Blonde Date

by Sarina Bowen

  “Like… The Knife Grinder? We can tackle those,” I said. “You know that little sofa in the back of the coffee shop? I’ll park my butt on that puppy while you’re changing. We can sit there and flip through the paintings on my laptop.”

  There was a pause, and I hoped she wasn’t about to tell me that she’d rather study alone. “We are going to rock that test,” she said instead. “We are going to kick its ass.”

  Again, I grinned in the dark. “We are going to send it home, crying for its mama.” Katie giggled again, and I felt it in my chest.

  Then it got quiet for a little while, and I wondered if she’d fallen asleep. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to fall asleep. Because I didn’t want to miss a moment of being with her.

  “Andy?” she asked suddenly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you ever had a one-night stand before?”

  Now there was a tricky question. “Well… I’m not sure I can say.”

  She turned to peek at me over her shoulder. “Never mind. That was a really personal question.”

  I dropped my arm around her waist and gave her a squeeze. “That’s not the problem. It’s just that I’m not sure. The answer is no. Unless I’m having one right now, and I was really hoping that wasn’t the case.”

  After I said it, my heart nearly failed. Was that too much, too soon?

  “You’re definitely safe,” Katie whispered.

  Whew. I dropped my nose into her hair and took a deep breath of her. “Good to know,” I said.

  Her slim fingers gently stroked my wrist for a few minutes. And then she began to breathe deeply. I lay there smiling in the dark for awhile longer, until I fell asleep too.

  And I had very, very good dreams.

  Epilogue

  -Dash-

  Dash McGibb had a way of flipping his pen up in the air and catching it again. He did this while sitting in one of the old wooden lecture hall seats, waiting for the exam to begin. He flipped the pen a dozen times. Flip. Catch. Flip. Catch. It helped take his mind off of two uncomfortable things.

  The exam was one of them. He’d taken this course because it had sounded easy. Looking at paintings — how hard could that be? And football season had ended only two weeks ago. That had taken up most of his time.

  This test? It might go badly.

  Also, there was the matter of the empty seat next to his. Until a week ago, that seat was always occupied by the most attractive girl in the freshman class. But Katie Vickery had not appeared in class for the last two lectures. And Dash guessed that he was the reason why.

  The other night at the party, she had seemed okay. She’d even spoken to him a little bit. (Something about party planning trucks with pigs on them?) He’d hardly been able to concentrate on their discussion, because he’d been freaking out.

  Because she knew.

  Somehow, she’d figured out the ridiculous prank they’d made him pull. He’d seen the knowledge of it on her face the moment she appeared beside the Christmas tree. Even though his frat brothers had told him that the girls never found out. They’d promised that it would be a secret, and that there wouldn’t be a shred of evidence.

  At least that last part held true. He sure didn’t want pictures floating around campus of him getting…

  Shit. It was such a stupid thing that he’d done. So colossally stupid.

  And for what good reason?

  She must have figured it out immediately. Because Katie wasn’t the sort of girl who would skip the last two lectures. All he could do about it now was watch the door, hoping that Katie didn’t blow off the final exam just because he’d been the world’s biggest asshole. He didn’t want that on his conscience.

  There was plenty on it already.

  The minutes ticked by, and he waited. At the front of the room, the teaching assistants set up a projector. They would show sixty paintings, pausing thirty seconds on each one. There had to be a few easy ones in there, right? He was hoping to see the Mona Lisa’s odd smile, or maybe The Last Supper.

  At last, Katie hurried through the door, her gaze sweeping the crowd. He lifted a hand to wave to her, to let her know that he’d welcome having her as his seatmate. Even though she probably hated him.

  Her gaze slid right on past.

  Dash watched as Katie scanned the room, a ripple of uncertainty on her face. Then that ripple broke into a shy little smile, which she directed at a lanky boy two rows up. Wait — he was the basketball player. Her date from the other night.

  The guy sat up straighter as she approached. Katie had that effect on people. They wanted to be just a little bit more of whatever they were when she was around. Dash had felt the same way. It’s just that he’d never figured out what to do about it. Katie scared the shit out of him most of the time. That’s how he always ended up slipping into the lowbrow humor of his frat buddies. He knew it wasn’t the right way to talk to her. It’s just that he’d never figured out what to say instead.

  Looked like he’d never get that chance, now.

  She scooted into the row where the basketball player sat. Following exam day rules, she didn’t take the seat next to his, but left an empty one between them. Still looking a little awkward — maybe even sheepish — Katie lowered her bag onto the empty chair, then turned to face him.

  The basketball player reached a long arm behind the empty chair to give her ponytail a playful tug. And Dash saw Katie’s smile melt into something warmer and less self-conscious than it had been a few seconds before.

  “I wanted to ask you to lunch,” the guy said. “But my bossy sister is going to be waiting for me in her car after the exam. She’s my ride to New Hampshire.”

  “We’ll go for lunch after the break,” Katie said. “Three weeks from now.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “But that sounds like a long wait to me.”

  Her face got soft then. And Dash didn’t recognize that expression. He wondered if she’d never shown it to him, or if maybe he hadn’t recognized it when he’d had the chance.

