wound up in the net, complete with my leg whacking against the post.

And Murphy and Devan had witnessed the entire thing, including but not limited to the short kid trying to defend corner kicks, badly-timed slide tackles, shanked passes, and going up for a header and winding up in the side netting of the opposing goal with the goalie.

He'd cheered to. For us. For me. Which gave me a serious case of the warm-fuzzies.

Mac let me go, settling for my slight hobble with a small, wry smile. Sasha had already gone and probably gotten dinner with Cara. With my uniform already in the laundry, all I had was my backpack to pick up in the little cubbies outside Mac's. I walked out the doors into the autumn twilight and learning against the fence to the field was Murphy.

He saw me and smiled.

The only thing that could have made it better was if he had been holding food. Specifically Chinese.

"Good game," he said.

"Thanks." I adjusted my backpack - a fidget - and limped down the stairs.

"That from when you hugged a goal post?"

If I had been hoping he hadn't seen that, it just died epically, complete with flame and explosion. "Yup." I paused. "He doesn't give very good hugs."

"He's probably a little cold. Stiff. Might take him a while." Murphy grinned. "What do you want to do for dinner?"

"You didn't eat?" I was a little shocked. I thought he would have eaten with Devan and some of the football boys.

Murphy shrugged. "I figured you'd be hungry after this. And tired." He shrugged. "It's Friday."

What the hell did that have to do with the price of rice in Mexico? Or the hopefully soon consumption of food products, more specifically.

I must have looked truly confused (or stupid, they're fairly interchangeable) because he clarified, "Order out?"

The man was a genius. "Chinese?"

"Chicken?"

"I like the way you think." Really I did.



A short time later, after I had showered, Murphy came up the stairs bearing Chinese delivery. So the fourth floor didn't have a legit, traditional common room, but rather a sort of small open space at either end of the building. Coincidentally, one of these spaces was right outside my door. I sat in the old, beat-to-shit armchair, legs propped on the ugly yellow square ottoman, and was kind of relaxed.

Okay, really relaxed and I was about to get fed, which made it ten times better.

It was then that I realized, apart from the word "chicken," I had completely forgotten to tell Murphy what I ate. And I really only ate two things (both of which are chicken) when it came to Chinese: sesame and General Tso (but only when absolutely necessary).

"Chicken." Murphy handed me a square plastic container. "It's sesame. I figured if you didn't like it then I'd have to eat it."

Was he actually blushing? I think he was. He was nervous.

And it was really cute. For me, at least, probably not so much for him.

"Sesame chicken's my favorite," I said and watched his face light up like the Vegas nighttime skyline.

"Good, because I didn't wanna share my beef and broccoli anyway," he said, clearly teasing. Still, he dug into his food with some gusto and I wondered when he'd eaten lunch. Or, if he was like me, had only eaten breakfast.

Which reminded me that you can't use your college ID to pay for delivery. It didn't qualify as a meal through the meal plan.

"So, what do I owe you for dinner?"

He looked at me like I had told him that not only was the world flat but I could also fly, all while singing opera.

"You don't," he said. He held up his fork to stop my inevitable protest. I almost ignored him. "You're having dinner with me, you're coming to my game tomorrow, and you didn't laugh when you found not only my nickname from the boys but also that I have a stuffed dragon that I sleep with." He shrugged. "That pretty much covers it."

I was a little dumbstruck, and, in hindsight, I'm blaming my next piece of brilliance on the "dumb" part.

And man, it was a doozy.

"Okay, so if we trade numbers that'll cover the rest of my tab?"

Yeah, not one of my finer thought-processes.

Murphy went a little slack for a moment before recovering beautifully with a, "That'll work." Sasha was going to have yet another field day.

Least I managed to get my phone out of my pocket and spill only a little of my rice on the floor. And by little I mean half. Give or take a few grains.

Murphy and Me VIII

I did eventually get my keys out of my room. Eventually.

The rest of pre-season passed in an almost-blur. Before I knew it, the rest of campus had moved in and classes were starting. Half awake and kind of behind for getting to breakfast, I ran into Murphy going down the stairs.

Literally.

It's a really good thing he's solid.

He braced himself against the wall, me plastered to his back.

"Sorry," I said, stabbing myself in the top of my head with a bobby pin as I tried to do my hair. While going down the stairs. I'm impressed I didn't stab him somewhere semi-vital.

