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Post by AYLA RIVERA on Dec 11, 2016 17:34:21 GMT
- - ; burning on the inside ;
As Ayla side-stepped a large, icy dirt puddle and nearly slipped on another patch of black ice, she was reminded of why she hated winter on the east coast. The snow, the cold, the ice - she was not meant for it; her body couldn’t function properly and made her even clumsier than usual. The salt from the pavement stained her boots - the blustering snow stung her cheeks - the cold made her feel like even more of a fish out of water than she already did. She hated it.
She was definitely a California girl through and through; that much was obvious.
Her cellphone rang in her purse, and after spending a good two minutes digging through the endless pilesof junk that she somehow always managed to accumulate, she was reminded exactly why it was that she was in New York, braving the inclement weather in the first place. Hitting ‘ignore’ with a little too much force, she shut off the screen and shoved the phone back into the bag with a low, involuntary growl.
Adjusting her hat lower on her head, she hiked up her jacket collar a little bit more to hide her face. It wasn’t like she hated being recognized - most people were very kind to her, and often just wanted to take a selfie with her - but she just didn’t much feel like being recognized just yet. Most of the paparazzi hadn’t figured out that she was in New York, let alone living there, and she wanted to keep it that way for as long as she possibly could. Fore more than one reason.
She wandered down the busy street, headed in the direction she believed that Central Park was in. After days cooped up in her new apartment with her very intense agent, Ayla needed some space to clear her mind - even though it meant trudging through the ice, snow, and cold. There had to be some clarity out there somewhere, and Ayla was determined to find it.
Stopping at a street cart just outside of the park, she asked for a small coffee and was excruciatingly embarrassed when the vendor insisted she not pay for it. He recognized her right away - told her that his daughters used to love her show - and then asked if she could simply promote his business on some form of social media. Ayla smiled, bright red in the face, thanked him, and then hurried quickly away as attention was drawing to her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see someone’s cell phone trained in her direction as she charged away. It always surprised her how many people would take her photo without her permission, but that was the life she was born in to and somehow the life she still chose to be a part of. But right now - and especially because of the phone call she ‘ignored’ earlier - she didn’t want the world to know she was there yet. It was just better that way for everyone in her life.
She turned sharply, trying to blend in to a large crowd of people so that whoever was filming her might stop. Because of her quick steps, and because she was not used to the ice, she found her foot slip out from under her and send her small frame crashing down to the cold pavement. Her coffee spilled into the snow next to her, and her vision blurred from cracking her head against the ground rather hard.
Ayla remained there, stunned, blinking up at the sky and wishing she the earth would just swallow her up.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 11, 2016 19:51:02 GMT
--- baby it's cold outside --- tag: kara/ayla // words: --- // notes: sry i'm short!! West sidesteps to avoid the shuffle of people. For a city boy, he sure does hate the crowds - especially at this time of year, and especially in New York. It's times like this when he really misses Chicago the most.
It never surprises him to see people holding up their cellphones or cameras in the streets. Sometimes they're clearly snapping selfies, sometimes they're facetiming a friend, sometimes they've spotted a famous face -- sometimes, they've spotted him, and that's when he feels the most reclusive. He should relish that attention. He should be grateful for it. It's what he wanted. But it's what he failed to really achieve and the attention is more of pity now, and that's just embarrassing. So now, when he knows people are snapping photos of him in the city streets, he pulls up his collar to hide his face and quickens his steps, taking long strides to avoid further recognition.
Today is no different from any other. People flip their phones around to snap selfies or a quick, blurry photograph of some celebrity hiding in the same crowd, and West casts his eyes down, just as the hoard of bodies shuffles backwards. He feels someone's hot coffee splash onto the arm of his sweater and he groans inwardly; he'll smell like java for the rest of the day. People around him huff and sigh and continue without blinking and he follows, unable to leave the crush.
Until he reaches a woman on her back on the ice, a puddle of rapidly cooling coffee cracking the cool ground beside her. West pulls up the legs of his jeans and crouches before he has time to talk himself out of it.
