The Shameless Hour

by Sarina Bowen

  After a couple of these awkward endings, I’d tried to get her to tell me what was wrong. But she’d just say, “I’m not comfortable,” and then change the subject.

  And what kind of an asshole pressures his girlfriend for sex? I wasn’t going to be that guy.

  There was a whole lot of good stuff between us, anyway. Alison always got my jokes, and I loved the way her face went soft when I paid her a compliment. I did that often, too. Because Alison was pretty great. She was smart and funny, as well as gorgeous. With all that fine, blond hair framing her face, when I looked at her, the word angel would pop into my head.

  My mother said that Harkness College had given me an unhealthy attraction to pretty white girls. “What you need is a nice Latina,” she’d say. “Someone who will never look down on where you come from.”

  Mostly I ignored my mother’s prejudice. But sometimes it was hard not to worry, or to read too much into Alison’s reluctance to get me naked. At Harkness I was surrounded by people who had a lot more money than I did, including Alison. I worried sometimes that she thought I wasn’t good enough for her.

  That was probably just paranoia.

  Summer vacation had separated us. I spent the month of June working in my mother’s restaurant, and trying not to die from heatstroke on the subway platform whenever she sent me on errands. At night, before I went to sleep, I’d lie on my little twin bed in our cramped apartment and talk to Alison on the phone, while the window unit blew cold(ish) air across my mostly naked body.

  There was never any phone sex, of course. But I loved the sound of her soft voice in my ear, telling me all the things she put up with as an intern at the San Francisco art gallery where she worked. “I miss you, Rafe,” she’d say. “I was thinking about you when I was serving coffee to a table of old ladies. They’d asked for decaf, but I gave them all high-test by accident, because I was remembering that letter you’d written me on the old typewriter, instead of paying attention to the coffee.”

  That made me laugh and miss her all the more. So I kept the old-fashioned letters coming. And the weeks flew by.

  In July, Alison had called me, all excited. “Do you remember that international program in Ecuador that I applied to?”

  Of course I did. After she’d been wait-listed, she’d cried a puddle onto the shoulder of my Harkness sweatshirt.

  “A spot opened up! I’m leaving next week!”

  “That’s awesome,” I’d said, feeling happy for her even though I knew I wouldn’t get to talk to her for six weeks. The Ecuador trip was an immersion program, and students weren’t supposed to speak to outsiders the entire time.

  So that had sucked.

  Needless to say, three weeks ago, when she’d finally stepped off the Connecticut Coach from LaGuardia airport to start our sophomore year, I’d been desperate to see her.

  That first night back, I’d asked her to sleep in my bed for the first time. “I am not ready to let you go yet,” I’d told her. “Just stay with me. It isn’t a ploy to get your clothes off. And Bickley isn’t back until tomorrow, anyway.”

  Her face had softened. “Okay, I can do that,” she’d said. I was actually stunned that she went along with it, because whenever I’d suggested she spend the night before, she’d turned me down.

  But not this time. I’d given her one of my T-shirts to wear, and she’d looked sexy as hell in it. Of course, when we’d settled into my bed together, my body had gotten big ideas all its own. So I’d rolled onto my back and pulled her head onto my shoulder.

  She felt terrific in my arms. I’d loved holding her, sneaking kisses here and there. “This is nice,” I’d said.

  “Yes it is,” she’d agreed. We were silent for awhile before she said, “I know you’ve waited a long time for sex.”

  I was so stunned she’d brought up the topic I hadn’t said anything for a moment. “S’okay,” I choked out eventually.

  “We have birthdays coming up,” she continued. “Maybe that should be… a big night for us.”

  Again, I was too stunned to answer. A few beats went by before I managed to agree with her. “That would be incredible,” I finally whispered.

  “I think it will be.” She rubbed my chest with one hand, massaging a slow circle on my pec. Meanwhile, my dick hardened into something approximating an iron bar, just on the possibility that she was actually suggesting what I thought she was suggesting.

  I slept very little that night. And for these past two weeks, whenever I kissed Alison goodnight, I became comically horny.

  And now? I was hiding in a stairwell, practically splitting out of my skin with nervous anticipation.

  Three and a half floors below me, the entryway door slammed. I heard footstep. Someone was jogging up the stairs.

  That woke me up. I took a moment to fold my jacket over my arm and pick up the gift bag again. After giving myself the once-over, I began to quietly descend the stairs, as if it were perfectly normal for me to come from that direction. If I passed whomever was climbing, I’d give him a calm nod. Everything is fine, there’s nothing to see here. Just your average twenty year old on his way to get his V-card stamped. Carry on.

  But I didn’t get the chance. The climbing footsteps stopped, and I heard a sharp rap on a wooden door. Then, the click of a door opening. “Surprise!” a guy’s voice called.

  Weirdly, the guy’s voice seemed to originate from Alison’s doorway. I’m not sure why, but I took the last three or four stairs at a slow, stealthy pace. Just as Alison’s startled voice said, “Oh my God! What are you doing here?” the guy came into view.

  He was tall and thin, but my attention went straight to the shiny Rolex hanging loosely on his wrist. I’m from New York City, so I could spot those at a hundred yards. Mr. Rolex was a rich boy.

  “I told you I wanted to see you again. And what better time than on your birthday?” He stepped into Alison’s room, disappearing from view.

  Some kind of gravitational force drew me down the last steps quickly enough to wedge my foot between the door and its frame. The view I saw next was sickening. Mr. Rolex had wrapped his arms around Alison’s waist, and was liplocked to the girl.

  My girl.