"It's good," he said, pushing away from the wall. He turned, looked at me. Smiled. "Morning."

"Morning." He looked adorable. Well, he always looked adorable but, damn...who needed breakfast when I had a morning-dose of Murphy?

"Running late?"

"For breakfast." We started down the stairs. "You going to breakfast?"

He shook his head. "Class."

We got to the first floor. He shuffled his feet. "Um...Our first game is Saturday. Will you come?"

I did a really good impression of a lake-trout. He wanted me to come to his game? I can't explain what I was feeling, exactly, but...it was good. Really good.

"Yeah," I said. "I'll go." No idea what I had agreed to, but from the smile - part relief, part shy - I'd done good. Real good.

"Friday," I blurted randomly.

Murphy looked at me oddly.

"Our first game," I clarified. What was I thinking? Seriously. Was I thinking at all that moment? Had my bobby pin done some damage?

No, I realized. I'm just a moron.

"Yeah," he said. "Friday's cool."

"Sweet," and then awkwardness descended. My stomach growled. Murphy chuckled.

"Feed the beast."

Which I took as sufficient permission to flee. Which I promptly did.



"Sasha. What are you doing Saturday? In the afternoon?"

Sasha looked at me over the table cluttered with notebooks. Not already a full day in and we were swamped. Well, Sasha was swamped and I was along for the ride.

"Um, nothing, at the moment," she said. She narrowed her eyes at me. "Why?"

I fidgeted. "Because Murphy asked me to come to his game and I said yes. And I don't want to go alone."

Sasha gaped at me. "He asked you to watch him play?"

"Yeah." My fidgeting continued. "And I'm pretty sure he's going to be sitting on the hill Friday." Which, now that I think about it, makes me sort of nervous.

"Did your brain take a vacation and not tell you?"

I bristled but it was true, though. Maybe I'd stabbed a vital part of my brain with a bobby pin. Could I use that as an excuse for my physics homework?

"Probably," I said, realizing my professor would find the attmpt highly amusing and then deny me spectacularly. Then he'd explain the physics of the smack-down he would have just given me. Wonderful. "Look, if you don't want to go, you don't have to." I searched for the ten-pound brick that was my physics book.

"Oh no," she said, a little too cheerfully. I was leery now. "I want to go." She grinned ferally. "I wanna see what macho-man chest-pounding thing he does to impress you."

I smiled weakly, feeling a headache coming on. This was going to be a truly memorable weekend, I could feel it.

And not only was it Monday, but I was not looking forward to it.

Murphy and Me VII

I was definitely curled around a stuffed dragon. It was definitely masculine, but still, it was a dragon. And stuffed.

Which reminded me that I was in Murphy's bed, not my own. Which made me remember my day from hell.

Opening my eyes I realized I was facing the wall, something I'd unconsciously done. I must have rolled knowing the wall was on the same side as my own upstairs. Small comforts.

The door opened. I could hear it.

"Yo, you guys ready?"

Not a voice I was overly familiar with. But I did know if he looked at the bed he'd know it wasn't Murphy - the lump wouldn't be big enough.

"We got an hour and a half. So, no." That was Devan.

"Murph sleepin'?"

Oh, God. He was going to come and heckle what he thought was a sleeping Murphy. Then he was going to find that it wasn't Murphy. And then there would be hell to pay.

"Yeah," Devan said, "but he doesn't feel well. Might puke on you."

Which, for anybody, the phrase "might puke on you" was a natural deterrent. From the sound of it, whoever was at the door wasn't coming in. The dull thud that was said door closing was my answer and my reassurance.

"Thanks, Dev."

There was slight pressure on the mattress from underneath and I realized Murphy must have either been chilling under there, or had been hiding. My money was on hiding. Chilling would have been kind of creepy. Then again, who was I to judge? If he wanted to chill out under his own bed, that was his perragotive. Maybe it was weird because I was in the bed he was under it.

"No problem."

I rolled over, taking the dragon with me, and blinked. Murphy, on his knees in motion to get up, blinked back.

"Hi."

I smiled and rubbed my eyes. "Hiding under your bed?"

Murphy shrugged. "Chillin' with the Boogie Man."

Devan joined my line of sight over Murphy's shoulder. He looked a bit less concerned than Murphy, and I swore they'd worked it out in tandem because they said, in perfect unison, "How you feelin'?"