  “I almost forgot,” her date said, reaching to the floor for what turned out to be a tiny little gift bag. “This is a good luck present. For the exam.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she took the gift in two hands. Reaching inside, she removed two long, thin objects. “They’re… a lightsaber pen and pencil?”

  “Those are really good luck.”

  Katie giggled. “Because the force is with me?”

  “Now you’re getting it. There’s one more thing in that bag.”

  Katie reached inside one more time, removing a little green thing, which she balanced on her palm. “It’s Yoda.”

  “He’s wise. And he also erases,” the basketball player said.

  She laughed. “That’s… they’re perfect. Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” was his reply. But obviously that wasn’t true. Because Katie arranged those funny things on the little wooden writing arm of the lecture hall seat, then smiled at them as if she’d been given a set of crown jewels.

  Dash flipped his very ordinary pen up into the air again, puzzling over what he’d just seen. He knew that girls liked flowers, which he’d never really understood. Flowers were expensive and they looked really sad when they began to wilt. But a Star Wars pen? What the everloving fuck?

  It was almost exam time, though. A graduate student had passed a stack of test booklets down the aisle. Dash took one and passed the rest of the stack onwards.

  “Quick,” Katie said. She handed the basketball a bulging gift bag.

  From inside, he pulled… that awful pink basketball he’d been playing with the other night. Then he put a hand over his mouth and laughed.

  Katie beamed at him. “It made me think of you. Sorry. There’s something else in the bottom of the bag.”

  He pulled out a large bar of gourmet chocolate. “Hey… salted caramel!”

  “Because we didn’t make it to the ice cream shop.” After she said that, her ears began to turn pink.

 
“Right,” he chuckled. “I was really broken up about that.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said, looking toward the proctor, who was passing out the actual test now.

  “Thank you, Katie,” the basketball player said. He put his gifts on the floor and smoothed the test down onto the tiny desk in front of him. “And good luck.”

  “May the force be with you,” she replied.

  Dash looked down at the test he’d just been handed. It was time to stop worrying about Katie, and start worrying about European art. The painting identifications were tough, but probably not a total disaster. The essay question he chose took a long time, though. And by the time he’d finished comparing the Baroque period to Renaissance painting, he was one of the last people left in the room.

  Tired now, Dash gathered up his things and turned in his exam booklet. He shook out his cramped writing hand and headed for the door.

  He had managed not to think about Katie for ninety minutes. But that streak ended when he exited the building.

  The basketball player was just tossing a duffel bag into the back of a car. Then he chucked the pink basketball inside too. Turning to Katie, he opened his arms.

  With a sweet smile, she stepped in close and hugged him.

  Looking away, Dash punched the traffic button to activate the crosswalk. (And did those buttons really do anything, anyway? Or were they just a way of asking for your patience while cars kept rolling by?)

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dash could still see Katie and the tall guy. They were kissing now. But “kissing” didn’t even do it justice. They were kissing each other as if they’d just invented it. She’d risen up onto tiptoes to reach him. And his arms encircled hers as if he were holding a rare and precious thing.

  The look of pure absorption on the guy’s face did something to Dash’s gut. He’d once held five feet and four inches worth of perfection in his arms, and he hadn’t tried even half as hard to hold on to it.

  Now that seemed like an error. A big one.

  The car that the happy couple leaned against gave a loud and impatient blast of its horn. They broke off their lip-lock, laughing. “I’ll call you,” the guy said.

  “I hope you will,” was Katie’s answer. “Now go, before you get in trouble.”

  “I’m already in trouble,” he said, opening the passenger door. He winked, folded himself into the car and closed the door. Katie gave him one more wave.

  Dash glared up at the traffic light, willing it to change. Finally, it did. But he hesitated for a second anyway as Katie closed the distance to the corner.

  I’m sorry. The words formed themselves on the tip of his tongue as she approached. He could say that, right? That was the thing he really needed to do.

  Pedestrians moved forward, stepping off the curb. Including Katie. So Dash followed her, readying himself to speak to her once they’d crossed the busy street.

  “Katie?” he said.

  But she didn’t turn around. She hadn’t heard him. And now the trill of a cell phone rang out. Katie pulled her phone from her pocket, answering even as she walked down College Street. “Hi there.” He could hear a smile in her voice. “I didn’t think you meant you’d call right away,” she giggled. Without a backward glance, she kept right on moving, her long strides carrying her up the street. Away from Dash.

  He watched her until she well and truly disappeared.

  Thank You

  Thanks for reading Blonde Date (The Ivy Years #2.5.) I hope you enjoyed it!

  Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative.

  Also in The Ivy Years Series:

  The Year We Fell Down (Ivy Years #1)

  The Year We Hid Away (Ivy Years #2)

  Ready for a sneak preview of Ivy Years #3?

  To be published fall 2014: The Understatement of the Year (Ivy Years #3).

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  The Understatement of the Year

  What happened in high school stayed in high school. Until now.