"Hey," he tugs his jacket off his back and lifts the woman's head gently, pushing the garment between her and the snow. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"
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Post by AYLA RIVERA on Dec 11, 2016 21:24:58 GMT
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Post by Deleted on Dec 12, 2016 20:38:55 GMT
--- baby it's cold outside --- tag: kara/ayla // words: 494 // notes: The woman on the ground can't be much older than twenty. Her young face is twisted in confusion and pain: West knows the look in her eyes well. He's had enough concussions on the football field to recognise the dazed stare. He touches her hands lightly as she reaches to stop him using his jacket as a cushion for her head.
"It's nothing, I promise, just lie still, okay?" he pleads. He's never been scared to see someone hurt before -- even when she assures him it happens all the time. Somehow, he worries even more for this total stranger he's happened upon in the street. He hears a yell and the brunette on the ground twists her body instinctively. It's a bad idea and he knows it before she does. His right hand pushes her shoulder gently, holding her in place. At the very least, he needs to give her a moment to breathe. He cringes as he glances around; quite the crowd has gathered around them and most of them are holding cellphones. He hopes one or two might be calling for help, but as always, he assumes the worst. This will be on Vine within minutes.
She shakes him out of his lament as she jumps to her feet; he does the same beside her. He praises everything for his quick reactions as she loses her balance and tumbles again. He reaches out an arm and catches her, lowering her back to the ground. His mind begins to race the moment she says 'just your average head injury.' No head injury is average. It was the first lesson drummed into him when he began playing football as a young boy.
She's talking again and it takes him a moment to process her words. He follows her laser focus and glances at the stain on his sleeve. That's right, the coffee stain.
"Oh, no, that's not you, don't worry," he promises. "That was some jerk who tried to rush against the crowd - probably when you went down," he continues to explain. Then he remembers the head injury, and he realises he still doesn't even know what happened. Did this woman fall, or did she pass out? Did someone hurt her? At the very least, he's worried about the way she fell when she tried to stand, and he can't just let her lie in the snow all day.
"Head injuries are anything but average, darlin'," he insists. He shifts to his knees beside her, wincing as the snow soaks through the denim of his jeans and chills his knees to the bone. "You should get checked out. Trust me. You don't mess around with a concussion. Let me help you, okay?" template by eliza @ TB & THQ
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Post by AYLA RIVERA on Dec 12, 2016 23:38:00 GMT
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Post by Deleted on Dec 14, 2016 10:54:15 GMT
--- baby it's cold outside --- tag: kara/ayla // words: 464 // notes: West frowns. He doesn't fight - he knows his coffee-stained shoulder is not this woman's fault, and that's enough, especially as the deepest brown eyes he's ever seen lock with his own.
He's suddenly struck at the absurdity of the moment: here lies a beautiful woman, on the ground at his feet. After the last six years, all West wants to do is start over, be anonymous - or, somehow, finally get the break he needs-wants-deserves-- and yet here he is, cover blown, probably all over Vine and Snapchat by now as he kneels beside a victim of the winter freeze. He could laugh out loud.
And then she rejects his help. He's torn between the urge to pick her up off the ground and carry her to a doctor himself, the sudden, bizarre and seemingly out-of-the-blue desperation to help this complete stranger and the sheer terror of knowing all too well the potential consequences of a head injury. He's seen them too many times. He's lost too many brothers on the field to one too many concussions - and worse.
He's about to make a decision when she casually implies she's seeing double. The decision is made, and he braces himself to stand.
"You were headed somewhere - probably a modelling convention -" he raises an eyebrow as she pushes his the damp, dirty, scrunched bundle of flannel - formerly known as his jacket - into his arms.
"A modelling convention, huh," he winks. "You sure your head's okay?"
He stands as she does, letting her steady herself against him for a moment. He watches her closely. He can't read her expression but her eyes are the proverbial picture speaking a thousand words and more. The small circle of space they're in is shrinking and it feels like pocket pressure all over again. The crowd grows as their safety net closes in on them and West braces his arm behind the brunette's back as she turns right into his chest.
"Hey," he leans close.
"Get me out of here," she pleads. West is almost relieved to hear it. Her eyes are panicked. People around them are yelling and catcalling.
"Hey, stay with me, okay? I'm West. what's your name?"
