Apart from one or two classes, quidditch practice was one of the only places he felt truly free to be himself. There was no worrying about letter grades and time limits and writing speed—only scored points, lap times, and broomstick speed. It was thrilling and exhilarating, and it helped that it allowed him time to spend with his friends.
At the age of fourteen, Cammie had shot up since the last time he'd been on the quidditch pitch. He was still lean and showed no sign of bulky muscles, but he was taller and faster and more coordinated than he had the year before. By the time practice was over he was dripping with sweat, partly from on-ground exercises and partly from the heat of the day.
While he'd stayed do polish the broomsticks—which was his chore this week—everyone else had headed back to the castle. Or almost everyone. By the time his task was over, the only figure that remained on the pitch was the familiar one of Sloane Bixby. It had been days since they'd been alone, their only time together spent in a group of other students and in class. He hesitated for a moment, trying to think of what words wold be appropriate. He'd never struggled to find words before, he noted, and he couldn't quite figure out why.
He headed over to her anyways and plopped down beside her on the grass, a good three feet between them.
"Don't tell me you're too tired to walk. I don't think I'm strong enough to haul you back to the castle right now," he teased in his usual friendly ways, though he found himself worrying about how it came across more than usual.
At the age of fourteen, Cammie had shot up since the last time he'd been on the quidditch pitch. He was still lean and showed no sign of bulky muscles, but he was taller and faster and more coordinated than he had the year before. By the time practice was over he was dripping with sweat, partly from on-ground exercises and partly from the heat of the day.
While he'd stayed do polish the broomsticks—which was his chore this week—everyone else had headed back to the castle. Or almost everyone. By the time his task was over, the only figure that remained on the pitch was the familiar one of Sloane Bixby. It had been days since they'd been alone, their only time together spent in a group of other students and in class. He hesitated for a moment, trying to think of what words wold be appropriate. He'd never struggled to find words before, he noted, and he couldn't quite figure out why.
He headed over to her anyways and plopped down beside her on the grass, a good three feet between them.
"Don't tell me you're too tired to walk. I don't think I'm strong enough to haul you back to the castle right now," he teased in his usual friendly ways, though he found himself worrying about how it came across more than usual.