I blinked again. "Better." Then held up the dragon.

Murphy turned an absolutely delightful shade of pink. Devan chuckled.

"That's Smokey," Murphy explained, cheeks reddening.

I tucked the dragon back under the covers before Murphy could snatch him away in embarrassment. "He's nice." He seemed to relax at that. Devan's chuckle got a little louder.

"Are you hungry?" Murphy asked. Sometimes he confused me, he switched topics so fast. It was almost like he had a bit of ADD or something.

And I'll be damned if I wasn't ready to wolf down a pound of wheat pasta. "A little."

Murphy got off the floor and went to his desk as I sat up. Devan took a look at my over-large shirt which was Murphy's and nearly laughed out loud. Murphy came back with three Nutri-Grain bars. Blueberry. Quite possibly whole wheat, too. I pulled my knees up so Murphy could sit on the end of his own bed. Devan wandered back to his side of the room. I still felt grungy, but either it didn't matter to him, or he didn't care that his sheets might be a little gross.

"Who was at the door?" I asked.

"Abe," Murphy said. "Always thinks we're going to leave him when we go to dinner."

There were a few in every crows. I knew more than a couple.

"Sleep okay?" he asked.

"I was out." Which was true. I'd been under almost completely. Weird, because I have a bad habit of sleep walking and/or not sleeping when in a new place which explained why I hadn't really been able to get comfortable. Or, would have, had I not been tired and slightly cranky. Not to mention I'd locked my keys in my room.

"Yeah, you were," Murphy chuckled.

What was that supposed to mean? Did I snore or something? Or, oh, God, did I talk? Sometimes I talked in my sleep. Had I said something? Had I said something bad?

"What's that look for?" he asked.

I must have been red. "Did I say something? When I was asleep?"

He shook his head. "Nothing definitive. You just mumbled a lot. Mostly about wheat and something about a boy and a truck."

Well now. Please, God, don't let him conclude I was somewhat, nearly back-handedly, probably, undoubtedly talking about him. From the look in his eye, he knew. At least the dream had been pleasant.

I hope he felt comfortable with me because I moved Smokey from under the covers and into my lap. Murphy eyed the dragon as though trying to figure out how to separate us.

"Don't even think it," I said, a death grip on Smokey's tail.

Murphy muttered something about Smokey being his dragon. I grinned, munching on my Nutri-Grain bar, careful to not get crumbs on his bed. Devan flipped Murphy the TV remote and dragged his desk chair over. There was good natured arguing on what to watch and we settled on baseball, of all things. Not my team, but it was still okay. Toronto was playing, Halliday on the mound.

"Do you know his teammates call him Doc?" I said. I found sports comraderie, especially at the professional level, really interesting. Same with college. Specifically, nicknames.

Devan snorted. "That's like calling O'Roark 'Ma' because he seems like the team mom."

"He is team mom," Murphy said, a grin tugging at his mouth.

"What do they call you guys?" I asked.

Murphy flat-out grinned. "Devan's Wonder Woman."

Devan muttered something, turning pink. "Least it's better than Elf."

Now it was Murphy's turn to color. I looked at him for an explanation.

"Leprechaun was too much of a mouthful, so it became Elf."

I stared. Openly. Very, openly. "You do know that the two - "

"Yeah, we know," the roommates said together. Murphy shrugged. "You?"

My initials were O.K. Which had somehow turned into "Okie." I told them. It was their turn to stare. "What?"

"Yours is normal," Devan groused, seemingly put-out. Murphy leaned over and swatted his head.

There wasn't much left of the baseball game, and when it was over it was followed by tennis. Now, when I watch tennis, I really only like to watch Andy Roddick and I don't really know any of the rules. Or, don't have as good a concept of them as I do with soccer and football.

Wait a minute. Who am I kidding? I'm a flaming idiot when it comes to tennis.

"That was a great forehand, backhand, lateral move combo," Devan said with restrained enthusiasm.

Murphy and I looked at each other, clearly out of our element. Our respective elements, anyway. Soccer was at least comparable in some ways to American football - but tennis?

"Great slam!" Devan said, pumping his fist in the air.

Murphy took a look at me and shrugged.

Maybe I should have played tennis. On second thought, noticing the grunts of pain and effort that sounded more like constipation than anything else from the players on TV, I think I'll stick with my slightly quieter, no-so-independent sport.

