He's The Goal

by Faith M Troyer

  No, thank you!

  “Honestly, Mon, I'd rather get a pap smear once a week than have to share a living space with that asshole any longer. ‘And Fucking him’ is out of the question. Max is all about the party and women! There's no substance there whatsoever, and it's not my job to make him better."

  Monica throws her hands up in surrender, her wide chocolate eyes glowing with amusement. "Damn, Vada, once a week?" She says with a laugh and adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder.

  I curl my hand like a metal hook and see Monica's face twist with disgust and intrigue.

  "Yes. A pap smear, once a week with the cold metal hook of a pirate named Pete. Anything has to be better than living with Max. He's messy, annoying, and he never picks up the house when I ask him to. Ugh. Is he a man or a child?"

  Max

  I sit on the cold wooden bench near the rink, and I can feel my heart hammer with excitement. Hockey is what it is all about, skating and feeling alive on the ice. Itching to hit some pucks, or as we like to say, biscuits, I quickly lace my skates up.

  The puck shoots across the ice and echoes within the arena like epic cracks of thunder. I grab my stick and my helmet, gliding out slowly at first onto the ice. The Zamboni driver must have just come through.

  On good ice, players often skate with less effort, and the puck glides beautifully across the cold-crystal flooring. But bad ice is a bitch to play on, and the pucks tend to bounce while the skaters get worn down too quickly. Our team loves our Zamboni driver, Ed, who comes through during the intermissions to even the ice out. Then I hear a familiar female voice call my name from afar.

  “Maxwell! Hey, Max!”

  I look up and see Bianca, an avid leopards fan, and my favorite friend with benefits. I smile, wipe the sweat off my brow with my forearm, and give her a chin lift. Damn, she’s a beautiful woman, with shoulder-length blonde hair and soft green eyes.

  Bianca is standing above the arena, adjacent to the season box seats. I motion her with my head, cracking a naughty smile in her direction, telling her to come down to see me. Bianca’s eyes light up like birthday candles, and she quickly descends the side staircase. I don’t do relationships, not anymore. I’m not a one-woman man, and that’s it. I love to play the field as much as I love hockey. I make that clear with every woman that I bring to my bed, and Bianca is no exception to the rule.

  On several occasions, she’s told me that she has feelings for me, but I don’t feel the same for her, no matter how hard I may try. Once I’m close enough to touch her, Bianca throws her arms around my sweaty neck and kisses me. I swallow hard, feeling my dick harden and wishing she was Vada. My eyes pop open at that realization, and I instinctively pull back before seeing her eyes, losing the excitement they had only seconds before.

  “Not here, B,” I say, but still managing to hold her hand.

  Her hold is weak, and she eventually drops it.

  “You didn’t say that last week after you fucked me in the locker room, after hours.”

  I watch with guilt as she steps away and folds her arms over her chest. Damn it. I hate it when she does this shit. I may not be the most terrific guy in the world, and I can be an asshole, but I’m not looking to hurt anyone on purpose.

  Bianca knows she and I are just friends who fuck a few times a week. Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly and realize I don’t care if the other guys see me get all soft and mushy. I hate making Bianca feel left out, so I take her out onto the ice with me, and she shrieks excitedly and giggles like a schoolgirl.

  Bianca holds on tight to me as I kiss her cheek. Her body melts into my jersey, soggy with sweat, and she lets out a contented sigh. Man, she smells good, but nothing close to Vada.

  “So, I hear you’re roommates with Miss Vada, now, huh. That’s a shame. If you asked to come and stay with me, we could have had some fun sleepovers,” she says, her long fingers tracing my embroidered lettering on my jersey.

  I can’t help but notice that adorable, flirtatious side smile that Bianca’s famous for, but I can tell she’s jealous. I inwardly groan, not wanting any female drama to begin with my side piece and a new roommate. Bianca and Vada know each other through hockey, seeing me play when Vada comes to the games with Jack, and of course, Bianca chooses to be glued to my side when she’s around. Bianca knows damn well that Vada and I are not an item, and we never will be.

