by Sierra Hill
“I don’t want to move you, but I think I should go get you some water. You need to stay hydrated.”
My knees are pulled up to my chin, and his large hand lands on top of my kneecap, applying gentle pressure. The zing of pleasure rockets through my legs and my toes involuntarily curl with joy.
“No, not yet. Just…wait a bit.”
I nod my head, because yes, regardless of the circumstances, my body doesn’t want to move from this spot at the moment. I realize that we’re sitting on my brother’s bathroom floor – and ew, who knows when it was last cleaned – and that Van just puked his guts out and the booze he’d consumed is still leaking out his pores – but honestly? I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
It’s crazy, but my brain feels wonky just by his touch and his nearness – as if I was the one who was drunk. I have tingles at every point of contact between us and it feels unimaginably good. Better than anything I’ve ever experienced before.
We sit there for a good fifteen minutes. My butt has become numb from the cold tiles, but despite that fact, I’m warm from the furnace heat emanating from Van’s body. If it feels this good just sitting next to Van, what would it be like to be wrapped up in his embrace? For his arms to be slung around me tight. If he were on top of me, pushing inside of me, slow and deep.
I jolt upright from the sound of my brother’s voice. I must’ve fallen asleep and was dreaming about Van. And from the sound of the soft snores at my shoulder, I know Van is asleep, too.
“Jesus Christ…what happened here? I got worried that Van was taking advantage of you.”
Ugh. Stupid big brother.
I press my index finger to my lips, telling him to shut the hell up so we don’t wake my sleeping giant. My shoulder itches a little from the scruff on Van’s jaw and chin, but I would go numb before I move him.
“Shhh. He needs to sleep this off. But first, can you go grab a bottle of water for him? He’s going to need it tonight.”
Cade shrugs and turns to head back out to the kitchen, leaving me and Van alone once again.
“Kylah?”
It makes me sad to lose the connection that we just had, as Van lifts his head off my shoulder, rubbing out a kink in his neck.
“Yeah?” I whisper, running my fingers over the spot where his scent still lingers.
“Thanks for being with me tonight. I may have drunk too much.”
I give him a dismissive wave and then turn my head to face him, smiling softly. “Ya think? What was your first clue?” I wink, trying to add some levity to the already uncomfortable situation. I can’t help but use the moment to ask the question that’s been burning on my mind.
“What are you going to do, Van? About…you know…Lyndsay.”
He sighs, the weight of the world being exhaled in that one breath.
“What can I do? She’s made her choice. We’re through. As far as I’m concerned, we had our last conversation last night. I don’t ever want to see her again. She can live happily ever after with her baby daddy.”
I suck in a gasp at the venom in his tone. Not that I blame him.
“Do you think it’ll be that easy? Just letting go like that and never talking again? I mean, you two were together for such a long time.”
Obviously, I don’t know a thing about relationships, except my parents. And I know it’s different when a couple has been married for over twenty years, but it took a long time for my dad to be completely out of the picture. So I’m not sure what happens in a break-up like Van and Lyndsay’s.
Is it truly over just like that? Or, are there lingering and residual feelings and complex dialogue after-the-fact?
Well, if there is, Van doesn’t seem to want any part of it.
“If I never see her again, it will be too soon.”
His eyes lock on mine and I see the sincerity there. And the conviction when he says the next thing that hurts more than I could ever imagine.
“And I’ll never be in another long-distance relationship again.”
With that, my heart deflates and lies limp on the cold tile floor – right along with the remnants of his own battered heart and soul.
8
Van
I spent the last three weeks in a state of perpetual angst and sleepless nights. Our basketball pre-season is in full swing and we are playing every weekend in out-of-town tourneys. It’s utterly exhausting and my head and spirit aren’t fully in the game. Which is a source of frustration for my teammates.
So much so that Carver, our point guard and team captain, has been in my face the last two games because my rebounding and shooting ability has diminished significantly. Oh, and I’ve fouled out the last three games because I’m playing too aggressively under the basket.
In my power forward position, it’s my job in both offensive and defensive play, to be the guy under the basket who ‘posts up’ to block and rebound in the man-to-man zone defense. And to put up the ball when I do end up rebounding. While being aggressive in play is rewarded by increasing team effectiveness and shot advantage, it doesn’t help when I’m fueled by anger, versus competition, and don’t temper my playing techniques.
Like tonight, for example. I was down in the paint, my back toward the basket. I was posted up to protect the ball as Scott Wagner, our small forward, was setting up for a three pointer. He missed, and both me and Eli Blanchard from Marquette, went up to rebound. He picked it off the rim, his elbows out as he guarded it against me. I had other plans, though, as I reached in to the pocket he’d created and grabbed hold of the ball, working to pull it free from his grip. The ball came loose and we both dove for it before it went out of bounds.
At that point, I’m not sure what happened. All I know was Eli was about to grab for the ball, and suddenly he’s on his back and about to pass it to one of his team players. I jumped to my feet, and was about to run back down the court when I hear him mutter a comment…I couldn’t even tell you what he said, but it was lewd and it was a snipe at me. So instead of running toward the ball in play, I stomped on his stomach with my foot, using him as a human launch pad.
