Post by Deleted on Nov 7, 2013 12:17:50 GMT -8
Grayson Baxter had been having the worst year ever. The girl he'd been pining over had not only chosen another guy but also quit his quidditch team leaving him short a beater. He'd have to tell Ezra to suit up from now on. Not that he minded that. Ezra was a great player. But he'd have to be sure to have a few one on one practices with her to catch her up on what he and Addie had been working on. These things had been on his mind a lot as the months went by. They'd bothered him to such a point, that Grayson thought he'd lost his edge. He hadn't been on a date since before the holidays. All of this broken hearted business was weighing him down. Silently he chided himself for letting it all get to his head as he walked down the snow covered path toward the village.
He should have wrote Abby. She'd be worried by now, but after her asking so many questions over the Italy trip, he couldn't bring himself to write yet. Something had to change. All his problems were eating him alive. He thought if he didn't fix it he'd end up like Professor Adams, sitting in the bar on Saturday nights drinking away his problems. Gray had decided he didn't want to be this way at all, and when he got to the door to the Three Broomsticks, he paused and sighed looking up at the sign. There was no way he could go in after a thought like he'd just had. Turning on his heel he looked across the street at the owl post and fidgeted while he shivered in the cold winter air that swirled around him.
This was stupid, The Three Broomsticks was warm and they had nice warm butterbeer and he could get some food. A nice hot turkey sandwich or something. There was much debate on his part before he actually stepped inside the place and found a seat by the window. It was a curved little booth with the brilliant white of snow gleaming through the panes of the window. He liked that it closed him off a little to the rest of the world. After ordering the butterbeer and the hot sandwich, Grayson began to remove his scarf and gloves and set them aside atop his cloak. He was adjusting his tie and sweater as he looked everyone else over for a moment. Ignoring how paired up everyone was, how everyone had a friend with them and here he was alone again, Grayson pulled out his play book and a few quidditch magazines. He would be fine. This was all fine. He still had quidditch.