  I rub a hand over my face and watch her as her eyes search mine for an answer. The rink has fallen quiet, and I can tell that we have an audience. I look behind my shoulders and see Matt, the number two defensive, raising an eyebrow at me in question.

  B slides her manicured fingers under my stubbled chin and turns my head to face her searing gaze. Fuck, is she crying? I'm not too fond of girls sobbing. I can’t deal with my own emotions half the time, so seeing the woman, I’m currently having sex with crying because I can’t commit to her is a bitter pill to swallow. I can see tears making her green eyes all glossy. One tear escapes her thick lashes and trails down the pink apple of her cheek. I slide the pad of my thumb just underneath her waterline and sigh.

  “Are you fucking her too, Max?”

  “Bianca, I told you from the beginning what this was going to be.”

  “So you are fucking her?” she asks, and my body electrifies with thoughts of seeing Vada half-naked that first day I moved into the apartment.

  My arms tighten around her trim waist, and on instinct, I slide my lips across her smooth cheek. I feel her body tense a little underneath my strong-hold but relax just as fast. I can imagine that this may look like; some Day Of Our Lives, Young and The Restless, type shit.

  I watch as Bianca runs a hand through her silky blonde hair, the light-catching and reflecting from her solid gold earrings. She likes the idea of knowing that other men buy her gifts and that it just might make me jealous. Honestly, I could give a rat’s ass.

  As long as we both stay in our lane, I don’t care what Bianca does.

  “No, I’m not fucking her, B. I needed a place to stay with the property up for sale. I wasn’t able to find another place in time, not with hockey season starting and practice in full swing.”

  “You could have just stayed with me,” Bianca says, her bottom lip quivering. She does this shit to me all the time. B knows how to turn the tears on and off during arguments and disagreements, but I can’t tell the difference these days.

  Bianca is a good little actress and should be in films. This woman can make herself cry on cue and has done so on numerous occasions to get her way. But from the way she carries herself, Bianca’s body becoming limp in my arms, I can tell she isn’t faking this time.

  I swallow hard, trying not to become the soft, sensitive teddy bear that I know lives inside me and comes out only for Bianca. I run a thumb across her high cheekbone, noticing she cut down on wearing so much makeup, which I love. I expect Bianca to lean into my touch like a purring kitten, but she just looks away, hurt, glazing her eyes.

  Bianca is my age, and she’s seeing all of her friends getting married and having babies. On several occasions, Bianca has told me that she wishes she could be in their shoes, and I know she hopes I’ll be the one to propose to her and give her the life Bianca has been longing to have. I feel like I want to run with my tail between my legs, and Bianca can see it in my eyes.

  “You know what? Just forget it. Have a good practice,” she says as she lets go of me.

  I sigh and watch B slowly walk off the ice, and a part of me wants to laugh. She doesn't know how cute she looks right now, trying to run away from me but going at a snail’s pace. Her pink flip flops have no tread on the ice whatsoever, and I pull her back around the waist so she won’t trip. Bianca mews quietly under her breath as I guide my lips near her earlobe.

  “I’ll make sure Vada is out of the house tonight, okay, so you can come over, and we’ll cuddle.” I know using the word ‘cuddle’ will seal the deal.

  Bianca chuckles under her breath, nodding in agreement. After
a few more times of promising to be available tonight, I watch B make her way back up the stairs, with a hopeful pep in her step, and I feel even more like an asshole.

  There was only one woman I had ever wanted to give everything to, and that was my ex-fiance, Josie. After our breakup, I said, "Fuck It!" And that's what I did. Every willing female that entered my life, I fucked seven ways to Sunday. I don’t know how to feel those sweet, romantic feelings for anyone anymore, and Bianca has a tough time seeing that.

  After practice, I decide to shower back at the apartment, and I have a brilliant idea. My mind flashes to the two VIP tickets to a fancy club that I have just sitting in Jack’s top dresser drawer. I fly home, hop in the shower, and wash off. I pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt while racing through the house and do a super quick clean up.