It wasn’t an accident and it was very apparent that it was on purpose. So when the ref’s whistle blew and I was charged with a foul, effectively booting me out of the game, I tried to defend myself by getting in the ref’s face. I lied to cover my butt, arguing that it was an accident. I tried to play it off like I just lost my balance and Eli just happened to be in my way. You know, it’s basketball. Accidents happen.
Unfortunately, I’m a terrible liar and didn’t convince anyone of my innocence.
So I got my last foul and had to sit the bench the remainder of the game. Luckily, the second half clock was already winding down. But it still didn’t prevent Carver from getting in my face after the game.
Now I’m sitting on the bench in the locker room, waiting for everyone to come back in so we can hear from the coach. We did end up winning the game, barely squeaking out with a five-point lead. It was touch and go for most of the final half.
My head is lowered, my elbows on my knees, as I watch the sweat drip down onto the tiled floor. It’s then that I see a pair of size twelve shoes planted in front of me. I raise my head to see a very pissed off Carver glaring down on me, his brow furrowed and his lips in a tight line.
It takes a lot to ruffle Carver. He has a pretty even-keeled personality. On the court, he’s a force to be reckoned with and the boss in three-pointers. Off-the-court, he’s just as amiable.
But right now, he looks like he wants to take a swing at me. Hard.
“You want to tell me what the fuck is going on with you, bro? Why is your head in your ass? I’ve never seen you play this shitty. And never have I seen you do something like you just did to Eli. You pulled a fucking Laettner, you twat.”
He’s referring to Christian Laettner, a former Duke University power forward/center who is one of the most hated basketball players of all time. Great player, but questionable ethics. Mainly because he stomped
on the chest of a Kentucky player during a 1992 regional final. Personally, I always revered Laettner because he was one hell of a ball player. The clutch shots he took and the number of titles he had under his belt were impressive.
Sadly, he’ll always be remembered for two career-defining moments. One was the clutch shot, turn-around jumper, buzzer-beater and the other is the bullying chest-stomp.
I shake my head that’s still in my hands, disgusted with myself. “I know…I know.”
Even though I keep my eyes averted, I can feel Carver’s eyes boring into my head. When I do finally lift my head, he wears a scowl that would make most people run in fear. He’s a mother-fucking badass, his tats covering the majority of his right arm, and biceps that could (and probably have) lifted tractors.
“Dude, just get over her. You got a future here and plenty of other chicks who you can fuck to get her out of your head. Women aren’t worth it. They’ll fucking ruin ya.”
If that’s supposed to be a pep talk, it’s the worst one in the history of all pep talks. Seriously. Why the hell would I take relationship advice from Carver, who to my knowledge, has never had a serious girlfriend and doesn’t know shit about love.
I scoff and stand up, towering over his six-foot-three frame. By most standards, he’s tall. But not in this locker room, where the average height is six-five or more.
Out of respect for Carver, I don’t shove him like I want to. A fight would feel really good right now, but I’m not stupid enough to throw a punch at my team captain. That would be one sure way to get myself suspended indefinitely. So I move around him and grab a towel from the bench, heading toward the showers.
Before I turn the corner, I glance back over my shoulder to where he’s still standing, hands on his hips, lips pursed like he still has something to say.
“I respect you, C…but you don’t know shit about what’s going on. So lay the fuck off.”
Carver and I aren’t extremely close, but we respect each other as team mates. I have never spoken so bluntly to him, and I’m a little worried by the look in his eye that he might clock me for speaking out of turn. And when he comes barreling toward me, I barely have time for my hand to instinctively cover my balls, as he slams me into the locker, his forearm pressed right up against my throat.
My eyes bug out wide, but I hold my ground. I’m not about to fight him, but I won’t back down like a fucking pussy.
“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t know, because you’re the one who doesn’t know shit. I get it, man. It sucks what she did to you. But it’s motherfucking life. You’re not human if you haven’t lived through a broken heart. But my advice to you, bro, is that you need to man up and pull your shit together before you spiral out of control.” He releases me and steps back, allowing me room to breathe, my fingers massaging at my neck where he had me pinned.
My eyes take in the room around me, where the guys are milling about, trying to look inconspicuous and uninterested in what’s happening between us, even though I know they want to know. It’s probably all over the interwebs by now.
“Just take it from me, man,” he continues, running a hand over his sweaty mop of hair and down the back of his neck. “If you don’t get control of things, the girl wins by default.”
Carver’s eyes are hazel, but when he looks me in the eye they are darker than I’ve ever seen them. They’re filled with the same pain I feel right now. Interesting.
It’s gone in a flash and he uses both palms to smack my chest, right above my pecs.
“Okay…good talk. Now, let’s go out and celebrate our win tonight by getting drunk off our asses. And maybe get laid in the process.” He turns and then flicks his gaze back to me, his eyebrow quirked up. “Well, at least one of us is getting laid. And it ain’t you, buddy.”
Carver laughs boisterously and turns the corner, leaving me standing there wondering what just passed between us. What he just said makes me wonder if he really does know the heartache of a break-up. I suppose there’s a lot I don’t know about Carver. We all have a past. Maybe he’s just hiding his better than the rest.