He turns away as he calls out, one arm still supporting his beautiful stranger, the other outstretched, demanding a parting in the crowd as he guides them through it and away from the scene. "Show's over, folks, get out of here. A little space please."
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Post by AYLA RIVERA on Dec 15, 2016 1:50:30 GMT
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Post by Deleted on Dec 17, 2016 19:43:50 GMT
--- baby it's cold outside --- tag: kara/ayla // words: 400 // notes: sry i'm so short! West sighs. He's been in New York for eighteen months now, plenty long enough to have learned the lay of the land, but he's wracking his brains to figure out where the nearest emergency room is. He hates the idea of taking this girl to an ER - they're too loud and too bright and they'll leave you sitting for far too long before they deign to take care of you. But he won't leave her until she's seen by a doctor and he won't let her escape the doctor visit, not after hitting her head. He looks around quickly, trying to reorientate himself. They're headed south through the park when she repeats his name. It sounds good on her lips.
"It suits you," she claims. He fights back a sheepish smile. "I'm Ayla." He didn't miss the way she stumbled over her name, or the jokes she made about concussion. But he smiles as they're finally introduced. If West suits him, Ayla definitely suits her.
"Hey, Ayla," his voice is low. "It's nice to meet you. Let's get that head of yours checked out, okay?"
He feels her hand slip from his and he slows his pace, fear bubbling up into his throat as he turns to face her. She's still standing, thank God; his heart backflips in his chest before beginning to settle. She catches the edge of his shirt sleeve and grips it tight as her free hand reaches for her head. West knows the look in her eyes. She's hurting pretty bad. He doesn't know how much longer he can let her walk. He slows again and takes stock: there's a bench ahead; it'll be cold and probably damp but it's better than being dizzy enough to fall.
He twists his hand back towards her, trying to catch her fingers in his. He's oblivious to anyone but Ayla, his eyes focused like lasers on an ultimate goal: the wooden seating further down the path. She surprises him when she speaks up again and he realises people must be looking at them-- or at him.
"Me? Oh, I pl-- I us--" he begins, unsure of how to end. "I used to play football."
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Post by AYLA RIVERA on Dec 18, 2016 19:54:12 GMT
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Post by Deleted on Dec 18, 2016 21:58:01 GMT
--- baby it's cold outside --- tag: kara/ayla // words: 583 // notes: She keeps her eyes trained on the ground. West thinks it's smart, but he can't shake the small pang of disappointment. Her eyes had been warm when they'd met his and it was the first time he had felt a connection for a long time.
The bench doesn't seem to be getting closer. If anything, it feels like it's moving further away as West continues forwards, locking his fingers around Ayla's. She stays quiet for a beat after he introduces his football past and he's not sure what to make of the silence, until she presses on.
"You must have seen this a lot then," he nods. He doesn't want to think of it. He's seen firsthand the damage head injuries can cause; he's lost too many brothers to count to concussions and worse. He's had a few of his own, too, but all he can remember of those are the days after: dizzy, nauseous and largely bedbound. Those memories are not fond and he's relieved when she continues quickly.
"- is this what it feels like to be tackled by a linebacker?" He smiles then. He can't help it. He can smell the dirt and grass and the leather of the ball. He can feel the icy chill in the air and the comforting weight of the helmet on his head. His shoulders are packed securely into the pads, held tightly in place but unrestricted - it's comfortable, it's easy. He's never felt more at peace. He's never felt more alive. Every deep ball, touchdown, every hit, every sack comes back to him in the brightest colour he's seen in a long time.
"Imagine your head hurting, but the wind's knocked outta your lungs, your ass is bruised like a peach, your nose is bloody and it hurts like a mother where he rammed you with his shoulder pads - but yeah, darlin', it feels pretty bad," he chuckles. There's a sparkle in his eye and affection in his tone. It turns to concern when he feels Ayla's foot slip in the snow and his grip on her hand tightens instinctively. He wraps an arm around her waist to support her weight as she regains her footing. Then she pulls her hand free and his is cold again.
"Just leave me behind," she insists, but he can't. He opens his mouth to protest but she cuts him off: "Save yourself before I drag you down with me."