From the look on Murphy's face, I think he agreed with me.

Murphy and Me VI

I guess it was a fitting end to the day. Really, it was.

With no idea what else to do, I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of my door, the erasable whiteboard now in my lap. There was no phone on my floor (because of the no lounge thingy) and at the moment I had no energy to get up. Did not want to get up and move.

Did not want to accidentally run into Murphy.

Because I was afraid of what he would do because A) He liked me B) He'd want to help me and C) There was the startling possibility that I'd let him do both of those previous things.

I took a deep breath and stood. Stuck the whiteboard back on my door. Headed for the stairs. Tried to ignore the way I smelled. I really needed a shower.

After picking up the phone and dialing security, I listened to it ring...and ring...and ring...and ring...Frustrated, I slammed the receiver down with more force than necessary. Freakin' phone lines.

"Olivia?"

I looked over - Murphy and Devan, still in work out gear, were paused by the lounge and looked at me. At least Murphy was. Devan gave me a pat on the shoulder as if sensing I was heading for a break down of monumental proportions and was deciding to leave me to Murphy.

"You okay?"

It was a simple question. People asked it to one another every day. Most tried to answer at least a little honestly; some flat-out lied. I liked to be in the middle ground. I worked in understatements.

"I've had a rough day."

Murphy looked at the phone - it was hanging crookedly in its cradle. "Looks like it."

Didn't even have the energy to blush.

"Do you want to sit down?"

I wanted a shower, that's what I really wanted. And a healthy dose of the boys from Supernatural. And to sleep. And maybe to be snuggled into Murphy's furnace-like warmth again, but that would be icing on the cake. The cake that was attempting to be scraped off the floor, proverbially. Hope it was vanilla.

"I locked my keys in my room."

Murphy looked a little relieved that he'd gotten somewhere. He went to the phone. "We'll just," he picked up the receiver, "call security," he dialed the number, "and they'll..."

He must have been getting the ringing.

"Fix it," he finished lamely. He hung up the phone far more gently than I had. Then he dropped a damn bombshell. "You looked pretty out of it at Mac's."

This time I did blush. It had been so hard to tell Sasha that I had issues. Telling Murphy...I'm not sure if I could tell him. I'm not sure I could tell him that I took half a pharmacy every day and I had lost it today because I had spent the night in the third floor lounge with burly football men. And didn't do my pill box. He'd blame himself, and really, it was nobody's fault. It was just my dumb luck.

Or lack thereof.

"I was pretty out of it," I admitted. Why I was having issues keeping it together? I just wanted to curl up and nap. Sleep until dinner and then eat more wheat. Lots more wheat. So much wheat that I'd turn into wheat.

"I just want a nap," I said softly.

Murphy smiled thinly and led me, not toward the lounge, but toward the Fishbowl. I balked instantly. I couldn't - Was he - Oh, Sasha was going to have a field day.

"You're not sleeping on a couch, or on the floor," he said, gently but firmly. "Devan won't care, and all you're going to do is sleep. When you wake up, we'll try calling security."

I looked tat him. Did I trust him this much?

"Trust me."

And deep inside, I think I did. I'd already slept next to him once, for God's sake. If I didn't trust him then, when was I ever going to? Not to mention he already had a hand on the door handle. And I was tired.

"Okay."

He opened the door and stuck his head in - presumably to make sure Devan wasn't naked or something - and ushered me in. It was relatively clean, and set up not with the dividing line in the middle, but sort of sideways. Murphy's bed was by the window, across from the dresser and desk. There was a DMB poster on the wall; the comforter was a dark red plaid. It was not what I expected.

Then it hit me that I hadn't showered. Now I wasn't sure I wanted to crawl into his bed as disgusting as I was. But I didn't know how to tell him that.

Murphy, he was good. He handed me a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, grabbed Devan, and vacated the room.

He was a big man. Stood to reason his clothes would be, too. I think I rolled the shorts three times. There was no help with the shirt - one of his high school football ones that all guys seemed to have.

"Olivia?" Murphy and Devan had cracked the door, both looking nervous about entering their own room.

I waved.

"I'm gonna chill out here," Devan said.

"Oh, no, you don't - "

"It's fine, really. Sleep." Devan closed the door.

Murphy helped my short frame into his semi-lofted bed and quite literally tucked me in. If my brain thought anything wrong with sleeping in someone else's bed - and a boy's at that - it was too bogged down with exhaustion to really care, let alone think straight. And when I examined the feeling in my abdomen, I found it was hunger.