  Five years ago, Michael Graham betrayed the only person who ever really knew him. Since then, he’s made an art of hiding his sexual preference from everyone. Including himself.

  So it’s a terrible shock when his past strolls right into the Harkness College locker room, toting a bag of hockey gear and the same slow smile that had always rendered Graham defenseless. For Graham, there is only one possible reaction: total, debilitating panic. With one loose word, the team’s new left wing could destroy Graham’s life as he knows it.

  John Rikker is stuck being the new guy. Again. And it’s worse than usual, because the media has latched onto the story of the only “out” player in Division One hockey. As the satellite trucks line the sidewalk outside the rink, his new teammates are not amused.

  And one player in particular looks ill every time he enters the room.

  Rikker didn’t exactly expect a warm welcome from Graham. But the guy won’t even meet his eyes. From the looks of it, his former… best friend / boyfriend / whatever isn’t doing so well. He drinks too much and can’t focus during practice.

  There are two ways this could go. Either the two loneliest guys on the team will self destruct from all the new pressures in their lives. Or they can navigate the pain in their pasts, finding a way back to one another. To say that it won’t be easy is the Understatement of the Year.

  Warning: unlike the other books in this series, this heartbreaking love story is about two guys. Contains sexual situations, dance music, snarky t-shirts and a poker-playing grandmother.

  Faceoff: the start of play, in which the referee drops the puck between two opposing players.

  -Graham-

  In all my favorite movies, when something bad was going happen, the protagonist usually sensed it. He saw a sign, or felt a disturbance in the force. But that’s not how real life worked. And I’m no action hero. So you can be sure that I didn’t see it coming.

  My whole life, I never had. Not when it counted, anyway.

  That afternoon was the first hockey practice of the season. We were all banging around in the locker room, feeling lucky. Our lineup looked great, too. There were a couple of enormous Canadian recruits, with thick French accents and even thicker beards. We’d known them for all of a half an hour, and already one of them had earned himself the nickname Pepe, like the cartoon character Pepe le Pew. And it looked like we were just going to call the other one Frenchie. Because we’re real creative like that.

  I was almost done suiting up, but my practice jersey snagged against an exposed patch of Velcro on my shoulder pad. After I struggled for a moment, someone yanked it into place from behind.

  “Now you’re sorted.” Both the voice and the assistance came from my friend Bella. And when I turned to face her, she gave me her trademarked apple-cheeked grin.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I teased.

  She kicked me in the ass, hard enough to feel it through my pads. “Graham, you’re supposed to call me Oh Great One this year,” she said. “Why don’t you practice now? Say, ‘thank you, Oh Great One.’”

  I gave her a look. Bella was a strange bird, but in the best possible way. A rich girl from the Upper East Side of Manhattan, she was the most rabid hockey fan I’d ever met. Yet neither of her snooty parents (and I’d met them) had ever seen a game, let alone the inside of a locker room. Nobody knew where Bella came by her lust for the game.

  Her lust for the game was exceeded only by her lust for the players. There weren’t exact figures, but I was pretty sure she’d slept with 75% of the team. Present company included.

  This would be the first season that Bella was with us in an official capacity, as our student manager. The power was definitely going to her head. I opened my mouth to tell her so, but I didn’t get the chance. Because Coach James banged the hallway door open, and we all turned to give him our attention.

  “Look at this room full of hooligans! Who the fuck are you guys, anyway? Slackers, all of ya. Now, I’ve got s
ome announcements. So shut yer yawps long enough to hear ‘em all.” His wrinkled face got serious. “First the bad news. Over the summer, Bridger McCaulley dropped hockey, citing family hardship. I yelled at him for an hour, and it didn’t change things. So it must really be true.”

  An unhappy murmur traveled the room. That wasn’t good. McCaulley was a solid wing, and I always liked that guy.

  “The good news is that we have a new player, a transfer from Saint B’s. He’s a sophomore, forward line. So, the lord taketh away wings and he also giveth them back.”

  Another body appeared in the open doorway, rolling a hockey bag. And when I saw that face — those big dark eyes, looking out from under a familiar mop of shiny dark hair, I have never been caught so far off guard in my life. Seriously, the edges of my vision went a little funny. And the sound of Coach’s voice began to waver, as if I were hearing him from underwater.

  It was a sudden clatter that brought me back to the surface. A moment later, Bella was handing me my helmet with a puzzled look on her face. I’d actually dropped it right onto the floor with a bang.

  And then the muscle memory that I’d developed from years of covering up all kinds of reactions kicked in. I took the helmet from Bella and flipped up the cage, as if opening the clips was the most fascinating thing I’d ever done.

  Coach’s voice rambled on at the front of room as he introduced the new guy. “…Good foot speed and incredible stats from his season at Saint B's. He’s a terrific addition to the room. Please welcome Johnny Rikker to the team.”

  The sound of his name was like a punch to the stomach. I sat down hard on the bench behind me, bending over, like someone who’d been hammered into the boards. Reaching down, I tugged my skate guards free, just to give myself a reason to cower with my head between my legs. And removing those rubber strips from my skate blades was harder than it should have been, because my hands were actually shaking.