The Fourth Time Charm: A Friends to Lovers Romance

by Maya Hughes

  It wasn’t like I expected him to come swooping in to rescue me. Liv and I had done most of the saving, and LJ picked up the rest of the slack, but three weeks?

  I had a tutoring session in an hour and I couldn’t find my damn notebook.

  LJ dangled it beside me.

  Making sure to keep my fingers far from his, I took it from his grip after he’d uttered those fateful words: ‘we need to talk’.

  Turned out they worked just as well on girls as they did on guys.

  “I’ve got tutoring this afternoon.” Flipping through my schedule taped to the front page, I bit back my groan. Of course today, I was tutoring Chris. The perfect addition to an already supremely shitty day.

  “I know.”

  Why’d he have to say it like that? Like he’d committed my schedule to memory and knew everything about me. Well he mostly did, but like a best friend did, not like a guy who wanted to jump my bones.

  “I need to get changed and get to the library.”

  “About this morning—”

  “Nope, we don’t have to talk about it.” I stood and opened the drawer where my other clothes were, seconds from slamming my hands over my ears and screaming ‘la la la, I can’t hear you’.

  “We should.”

  I lifted my head to meet his gaze, feeling like I was a rusty robot. “Why? I crossed a line. It won’t happen again.” Why had he looked at me like he was going to kiss me? Why had I given in to all the feelings I’d bottled up for so long? Why did I want it so bad?

  “You didn’t cross a line. I was there too.” And he didn’t look happy about it.

  “With nowhere to go.” I’d cornered him and felt him up. The cringe was real and intense. My mom’s voice rang in my ears. They all leave.

  “We were early morning groggy. You know, just…I’m not upset or freaked out. it’s not a big deal.”

  Well, I wouldn’t say that. “Right, my hand has just been one of many to paw your junk.”

  His neutral face dipped into a full-on frown. “I never said that.”

  “So if I slipped my hand into your sweats right now for a little handy action?”

  His eyes widened and his whole body locked. Not in a hell-yes-more-of-that kind of way. More like please-don’t-let-my-pain-in-the-ass-friend-paw-me-again kind of way. “Let’s keep our hands outside our pants.”

  “So you’re up for an over-the-pants handy? Might be a friction burn in store for you.” I shrugged and stepped closer, shoving my shirt sleeves up to my elbows. “But if that’s what you’re comfortable with.”

  I’d push this past the realm of serious talk straight into slapstick. Better that than the alternative of getting called out for being willing to go through with it and hoping against hope he’d been about to kiss me earlier.

  “Could you be serious for five minutes?”

  I extended my hand. “Hi, I’m Serious. Nice to meet you.” Dad jokes for the win at defusing insanely embarrassing situations.

  He scrubbed his hands down his face and gave me the exasperated look that told me we were okay. He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked up at the ceiling.

  My smile wasn’t paper thin anymore. It was a full on grin. Distraction mode activated!

  “The next eight months make or break my future.”

  “And you’ve got it locked down. You were the best player in our high school.” I’d take the diversion to LJ’s worries about football and cling onto it like a crazy-glue-covered spider monkey.

  “But it means going after it with a singular focus.” An intensity burned in his eyes and I wished he was going after me with a singular focus.

  Brush it off, Marisa. Focus. Isn’t that what we were talking about? Like how his t-shirt was tight across his chest and his gray sweatpants made me want to climb him like a Redwood.

  Focus! His lips were still moving. Lock up those feelings and throw away the key.

  “Of course. I get it. I was at the sidelines for all those games. I badgered you through summer workouts in the gym. If there’s anyone out there who wants you to make it, it’s me.”

  His face softened. “I know, Marisa.” He opened his mouth before snapping it shut like he was trying to capture words before they could escape.

  “And as much as I’d love to give you another pep talk, I’ve got to tutor, so I can make rent and not get kicked out of this beautiful college townhouse.” Taking my escape, I darted from the room and disappeared into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. I held my clothes—not even mine, my borrowed clothes—to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut.

  I had less than a year left until he was drafted, and I needed to figure out what to do next. This time I wasn’t going to be left behind. This time I’d do the leaving.

  The walk to the athletics building didn’t take long. I shoved my long sleeves up and hitched my backpack higher. The championship trophies and mini banners lined the hallway along with the jerseys of all the drafted FU players over the years. LJ’s name would be up there soon with LEWIS scrawled across the back, hanging beside Reece’s, which they hadn’t put up yet.

  Inside the auditorium they used for team meetings as well as tutoring, I sent up a silent prayer that Chris wouldn’t arrive. Signing in with the tutoring monitor, I reminded myself of how much I needed the cash.

  “Good luck.” The mentor added, spotting the name of who I’d be working with.

  I found a spot and pulled out my supplies, wishing I had some holy water and a crucifix for this session.

  Five minutes past our scheduled time, I closed my notebook. The study halls were mandatory for any player on the edge of eligibility due to their GPA, but tutors only had to stay until fifteen minutes past the scheduled start time, if the athletes didn’t show.