  I was going to clean before Vada got home anyway to avoid World War III. All of the dirty towels in Jack’s room have been picked up and put into the washer; the dishwasher is full and hums happily in the background as I clean the cupboards down with Vada’s stupid Clorox wipes that she covets so damn much. But I do have to admit that they do smell pretty good. Tonight, I’m getting Vada out of my system, and I’m using Bianca to do so.

  I just hope I can do it.

  Vada

  Monica is my best friend and has been for the last four years. She’s a fantastic person, but when she gets on a subject that she feels strongly about, Monica is like a lion with a gazelle carcass, and there’s no way she’s letting go.

  “Chicken,” I say and nod my head toward the brown bag that sits in the middle on the center console. We had stopped at a fast food place on the way home because there was no way I could make it home without wanting to gnaw my arm off. Monica reaches into the bag, fishing out a chicken nugget and placing it into my mouth as I keep driving.

  We sit at a red light, waiting behind a rusty red Jeep, and I watch the gray smoke chugging from the tailpipe as Monica goes on and on about Max and his desire to “get into my panties” between bites of food.

  My mind goes back to the day almost a few weeks ago when Max moved in. He caught me in my blue lace, and I still can’t get that look out of my head. He looked as if he wanted to pounce on me and eat me alive. I rub my thighs together, trying to ease the ache growing between my legs.

  I don’t make it a secret that I’m a virgin. However, I don’t go through the streets screaming that type of sensitive information either. I’m proud to be the owner of a very shiny and intact “V-card,” and I’m more than okay with this fact. In the past, men have wanted to have a romantic relationship with me, based on the pure fact that we'd eventually have sex, like within the first week of dating, and I wasn't cool with that. I want to have a deep heartfelt connection based on trust, love, and respect.

  As we walk up to the front door, I fish my house key from my backpack and fan myself off. Even though it’s mid-September, it’s eighty-sixed degrees and humid. I’m checking the house, then heading upstairs to put on something more comfortable.

  “Can we crank the AC when we get inside? It’s hotter than a witch’s tit out here,” Monica asks, and I crack a smile. She playfully nudges my ribs and adds, “Maybe Max will cool you down? Got any ice cubes?”

  I laugh but feel my stomach twist with excitement, and I secretly want to kick myself in the ass. When we walk in, I notice a pleasant smell of cinnamon wafting from further down the hall, and I raise a questioning brow at my best friend.

  Monica juts her lower lip out, raising her eyebrows, and shrugs her shoulders as if to say, “beats me.”

  We walk down the long hallway and around the corner into the kitchen, and I see that Max washed the dishes! I hate leaving my living space a mess, and knowing Max can be quite messy, and I thought I would come home to a total shithouse disaster.

  Monica follows behind me as we go into the living room. Everything seems to be in order, and I become suspicious. The curtains are open as the beautiful warm sun spills over the couch with a golden light where Chester is peacefully sleeping, belly exposed for the world to see. Did Max have his former housekeeper come over and clean my house? Or did he do this? I didn’t think he could pick up a broom or even knew how to use one, for that matter.

  I turn around to meet Monica’s eyes, and she’s beaming. He wants to fuck you, she mouths, and my cheeks grow hot once again.

  “The AC is on! Thank God!” Monica happily exclaims as she twirls around, throwing her head back, laughing.

  I smile and shake my head, shrugging my backpack off and throwing it on the overstuffed chair. Usually, I keep the apartment clean, having to get on Jack's ass to keep the place in order. I know he must have gotten on his case just as much as me for being a neat freak.

  “Oh, look who decided to “grace” me with her not so fabulous presence,” Max says as he comes around the corner; he rests his blue eyes on my chest, and he’s not even the least bit subtle about it.

  I may not be having sex with a living, breathing male, but I often have to satisfy my needs. However, I haven't been able to lately because of Maxwell-mother-fucking-Vahn. I’m a little cranky lately because I can’t have the nightly orgasm I’ve come accustomed to having. Jack sleeps like the dead, so I’m not scared of waking him up for being too loud.

