Hesitation. Struggle. Tug-of-war.
Melvin knew he was acting like an idiot, standing at the doorstep yet still unable to make a decision.
However, he's always been like this.
Before making a decision, he hesitates repeatedly, constantly questioning and overturning himself. It's a process. But once he makes up his mind, he never looks back, wholeheartedly going all the way.
That's why family and friends always say he's too extreme.
But that's just how he is.
And now, it's the same.
On one hand, he tells himself this is indeed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and maybe Anson Wood could be a turning point in his career.
On the other hand, he can't help but worry that this change might ruin all his efforts and trap him in an irreversible predicament.
Go left, or go right.
Raising his head, Melvin is about to look around when he sees a figure approaching—
Finally, Melvin comes back to his senses, waving his hands repeatedly to indicate he's fine.
He shouts, that smile making it impossible to look away yet also unable to look directly.
Can someone explain why a football is here?
Melvin: ???
Subconsciously, like a turtle retracting its head, he grits his teeth and waits for danger to arrive.
From afar, across half the street, comes a sunny reminder. Melvin, immersed in his thoughts, is completely caught off guard, unable to react, even unsure if the other person is calling him.
He needs inspiration, a sign.
Then.
"Hey, watch out."
But.
Shouting from afar, bathed in sunlight like Apollo, this makes Melvin slightly stunned. He's thinking about what to do—
"Sorry."
Bright, cheerful.
"Didn't control my strength just now, it went off course, almost caused an accident. Are you okay?"
So, watch out for what, a UFO?
His stiff muscles relax, and Melvin finally regains control of his body. He turns his head and sees... a football that has rolled halfway and stopped.
Involuntarily, Melvin forgets to continue his search, his gaze naturally following that figure.
Nothing, nothing happened.
Young, energetic, a bright smile blooming perfectly on the corner of his mouth. Sweaty, flushed cheeks, golden sunlight like mischievous elves jumping and playing hide-and-seek among the golden-brown curls. The world suddenly brightens, blooming right before his eyes.
Wait, football?
"That's great, can you throw the football over?"
Football? He's not familiar with it.
More accurately, all sports have nothing to do with him.
So, how should he throw a football?
In that brief moment of hesitation, the figure doesn't continue shouting but takes action, jogging closer.
The footsteps stop not far in front, picking up the football himself.
"Sorry, obviously, there was almost an accident just now. I shouldn't have asked you to pick up the ball, I could have just run a few steps myself. Ha, see, things are much simpler."
While talking, he lightly tosses the football and catches it again.
Melvin finally finds his voice. "I'd like to help, but honestly, I know nothing about football, I don't know what to do."
"Haha, I don't know either, just playing around here, fooling around. Shh, keep it a secret, the fact that I'm using a football as a baseball, it's our secret, no need to tell others."
Looking at the face in front of him, a smile creeps onto Melvin's lips again.
Without waiting for Melvin to speak, the figure doesn't intend to stay any longer, turning to leave. Melvin feels a bit anxious and can't help but call out.
"Anson..."
It's Anson standing before him.
In the past six months, Anson's exposure has been incredible. His handsome face is plastered all over North America. It's the audience who haven't seen "Spider-Man" that are the minority. It's conceivable that they've already seen Anson's various looks and expressions.
However, Anson at this moment is still unfamiliar, still refreshing.
Wearing a San Francisco 49ers jersey, white sports shorts, skateboard shoes with long socks, he exudes youthful vigor and vitality. He's not like the nerdy Peter Parker, nor the gentleman from fashion magazines.
The same face, but with a subtly different aura.
At first glance, Melvin is already deeply impressed, inspiration flooding in.
But after calling out to Anson, Melvin's mind goes blank. He doesn't know what to say, it was just a subconscious action.
Then, Melvin squeezes out words from his throat.
"Styling, work, ready..."
Keywords popping out one by one, Melvin doesn't even know what he's saying.
But Anson actually understands. "The personal stylist interview, right? It's happening inside, you can just push the door and go in."
Melvin: ???
What does that mean?
The person in charge of the personal styling job is right in front of him, the decision-maker is right there - playing football. How is the interview inside proceeding, and who is he supposed to style for? Is everything really okay?
Looking at Anson, Melvin is completely confused. But Anson doesn't stop, turning around and running back, continuing the passing game with another figure.
Leaving Melvin standing there alone, bewildered.
Uh, this... so, what now?
Melvin stands there in a daze for a moment, his gaze drifting towards Anson—
He swears he has no interest in any ball games or sports, let alone participating, he doesn't even have the interest to watch.
During his childhood, his father always looked forward to playing catch with him, which seems to be the romantic fantasy of most American fathers. But he was completely uninterested, and after two attempts ended in falls, his father finally gave up in despair.
But at this moment, Melvin finally understands. The pleasing sight before him is not just a face or a figure, but a return to primal instincts - running, exerting strength, competing. A passion burning in the air, stimulating adrenaline, feeling the rhythm of life's pulse.
Then, Melvin turns and pushes the door open—
Don't misunderstand, he's still not interested in sports, it's just because of Anson, because of the completely different temperament and charm Anson displays.
He thinks maybe he should give himself and Anson a chance.
So, before he realizes it, Melvin is already inside.
A standard boutique, with a fitting room in the center, surrounded by circular racks overflowing with clothes.
And, it's quite large in scale.
One layer, two layers, three layers... If he's not careful, he loses count because the colors of the clothes all clash together, making it dazzling.
At a glance, there are at least seven, maybe even eight layers.
Like a maze.
At this moment, two people are already busy inside, seemingly selecting clothes.
Wait, there are other competitors?
Eddie didn't tell him about this.