I curled around what felt like a stuffed dragon and decided that when I got up, I wanted a whole pound of wheat pasta. Then maybe my room key.

Murphy and Me V

I was going to be absolutely useless at practice. We'd stayed up playing Apples to Apples until who-knew-when, the power still out when someone had last checked the time at 2 in the morning. I'm not going to lie, I can't last with a bunch of boys until o'dark thirty. Just not possible. So I'd fallen asleep.

The lounge couch was most definitely not as comfortable as my bed upstairs. The heartbeat under my ear was helping a bit.

What. The. Hell.

My eyes snapped open and realized that I was no by myself. There were two bodies sprawled on the floor, one with an Apples to Apples card stuck to his forehead. From what I could see without moving (I was comfortable) and saw that both chairs were taken, along with the other couch. And I was sharing my couch with someone big, and who put out heat like a furnace. Process of elimination informed me that it was Murphy I was sharing with.

Huh. He was like a furnace.

And made a good pillow. A damn good pillow.

One of the bodies in the chairs moved; I identified Devan and snapped my eyes shut again. I didn't want him to know I was awake. I didn't want to move.

Because I had my eyes shut I felt more than saw Murphy wake up. His breathing, while still even, changed slightly. With my ear to his chest, I felt more than anything his response to Devan's soft, "You awake?"

"Yeah, now," Murphy rumbled.

He stroked my hair near my forehead.

"She's still out."

Murphy shifted slightly under me, his arm heavy across my arm and shoulder. "Still raining?"

The damn storm hadn't quit? Mother Nature needed to invest in Yaz or something.

Still, I had no desire to move. None what so ever. Rabid wolves wouldn't move me. Except that I had no idea what my hair looked like, and if I had my usual bed head then, coupled with wet and uncombed as of last night, I must look rat-ass awful. My black eye would be the only normal thing about me. But Murphy wouldn't care.

Would he?

It was clear he didn't care about the black eye, but would he care about it being gone?

And I can't believe I just honest-to-God though that. That had to be the most self-absorbed and self-conscious and self-pitying thing I've ever had the misfortune to think about myself. I have the best black eye ever. Granted, it's from walking into a Ford side mirror, but still. Best. Ever.

"Do you think we still have practice?"

Murphy gave an abbreviated shrug, mindful of me still "asleep."

"Don't see why we wouldn't be don't see how they'd let us know," Murphy rumbled. "Power's still out." He went still, possibly taking stock of who else was there with us. "Mike should be up son, he gets up with the damn sun."

I shifted, snuggling more into Murphy's warmth and he stroked my hair again. For a big man with huge hands he was infinitely gentle. And, just because I wanted to be awake (to everyone else) I stirred and tried to roll more onto my back. So, when I opened my eyes I was more or less looking up as he was more or less looking down. His soft smile and not-quite-all-awake yet eyes were absolutely adorable. My eyes probably screamed "Find me coffee!!"

"Good morning," he said softly, meant only for my ears. Devan had vacated. I was then acutely aware that his forearm lay across my belly, his hand resting lightly on my inner elbow.

I was definitely more content than I had been in a while.

"Morning," I murmured. Yep, eyes definitely screaming for mass amounts of caffeine.

Now, most girls in my position would probably freak for the simple reason they wouldn't be wearing make up and their hair would look just God-awful. And that would happen in the presence of a boy. A cute boy. Wait. Scratch that. Six cute boys. But only one that really mattered.

"Not much of an alarm, huh?" he asked.

Much, much better than any alarm. "You look better than my alarm clock."

He grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."

I smiled, then yawned. And knew I had to ask the dreaded question. "What time is it?"

He looked elsewhere, literally over my head and I got a great view of the inside of his nose. Very clean.

"About six," he said.

And we both grimaced. Breakfast was at seven. Always. And don't be late. Good thing I only needed half an hour to get ready. There was most likely nothing I was going to be able to do with my hair except put it up.

"You need to get ready?" he asked.

"Yeah, just half an hour."

He smiled. Then moved his arm. I felt really cold and....bereft. He really was warm and snuggly. I sat up and shivered. My side was now cold with no porta-furnace.

"Can I walk you upstairs?"