I decide to go out with the guys after the game and it does feel good to let loose. We don’t drink much during the season, but the holidays are nearing and the semester is almost over, so we need to get in some final hurrah’s before we all leave for break.
I’m a little drunk – but not wasted - as I head back to my dorm when I realize I haven’t checked my phone since earlier in the day. Pulling it out, I notice several texts and voicemail notifications, along with my Twitter and Instagram feeds. A lot of congratulations on the win – from my parents, friends and family. A couple of girls I’m in classes with have texted offering to come celebrate with me. I consider it for less than a second, when my eyes land on a text from Kylah.
I laugh out loud when I read it.
Kylah: What’s next? Kicking an old lady when she’s fallen and can’t get up?
Kylah: Geez, Van. You big bully, you.
Kylah: Remind me never to get on your bad side. Or fall down in front of you.
Kylah: Cuz your foot’s bigger than my head. You could do some damage.
Kylah: Anyway, glad you won. Now be nice from now on. BTW – when does your break start?
This was the last one she sent and it came in over an hour ago. I check the time and wonder if it’s too late to call her. It’s after midnight, but I know she’s a night owl. She’s very studious and serious about doing well in school, so I’m guessing she’s up. Just in case, I text her first.
Me: Yeah, not my finest hour. It’s been a pretty shitty couple of weeks. But no excuse. I did apologize to Blanchard afterwards. We good.
Me: And I’d never do that to you. You’re too sweet.
I laugh again because I know she hates being called sweet. During one of our recent conversations she admitted wanting to shed herself of that reputation, although I don’t see how she could. It’s just her nature.
I see the three dots pop up and know she’s up and responding.
Kylah: That’s good to know. But hey - I am NOT SWEET!
Me: Oh yeah? Prove it. Tell me one thing you’ve done that was mean?
I wait for her response. I can just envision her, sitting cross-legged on her dorm bed, pondering her recent actions and behaviors, hoping to isolate one instance where she wasn’t the nice girl that I know she is. A nice girl who’s smoking hot, nonetheless. It’s not like I haven’t been affected by Kylah.
Even though I’m not in a good place emotionally right now, that doesn’t mean my body hasn’t taken notice of her. In fact, the night I got wasted at Cade’s apartment, after the bomb was dropped on me, there was a moment when we were in the bathroom where I was about to put the moves on her. I wanted to kiss her so bad – to get a taste of her pretty pink lips. To lean in and suck at the indent of her throat, where I knew she would take like mango or something just as fruity.
Looking back, I’m glad I did get sick that night, because chances are I would’ve done something stupid to ruin our friendship. I was strung so tightly, I felt the coils would’ve burst and she was right there to help me unwind the fury and rage that had me so wrapped up in anger.
Just then, a thought hits me, smack in the head. Although we’ve gotten to know one another over the last few months and spent a few hours in each other’s company, nothing has happened between us. We’ve only been friends this whole time because…well, because of Lyndsay.
But now Lyndsay’s out of the picture. For the first time in over five years, I’m free to date whomever I want. Kiss whomever I want. Fuck whomever I want. Ah, shit.
It’s like my brain finally peeled back the covers on what I’d tried to keep hidden away in the dark corners of my mind. The fact that I really like Kylah. And I know she really likes me.
I’m not being cocky or full of myself. It’s fairly obvious when she looks at me that she wants something more. I’ve denied the attraction up ’til now, but she makes me horny. She’s fun
ny. Smart. Adorably geeky. And she has a smoking hot body. Just the thought has my dick chubbing-out.
I’m screwed.
What the hell am I going to do with this attraction? Absolutely nothing. Because Number one, she goes to school in California and I vowed that I am never doing a long-distance relationship again. I’m not about to get trapped into having to trust from afar, only to find out I’ve been played by someone I love.
And Number two -- Cade.
Enough said.
He would go ape-shit if he knew I was fucking around with his little sister.
My resolve kicks in, knowing there is no way I can touch Kylah. She is off-limits. No matter how much I want her, we have to remain friends.
My attention returns to my phone as it pings with her response.
Kylah: I told someone to fuck off this week.
I chuckle, because Kylah doesn’t swear. See? Sweet.
Me: Sure ya did.
Kylah: I did! It was this guy in my Comp class. He told me he’d go down on me if I helped him write his term paper. Gross!
I stare down at the screen and reread the words. I’m in utter shock that she just told me this. My brain is firing off strange signals to my body. My hand grips the phone in a tight fist. I can feel a jealous scowl grow across my face. I think I even growl.
And my next thought is…Did she let him?
Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Am I jealous of some guy who wants to eat her pussy?
Hell yes, I am.
Me: What a fucktard. He actually said that to you?
Kylah: IKR? He’s really creepy, too. He always tries to walk with me after class.
I’m still digesting her response. She obviously told the kid to fuck off…but does she think that he’s gross, or that the act is gross? Now my dog-on-a-bone curiosity needs to know the answer.
Me: Wait, go back…what did you find gross? Him or being eaten out?