  Nine minutes after that, I slipped everything back into my bag. This would be the quickest cash I’d made all week.

  The door swung open and he sauntered in like he’d stepped into a saloon.

  My silent prayer became a not so silent curse, and a couple people glanced in my direction.

  I sank lower in my seat and prepared for the pain.

  Chris Farrell strolled down the steps, his grin widening when he spotted me.

  This was going to be a long hour.

  “We’re calculating limits here.” I checked over Chris’s answers to his calc homework.

  “Can’t you just do this for me?”

  The football player study hall paid better than tutoring at the student center, but it came with drawbacks. Mainly, asshole football players who thought they could be assholes because they could punt, kick, throw or pass a ball. Thankfully, I had no illusions that this only extended to football players, but the volume I interacted with showed me they went one of two ways.

  They could be total marshmallows, or absolute d-bags who didn’t understand why ladies weren’t lined up around the block to blow them. The funny thing was, it was often inversely proportional to how good they were on the field.

  “If I did it for you, you’d never pass your final exam, which is in…” I checked my imaginary watch. “One week.”

  “This is bullshit. What does calculus even matter?” He shoved his papers forward almost knocking them off the desk.

  “You signed up for the class, not me. And you missed the add/drop window after warnings from everyone to let you know how close you were to failing the class.”

  He grumbled like a three-year-old. “I won’t need any of this shit once I’m drafted.”

  From what LJ said, it wasn’t happening. If anything, he needed to knuckle down and study his ass off, so he at least got his degree when his pro goals went up in a puff of smoke.

  “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to take the test for me.”

  I glanced up at the team monitor in the auditorium dotted with other players working with their tutors. “Are you trying to get us both in trouble?” I seethed, gripping the edge of my desk. Getting fired or worse, drawing the attention of the coaching s
taff—like my father—to my low-key tutoring job wasn’t on my list of to-dos before I left for the summer.

  “You know all this shit. Have you taken your calc exam already?”

  “I’m not taking calc.”

  His head jerked back and he stared. “What do you mean you’re not taking calc?”

  “I mean I’m not taking calc. I haven’t taken it since high school.”

  “Then how the hell are you tutoring me?”

  “Why do I need to be enrolled in a class to tutor you? I took it as a senior in high school.” Calc wasn’t easy, but I’d taken it to get a leg up on college admissions. It wasn’t my fault that Chris barely paid attention, never took notes, and didn’t do any of his homework.

  “What are you majoring in now?”

  “Art history.” I wasn’t going to lay out my course load in analytical chemistry and the chemistry of art, so I could take on preservation as well as curation work.

  “Now that we’re finished with the getting to know you portion of our session, can you get back to your problems?”

  “You’re not even a math major. No wonder I can’t figure any of this out.”

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose. Think of the money. Think of the money and think of Venice. “You can’t figure this out because you’re not paying attention. Let’s go over it again and I’ll do a sample problem for you, so you can see the steps to solve it again.”

  “This is bullshit and I’m out of here.” He flipped the notebook sending it crashing to the floor and stormed out. Whelp, at least I’d still get paid for the whole hour.

  The tutor monitor called his name, but the door was already slamming shut behind him.

  I cleaned up the papers and walked up to the front to sign out for my session.

  “Only one week left, right?”

  “One week too many.” I scribbled my initials next to my sign-in and left. Instead of heading back to The Brothel, I took a detour to the Franklin Building. My department was tucked in with the history department, but the couches were comfy and worn in and no one was ever there.

  Reprints of works by Klimt, Van Gogh, and Monet hung on the walls in ornate frames with their own lighting. The framing probably cost as much as a year’s tuition.

  Being here always relaxed me. It was quiet and out of the way, and I could stare at the paintings and imagine what it was like to be the first person to see the finished artwork. Or think about having a chance to preserve them so future generations could appreciate them.

  They were eternal with their influence rippled out for decades and centuries after the artist was gone. I’d learned that was the kind of permanence you got with things, never people.

  Taking my worn-in spot on the green leather sofa, I flipped open my laptop and scrolled through my emails. Italian names were sprinkled throughout my inbox.

  Checklists, introductions and arrangements to be made. My first step to my new adventure. Italy. After so many years, internship application essays and interviews, it was so close.

  Part of me was afraid to get my hopes up, that the trip couldn’t live up to the hype, but the other part of me was screaming ‘Italy, fuck yes!’ from a convertible screaming down the Italian coast.

  An office door opened, muted by the old carpet and hallways lined with bookshelves filled with dissertations and portfolios. “Marisa?”

  I glanced up from my laptop. “Hi, Professor Morgan.”

  “Excited for your trip?” She was part of the reason I’d decided to focus on museum studies in my art history major. Her outfits reminded me much more of Indiana Jones than a stuffy museum tour guide, and her love of art radiated off her, from her tattoos to the ornate earrings paying homage to classic works of art.

  She was my favorite professor and had gotten me my internship at the Museum of Art.

  “Very—and a little scared. Thanks so much for the opportunity.”

  “You earned it. After your exciting spring break, I’m glad you’ll get a chance to have some fun this summer.”