It took every ounce in me not to freeze. The rest of the bodies in the lounge were moving. I had to think. Did I want him in my space, my personal, messy, weird space with my posters?

Answer: Yes. But not now and not in the light of the after-storm, no electric morning.

"Walk me to breakfast?" I think he'd be happy just walking me somewhere.

He glanced at the others milling around. Most of them were staring without meaning or trying to.

"Sure." He grinned.

Barefoot, sleep-rumpled, and more gnarly then I usually looked, I headed back up the stairs. There were safety lights in the lounge, but none in the stairwell and none on my floor. I found my room only because I knew where it was. I opened the door and the light from the morning, what little there was, was filtering in.

Oh look. My phone.

I opened it. Five new texts and three missed calls. All from Sasha. This should be good.

First message: U ok? He takin care of u? U ok!?

Second message: U there!? U ok!? Olivia!?

Third message: He with u? What r u doin that u cant answer me!?

Fourth message: OMG!!!! Remember to be safe!!!

Fifth message: I WANT DETAILS 2MORROW!!

Well, that was not what I was expecting. And I don't know what she was thinking I was doing but there really weren't any details. Murphy could attest to that.

I ignored the voicemails and flipped the phone shut. My eyes bugged at the time and then I was scrambling to find and put on clothes. A quick trip to the bathroom to brush my teeth and sling back the hair; my stuff was in the locker room, and I grabbed my phone since I didn't need my ID for food (yet) and locked the door behind me. Back down the stairs I went, pulling my sweatshirt over my head and went into the lounge.

Six big men in work out clothes waiting. It was the first time I had ever felt dainty in my own sportswear in my life.

"Food," Devan said and the seven of us moved toward the stairs, effectively moving for the door.

I was not going to stand in the way of men heading for food.

Except maybe Murphy. Only because he wouldn't mow me over.

"Morning." Murphy nudged me.

Like he hadn't seen me earlier. Like he hadn't seen me all night.

Which now made me wonder how I'd gotten from the floor to the couch. I really don't remember falling asleep. Well...I remember leaning against Murphy, watching them play cards and occasionally "helping" Murphy with some of his more creative choices. Remembered it getting more and more difficult to keep my eyes open. Remember feeling warm and really content.

So who the hell had put me on the couch, let along snuggled on Murphy?

"Morning." It was still raining - there were small and not-so-small rivers in the parking lot. I put my hood up. Not that it really mattered, anyway; my hair was just plain gnarly. Maybe the hair would help.

"You, uh, have fun last night?"

I got the distinct impression that was not what he wanted to say. Maybe something more along the lines of "How did you sleep last night?" I blushed anyway, though it was hidden by the hood.

"It was nice," I said. "Fun." Though he did scare me half to death in the beginning. "You guys are pretty fun."

Murphy snorted. "Not what I would call it, but okay."

I shoved him playfully and he responded a little too enthusiastically because I ended up in the grass, bumping off Devan in the process. He steadied me, bumping me back to Murphy. he caught me and waited for me to get my feet under me. Was definitely not used to being the most dainty thing in the group.

Apparently I failed to realize how we would look walking into the dining hall. I failed to realize how it might look to others when one semi-fragile-looking girl walks in with six burly football men.

It was a regular man-tourage on my part.

Or I looked like something decidedly different, though technically I had only spent the night with one of them.

Well...I take that back. There were six of them and one of me.

Everyone was staring when we walked in. And I mean everyone.

The soccer and field hockey girls were staring at me in mild fascination/Holy Crap and the football and soccer boys - yes, well, to say my face was flaming was an understatement of monumental proportions.

"I'll see you later," Murphy said and I headed off to find Sasha, who was standing up and giving me an expression that said whether or not I had good details I was sharing my night with her anyway.

"In a minute," I said, and went off to get food. Which bought me some time. Wheat toast, eggs, and wondering how they had power to do things, I sat down and said, "Let me take my meds," and started digging through my bag for my pillbox. Yes, a stalling tactic, but it usually worked. Then I realized that my night hadn't been normal. Therefore my routine hadn't been normal. Therefore my pills were in my room.

Oh. Crap.

"Ollie?"

Sasha knew.

"I slept in the lounge," I said. There was no guilt in my voice. No guilt.

Freakin' power outage.

"You goin' to be okay?" Sasha was concerned.