  It’s not like I mimic a pornstar or anything, but I do enjoy myself. Now that Max is in the house, I’m afraid he’ll catch me being too loud and say something smart like, ‘Were you filming an adult movie in your room last night, Vada?’ And a part of me would have to prove something to him, having a kinky toy display set up to spite him.

  My skin tingles at the thought of Max seeing me touch myself, of him seeing me all turned on, hot and bothered. My heart skips a beat as he keeps his eyes trained on my breasts a little longer, and I know he knows I’m watching him.

  He swallows hard before bringing his gaze up to meet mine.

  “Who were you thinking about just now?” That slow, sexy smile makes another panty-melting appearance, and I feel like throwing myself at him.

  I look down, trying to hide my flushed cheeks.

  You, with your cock deep inside of me as I cry out for more, and scream your name until my throat is raw.

  I shake my head in disbelief, cursing that my vagina is needlessly demanding attention due to my impatient, sex-driven brain. Besides, I would be another notch on Maxwell Vahn's bedpost, next to a million skanks he's banged over the years. I intend to come out of this situation with my V-card still intact and my knees together! However, perhaps I should get them sewn together at this point because I’m afraid with his drool-worthy body and smile, I’m going to be on my back faster than a helpless turtle.

  “Why does it smell so good in here? Why is my house clean?” I demand while folding my arms across my chest, “What did you do, Max? What do you want?”

  I swear the hungry look of lust in his eyes fades the moment I block his view.

  He stands a little straighter and cools his expression. He walks into the kitchen, and I look back at Monica, my face fixed into complete annoyance. As long as I’ve known him, Max has been harder to read than an English to Japanese dictionary in the middle of rush hour in downtown Tokyo.

  Monica holds Chester to her chest as he continues to purr the more she pets him, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Ugh. Heterosexual males and felines are all the same! All they want is to be scratched and curl up against a nice pair of tits.

  Max comes walking back into the living room, holding an apple and cinnamon scented jar candle, the small orange flame dancing wildly on the wick. It’s funny to see a big strong man, the very picture of an alpha male holding a girly smelling candle in his big hand. The smell has quickly filled the living room, flooding the space with its rich undertones of nutmeg and spice.

  Growing up in the South, I never got to experience fall until I was about thirteen. My grandparents lived in Maryland, and I stayed there while my parents tried to work out their differences. Jack was a college
freshman by then and was living in a dorm at the university. Chesapeake Bay was the most beautiful place in the world in the fall; all of the changing colors, the leaves falling, the chilly crisp air. Everything was just so perfect until we had to go back home to Miami, where life just seemed too much to handle at such a young age. My granny sent me home with a cinnamon-scented candle that day to remind me of Chesapeake Bay and the happiness I felt during my time there.

  I fix my eyes on Max and calmly take the candle from him. I sigh softly, thinking of my granny and how, despite Max being a pig-headed jerk, she would somehow find him charming.

  I laugh under my breath as I feel the warmth from around the glass in my hands, instantly calming me. I smile and set it down on the coffee table near the couch.

  He looks so good in his jeans and t-shirt. He doesn't need to be in a suit to look extraordinary, but I had seen Max in one before, a few years ago, when the guys were posing for a team photo and sweet baby Jesus— I could have sworn I ovulated just looking at him all dressed up like that.

  “I’m sorry for yelling,” I say apologetically to Max. “It’s been a long day.”

  My eyes flicker to Maxwell for a second, and my stomach flips with elation because deep down, I do want Max to want me. I desire his touch, his kiss, and all of his undivided attention, and I have a feeling Monica might be right. I think he wants mine too, and I don’t have any problem giving it to him.

  “I have a favor to ask,” he begins, and I can feel my shoulders fall in disappointment.

  So Max cleaned the house, not to make me happy or even help? But because he wants something from me? Bribery is his way of buttering me up, and suddenly my heart feels trampled. Max thinks he can buy women for whatever price he deems necessary, but he’s not buying this one because I’m not for sale. I don’t care how adorable he looks in the morning after he’s just woken up. All of that dark hair matted to one side of his head. But I feel myself falter, and I know I’m going to give in.