  “Me too.” It also meant I didn’t have to go home for the summer. Was it even my home at this point? Maybe I’d adopt the bohemian nomad persona instead of going back to my mom’s house.

  Not that going to Italy would ever come in second place to staying on campus or bumming around on people’s couches for two months.

  “When do you leave?”

  “Two weeks after my last final, so I only have three weeks left.” Nervous flutters took flight in my stomach.

  She checked her watch. “Another faculty meeting for me. Email me any time you need anything, and if I don’t see you before you go, then have a wonderful trip.”

  The walk back to the townhouse was longer than it needed to be. Every errand I hadn’t gotten to over the past three weeks racked up in my head into what would’ve normally been a scary long list. But right now, it was perfect.

  In addition to studying and taking my finals, I could pick up more tutoring sessions, which meant I could buy a new bathing suit and underwear for my trip.

  The back-breaking couch of death was calling my name and whispering sweet nothings to me. Sleeping downstairs would mean I could wait for silence overhead before sneaking up to the bathroom.

  At least there were only three weeks until I left for Venice. It would give us both some distance after the Wake Up Call of Regret. After the summer, things could go back to normal. Pretending things were fine wasn’t new territory to me.

  6

  LJ

  My fingers dug into the dirt and grass. Panting, I was on my knees with sweat pouring down my face, blinding me. My heart jammed against my ribs with each beat as I gasped for air.

  The sun beat down on me, baking my pads and roasting my body. We didn’t usually fully suit up for spring practices, but today had been an exception. Sweat squished inside my cleats.

  The shrill whistle blew above me.

  Coach Saunders’ feet came into view before he crouched down in front of me. “Is there a problem, Lewis?”

  I gritted my teeth and pushed up off the ground. “No, sir.” Standing, I let my arms fall to my sides, although all I wanted to do was brace my hands on my knees and try not to puke.

  “Good.” He blew the whistle and called for another set of wind sprints.

  The whole team groaned and went to the end zone line.

  Berk wiped his face with his shirt, but it was already soaked and didn’t do much to stop the steady stream pouring down his face. “If these guys find out we’re doing this because you’re sleeping with Marisa, they’re going to crucify you.”

  “All we’re doing is sleeping.”

  “Hasn’t stopped him from trying to burn a hole through your skull with his eyes.” Another reason to keep things between Marisa and me platonic for now. It hurt almost as much as my calves.

  The team of a hundred and twenty guys stood on the end zone line in two rows and Coach Saunders stood with the clipboard at his side flanked by the support coaching staff.

  He sounded the whistle and we took off for another round of torture.

  Fifteen heart-bursting, leg-wrecking, lung-burning minutes later I collapsed. Other guys puked and some wandered aimlessly like they were hallucinating or had decided screw this and were walking home.

  After crawling off the field, I drained the ice water from my water bottle. Finally able to breathe in more than short pants, I set it down and began the long march.

  On this sunny, bright day each step felt like one closer to my execution. Coach had his back to me, headset around his neck and clipboard at his side.

  “Coach Saunders.” I cleared my throat. Even after all that water, my mouth was sawdust dry.

  He stopped, his back straightening, and turned to face me, face neutral, but gaze biting.

  “Can I speak with you, sir?”

  His gaze scanned me from head to toe before he issued a curt nod and took off toward the locker rooms.

  I jogged after him, my muscles screami
ng with each step. “About yesterday.”

  “What about yesterday?”

  “About Marisa staying over at my place…” The words took off like birds migrating, leaving my brain an empty pond.

  He made a gruff noise.

  “We’ve been friends for a long time and I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “From the rumble you made coming down the stairs and the state of you, it didn’t look like you were only making sure she was okay.” His words were clipped and blistering.

  “Ask Marisa and she’ll tell you we’re only friends. Best friends, but it hasn’t gone beyond that.”

  “But you’d like it to, huh? Has she shut you down?” His scathing chuckle grated with his enjoyment of my imaginary and not-so-imaginary blue balls when it came to Marisa. “Good for her. I can’t imagine she’d want to follow in the footsteps of me and her mom.” His mouth twisted in a grim line.

  Marisa had never been too open about what happened with her parents other than her dad leaving when she was eight to take over the assistant coaching position at Ohio State.

  He never came around much—ever, that I knew of. I hadn’t ever met him before, and I hadn’t made the connection between the two until Marisa told me she was transferring to Fulton U because her dad was the head coach here.

  “There are two spring practices left. You need to think long and hard about how much your future in football matters to you.” His pointed glare sent a pit plummeting to the depths of my stomach. “Dismissed.”

  Clenching my hands at my sides, I turned and left, walking back to the locker room. The threat was clear. Cross the line with Marisa and I was done. After three national championships he’d probably sacrifice our chances this season to bench me as much as he could. He could go out and recruit some of the best offensive linebackers out there to take my spot and the team would never miss a beat.

  As much as I wanted to grab my phone and tell Marisa how right she’d been about her dad being an asshole, how he treated me and how he treated her were two different things.