Indrek is a selfish, obnoxious, insensitive and inconsiderate jerk and that is what I tell him when he sums up his three-year long relationship— with a Victoria's Secret angel, no less— to a simple "meh."
I learnt that Katherine Beckett, Indrek's ex, was a supermodel from googling her. Then I Instagram stalked her for a few hours and I wanted to hit Indrek more for it. Who the hell dumps a model?
Indrek Ivanov. That's who.
"I don't really get why you're freaking out over it," he says nonchalantly over the phone.
"Freaking…Man-bun, you should be freaking out with me!" I say, exasperated.
"Man-bun?" He asks.
"Congratulations! I've officially given you a nickname," I tell him. I raise my hand to inspect my newly manicured nails. Damn. Pink really is my color.
Indrek snorts. "How original," he says.
"Don't hate. It's cute," I chastise.
"The hate or the nickname?" He asks.
"The nickname, obviously," I say with an eye roll. "Wait! Don't change the subject! I literally had a panic attack when I heard you broke up with Katherine!"
"Really?" He asks, sceptical. The nerve of this guy.
"Uh, yes! Because why?" I demand.
"I wasn't that into her," he says casually.
I want to smack him.
"You were together for three years. Why not give her a heads up before?" I ask.
"Where did you even get this information?" He asks.
"Daily Mail. I love their gossip," I say enthusiastically. "Don't change the subject,"
He heaves a dramatically heavy sigh. "Did you even read the article?" He asks.
"Just the headline. I have you to fill me in on the rest, don't I?"
He sighs again. "Well, if you had read the article, you would know that our break-up was mutual. We both decided that we didn't want to be together,"
"Pfft. Whaaaat? No way. You guys would have had the most amazing babies! I have pictures to prove it," I say. Factually, because I happened to stumble upon a Gram account labeled 'Indie&Katie_4lyf' and it was filled to the brim with pictures of Indrek, Katherine and their future babies. Creepy, right?
"I'm not even going to comment on that," he says.
"I'll send you a link. Point is, you can't give up on Katherine! Please, take her back?" I beg. Why I am begging on behalf of a total stranger is beyond me.
"Okay. I'll consider it," he says. "If…"
"If?" I ask, suddenly cautious.
"If…" he parrots. "You watch an entire football match,"
"No deal," I automatically respond. "I don't do football,"
"Just the players?" He taunts.
"Ugh!" I hate him.
"Look," he says.
"No."
"I've got an upcoming match tomorrow. We're up against Crystal Palace-" he says until I interrupt.
"I'm not watching an entire match. I'll just watch the highlights," I say.
"From where?" He asks.
"Umm…don't they have TikToks of highlights or something?" I ask.
"You can watch the match on SuperSports. I will grill you for info," he says sternly.
"Uh, let's not forget that I'm the teacher here," I point out.
"Yet here we are," he says.
I heave the heaviest sigh I could ever muster. "An entire match? What about half of one?"
"You have to watch all ninety minutes of it," he says.
I groan. "Just stake me in the heart and be through with it,"
"Is that a yes?" He asks.
"It's a maybe," I answer stubbornly.
"You need to give me more than that," he says.
"In exchange for another maybe? I don't think so, Man-bun," I say.
"We can discuss terms after the match," he says. "Is that okay, Ponytail?"
"Ponytail?" I ask.
"Yeah. It's your signature look," he says.
"How would you even know that? You creep," I joke.
"Three selfies says your hair is in a ponytail right now," he says.
I pat my head subconsciously. "Haha. Joke's on you. I'm wearing a bun," I say proudly.
"Prove it," he says.
"Nice try," I tell him.
He gasps. "You are wearing a ponytail!"
"Nuh uh." I say.
"You so are," he says.
"Am not!" I retort.
"Are!"
"Not!"
"Are!"
"Not!"
"Not!"
"Are! Wait! Dang it!" I exclaim.
"I win!" He says. I can picture him smiling, proud and mischievous. The mental image makes me smile too.
"You cheated!" I accuse half-hearted. I am fighting the urge to laugh along with him.
"All is fair in love and war, Ponytail," he says.