Honestly, I didn't know. I had never missed a day, missed a morning, since I had started taking my pills. Not sure whether to freak out or if it was okay. I might have to ask Mac.

"Yeah," I swallowed. "I'll be okay."

I hope.



Halfway through the first drill I thought I was going to die. My stomach cramped and gurgled; my scar hurting and my heart pounding. It was like everything was trying to freeze up and stop while Nature says go. Nature says go, go, go!!

I honest-to-God thought I was going to die.

"Ollie! You okay?" Sasha was five feet from me. "You're a little pale."

A little? I was probably paper white.

"Need to see Mac?"

Could Mac do anything for me? Really? Maybe a hot pad and painkillers? Ice for my back? It was tempting.

A particularly vicious cramp had me doubled over. My hearing was either fading or whatever because the next thing I knew Sasha and Mac where in my line of sight and I was still doubled over.

"Olivia? Be honest, what's going on?"

Rain continued to fall. I was oblivious. It freakin' hurt.

"Missed my morning pills," I ground out.

To which Mac looked at me like I was insane and then didn't even try to straighten me as we walked to the golf cart to take me somewhere - most likely the trainer's room. He got me in the seat and I curled in on myself as much as possible. The ride was a bit of a blur - then I was on my stomach on a heating pad, a bag of ice on my lower back, and someone making a Weggie's run to get what I needed instead of breaking into my dorm room because I'm pretty sure I wasn't coherent when they asked for my keys...Mac force-fed me painkillers and things got a bit hazy. Just a bit.

Then I'm pretty sure Mac stuffed my pills down my throat and then I'm pretty sure I went to sleep.



"Olivia?"

I opened my eyes. Mac was head-level. It was a little unnerving but I had no inclination to move. I was finally feeling level, if worn out.

Actually, I felt as though I'd eaten a pound of plain white pasta.

"How you feelin'?"

"Less likely to hurl." And really sluggish.

"It's about two now," he said, "they're cooling down in the pool. Sit up for a bit, take some juice and wheat crackers. You should be okay."

I automatically eased off the hot pad. Sat up. Rubbed my eyes. He handed me what he suggested I eat. I was a bit damp from the rain and feeling clammy, and somehow still felt better than before. With food in hand, I left the trainer's on semi-weak legs and took the elevator, not trusting the stairs. Well, not trusting myself on the stairs.

The pool was always warm, which I was thankful for because I was oddly cold. The coaches were sitting on the aluminum bleachers, the team in the pool. Cool down was actually a synchronized swimming contest. Go figure. The coaches did that to us sometimes. I sat by Corbin, the GK coach, absently munching on the crackers and feeling as though I were five and had just woken up from an afternoon nap.

"You've got more color, Olivia," Casey, the head coach remarked and I smiled. And had the urge to lay on the deck and go back to sleep.

Sasha waved to me from the water and I nodded. Lifting a hand seemed too much effort.

After what seemed like an eternity later we were filing back to the locker room, Sasha dripping wet and looking as though she had ever inclination of not leaving my side. Not like I was going to fall over anytime soon - wait, that's a lie. There was that possibility I would faceplant.

"Do you want me to come down?" she asked.

Hm - an afternoon of Sasha, smelling like chlorine and rainwater hovering or an afternoon curled around Edgar, Supernatural on the TV and sleeping? A hovering Sasha was a worried Sasha. A worried Sasha was a concerned Cara. A concerned Cara combined with a worried Sasha was an instant headache.

"Nope," I said. "I'm just going to crash." Crash hard and fast. By myself. In my single. Alone.

I can already hear my mother's shriek when she finds out.

Sasha looked ready to mutiny but I glared. She back down, cursing my stubbornness and independence, and I trekked on back to my building. Tired as I was, I wasn't sure if I thanked the schmuck who held open the door for me and after four floors of stairs all I wanted to do was crawl in bed and not move for about a millenia or so.

I tried to push down the handle and go through the door at the same time, resulting in a loud bang as the door stopped against the lock and my curse as my shoulder rebounded off. The magnetic dry-erase board wobbled dangerously. I jiggled the handle with increasing frantic-ness, the dry-erase board barely hanging on. No way this had happened. No way. Not today. Please, not now.

The door didn't budge.

I'd locked my keys in the room, and myself out of it.

To add insult to injury, the dry-erase board jiggled free from the door and landed edge-wise on my foot with a thump.

Fan-freakin'-tastic.