"Too late for that, darlin'," his smile is almost sad. His eyes are wistful, still holding memories of his football life cut short, but the petite brunette in front of him pulls him back to Earth. She's beautiful. She needs me. West has never been the arrogant kind, but he can't let Ayla go now. He could never forgive herself if anything happened after a head injury. Besides, he's in far too deep already to let go now. They finally reach the bench he's been eyeing for a while and he guides Ayla to sit, before joining her on the cold wood.
"Let's make a deal, huh? You let me take you to a doctor to make sure your head really is okay, and then I'll replace that coffee for you."
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Post by AYLA RIVERA on Dec 19, 2016 21:27:31 GMT
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Post by Deleted on Dec 21, 2016 20:31:50 GMT
--- baby it's cold outside --- tag: kara/ayla // words: not many // notes: There is a strange look in Ayla's eyes. It arrived when he talked about football and never really left. West can't put his finger on it, and then she says the words that feel like a real blow to the chest.
"Sounds like you miss it." Only like a desert misses rain. He hums an agreement, certain that his face betrays the cool demeanour he hopes to project. He misses it fiercely, more than he ever thought it was possible - more than he ever thought he would, although, he always thought that the end of his playing career would come after several successful years in the professional league where he'd left everything on the field every Sunday with no regrets. The reality isn't quite so storybook. He swallows hard.
"That sounds like a lot of commitment on your part," Ayla jokes about the deal he offers. It does, doesn't it? He helps her, he helps her again. He can't help himself - figuratively and literally. Something about this woman is compelling him to be more present than he has been for such a long time.
"Shouldn't I be the one getting you coffee?" she continues, joking about protein shakes. She's staring at her phone now, the glow from the screen reflecting into her face. It gives her skin a sallow look that makes West uncomfortable. He pushes it away and raises an eyebrow.
"Hey, I didn't even have coffee. You're the one who lost your drink," he insists. "Besides, I don't like coffee, anyway. And I only like the banana protein shakes."
Ayla continues again. "I tend to talk a lot when I'm nervous. Not all of it is quality material."
"You're better conversation than I am, darlin'," West assures her. At least, he hopes it's assuring. He wants her to know that he's enjoying his conversation with her far more than the internal conversations he has with himself - usually tinged with a generous dose of self-loathing and a side order of regret. Her company is far more than he had bargained for when he had elected to walk through the park that morning, but it's certainly a welcome diversion.
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Post by AYLA RIVERA on Dec 22, 2016 15:01:08 GMT
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Post by Deleted on Dec 27, 2016 19:04:44 GMT
--- baby it's cold outside --- tag: kara/ayla // words: not many // notes: West can't help but smile at the quirk in Ayla's brow. It's good to see her smile, even if her eyes belie the curl of her lips.
"I'll get you a banana protein shake," she promises and West hopes to hold her to that someday. Someday soon. Where did that come from? He's shaken back to Earth again when she continues, "... if you can get me to the doctor without me falling down again." Lust later, West; you have a job to do right now.
"I'll carry you if I have to," he promises, and he means every word. "Jump on my back, if you like." He glances over at her phone, trying to read the screen without being too obvious. It looks like a map and a list, but he can't work out what she's looking for or at. She closes the phone then, and looks out at the winter scene. He looks too. It's been eighteen months since he left Sweet Home Chicago for the glamour of The Big Apple, and it's been eighteen months since he really took the time to see anything. Including himself, he realises. He rubs a hand over his face, relishing in the comforting sensation of second-day stubble on calloused palm. He hasn't explored his new home. He certainly hasn't allowed himself to enjoy it. But there's certainly a stark beauty in the park as winter takes hold: trees are bare and laden with frost, puddles are just barely frozen over and the ground is studded with ice diamonds. He takes in the park as he takes in Ayla: he watches her from the corner of his eye as she breathes in the city.
"Is it normal for me to feel this tired?" she asks suddenly. Oh, yes. He remembers that feeling all too well. It's definitely time to keep moving. He stands.
"You'll feel like that for a while," he apologises, and offers her a hand. "Can you walk? I meant it when I said I'd carry you if I have to."
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Post by AYLA RIVERA on Dec 28, 2016 19:52:59 GMT
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