I groan and take a selfie to show that "No, I am not wearing a ponytail," and send it to him.
"Oh," he says after a few seconds. "I guess I lose, huh," he says.
I feel my phone vibrate and there are three selfies of Indrek in my inbox.
His blond hair, high cheekbones, blue eyes and sharp jawline take me by surprise. He's even more handsome than on his google pictures.
"Yeah," I say, breathless. "You lose,"
********
I am doing my hair into a French plait today, not because Indrek pointed out that my signature look is a ponytail, but because French plaits paint a different picture.
Sassy. Laid back. Sexy. Could fry you with a look.
My phone pings with a notification from Whatsapp's official Arsenal channel that their match with Crystal Palace is scheduled for half past eight.
I'm still not sure I'm going to watch it, though.
I set it back down and line my eyes; because why not.
I put on a red Arsenal jersey with Indrek's number 13 on it and take a selfie which I send to him before I lose my nerve. I caption it 'You better win. Xoxo' and lie back in bed, listening to Billie Eilish and wondering what I was made for.
When I was little, I used to dream about being a doctor. I think most kids dream about doing that anyway. I wanted to become a doctor because of the white coat and the respect that came with being a doctor. The pay was an added advantage.
When I was twelve I dreamed about being a superstar. A singer or an actress; it didn't matter. I was so sure I was untapped talent ready to be brandished to the world.
I still dream about being a singer sometimes. I'll be chopping up onions in the kitchen and think how well I imitate Rihanna's voice in Te Amo. I'll dance around the kitchen, using my wooden spoon as a microphone, imagining I'm singing in front of an audience and I'm the best they've ever heard.
I am a teacher now. I know I'm still young, and my dreams could be made into something, but I feel I should have got into the game earlier.
I groan and scroll through reels to make the feeling go away. Indrek's face on my screen is a good enough distraction.
When Ronald arrives to pick up where we left off on bingeing Vampire Diaries, he immediately notices my Jersey.
"You're an Arsenal fan?" He asks.
"I don't know. A friend of mine dared me to watch the match tonight and I'm still contemplating. The jersey is flattering though, don't you think?" I say, not really expecting a response.
"We could watch it together," Ronald says. "I'm not really an Arsenal fan but I could keep you company, give you pointers,"
"Oh my goodness that would be so awesome! Thank you! I was afraid I'd sleep through it," I say enthusiastically.
Ronald laughs and teases me every so often about dozing off while we watch two vampires competing for a doppelganger's love. At some point, we forget all about the show and end up arguing about who Elena should choose. I'm team Damon.
We end the argument with a mutual "We should have watched this show earlier," and stretch out on the couches until it's time for the match.
Today's episodes end twenty minutes before the match's scheduled time and Ronald says we can watch star players being interviewed.
Indrek's face is on the screen, probably looking at the cameras, but I feel like he's looking at me when he assures every viewer that Arsenal will be winning the game tonight.
"Not you too," Ronald says, breaking me out of my trance.
"What?" I ask.
"Don't tell me you're crushing on him too," he says tiredly. Like he's witnessed this multiple times.
"What do you mean 'too' ?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "My sister has crushed on this guy since he signed into Arsenal. It's been annoying. Just watch; when he scores, she's going to call and ask if I saw it," he says. "You are giving off the exact same vibes,"
"I am not!" I say defensively.
"You're wearing his jersey number," he points out.
"That was totally random," I say.
'Yeah, right.' My inner voice scoffs.
"Okay, fine," Ronald says, raising his hands as a gesture of peace.
We're quiet as the game kicks off. It is an agonizing seven minutes until the first goal is scored.
By Indrek.
He lifts the bottom of his jersey up to his midriff, as if cooling off, but even from here I can see that he hasn't broken a sweat.
Painted across his abs though, is a punch of messy letters that spell out 'Ponytail'.
I glance at Ronald to see if he has noticed anything. If he has, he is taking it as cockiness because he just rolled his eyes.
I glance back at the screen, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the smile on my face.
Ponytail.
Suddenly, I'm very glad I decided to watch the match.
Ronald's phone rings and he lifts it up to my face. 'Sis' is written on the screen.
"What did I tell you?"