  “What the fuck?” I said, pushing the door open. And since the question was reverberating through my mind like a gong, I said it a second time. “What. The. Fuck?”

  Alison’s arms shot out to her sides, as if she’d just received an electric jolt. Mr. Rolex let her go and turned around. “Who are you?” he asked, his eyebrows disappearing into his hundred-dollar haircut.

  “Who am I? I’m the boyfriend.” I was sputtering with indignation, but I couldn’t stop talking. “The boyfriend since last April. That’s… five months ago. Almost six.” As if an accurate accounting really mattered.

  Alison’s mouth kept opening and closing, like the goldfish I used to keep in a little bowl on the window sill in our apartment.

  Mr. Rolex was not so quiet. And he looked almost as surprised as I felt. “The boyfriend? We were together for six weeks in Ecuador, and you never mentioned a boyfriend.”

  At least I wasn’t the only one interested in getting the accounting right.

  “I told you I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” she whispered in his direction.

  “But you never said why. I guess that makes me an idiot.” Mr. Rolex actually had the balls to look sad about it.

  Now that I’d been standing in the room for almost a minute, other little details were making themselves clear to me. Mr. Rolex had a bouquet of roses in one hand.

  Flowers! I forgot flowers. To strew on the bed.

  Wait. There wasn’t going to be any strewing. Or any bed. My feeble brain could barely wrap itself around the vastness of this problem. It was just so unexpected. I’d never wondered if Alison had someone on the side. Even if we’d never been naked together, we’d been together. For a long time.

  I stood there, slack-jawed, my silly little gift bag in my hand, realizing I’d missed something
important. “If she didn’t want a relationship from you,” I asked Mr. Rolex, “then what did she want? A Scrabble opponent?” My face began to heat as truth smoldered in my chest. “A study buddy? A foot massage?” I turned to face her directly. “Tonight was supposed to be the night we both lost our virginity, Alison.”

  “Well that is not quite possible,” Mr. Rolex sputtered.

  That’s when my heart really hit the deck. Alison had been saying that she wasn’t ready for sex. But she just didn’t want it with me.

  My humiliation was like a many-tentacled monster — squeezing me everywhere at once. I let out one more hot breath, then spun on my heel.

  “I’m sorry, Rafe,” she said as I wrenched open the door. “I’m so sorry.”

  I’ll bet. Her door slammed behind me as I left. It slammed hard. Hard enough to wake the ghosts of students who had lived in Beaumont House when it was still new.

  Two

  Bella

  The new hockey coach had just blown the whistle, calling the third practice of the season to a close.

  Now my boys were streaming back into the locker room, dropping helmets and gear all over the benches. With red faces and sweaty hair, they peeled off their layers, seconds away from heading for the showers.

  I planted myself in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand. Putting two fingers in my mouth, I gave a whistle loud enough to echo off the tiles. That got their attention. “Guys, listen up! I need two minutes of your time!” It got quiet enough for me to speak normally. “First of all, unless your mother is dropping by later to clean up after you, used towels go into the hamper when you’re through.” I aimed this message at the freshmen. They always needed some schooling at the beginning of the year.

  “Now,” I continued, “I only got seventeen health forms back. That means seven of you need to get that sucker back to me, or you won’t be allowed to suit up for next week’s preseason scrimmage against those punks at Quinnipiac.”

  “Punks!” someone yelled, agreeing with me.

  “Finally — I’m putting in our gear order tomorrow morning. So, if you have any equipment failures, I need to know ASAP.”

  Davies, a senior defenseman, turned his giant, naked body in my direction. He put a hand over his bare chest in mock surprise. “Who are you accusing of equipment failures, Bella? My fragile male ego can’t take that kind of insinuation.”

  I gave him an eye roll. “Your equipment is top notch, Davies. But if you come to me next week needing a new stick, it will be you who’s paying the extra coin for overnight shipping.”

  “My stick is in fine working order,” he smirked.

  “Nice. You can give me a demonstration sometime.”

  “Wait.” He stuck a hand in the air. “Can you get some more of those extra-wide skate laces?”

  “Not a problem,” I said, making a note of it.

  I scanned the room, looking for anyone else who might be trying to get my attention. My gaze came to rest on the freshmen whom I’d housed together at lockers in one corner of the room. One in particular was sneaking looks in my direction. “Guys, don’t be afraid to ask for what you need, okay? Better to let me know before it’s too late.”

  “Mouth guards?” asked the newb I’d caught watching me over his shoulder. His name was O’Hane, and he had a baby face and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He’d turned only his head in my direction, keeping his private parts facing the locker.

  “We stock the basic ones in the supply closest, but if you want something special you have to tell me which model.”

  “Okay, thanks,” he said. “And…” I waited for him to spit it out, but instead he turned toward his locker, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. Then he came over, arms crossed protectively. “Is there a sporting goods store nearby?”

  “Well…” Harkness was not a big town, and the shopping options within walking distance were limited. “There’s nowhere to buy gear, if that’s what you mean. Not unless you have access to a car.” And most of us didn’t, because parking was scarce here, too. “Shoes and sweats are easy to find, though. What are you looking for?”

  His cheeks pinked up. “Gear. Can I see the catalog?”

  “Of course.” I handed it over, tapping a toe while he flipped through the pages.

  He stopped near the back of the book, a frown furrowing his youthful brow.

  “Problem?” I asked.

  Nervous eyes flickered up to mine. “I need,” he dropped his voice so low I almost didn’t hear the last part. “A cup.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s easy.” He might not know it, but dicks were one of my specialties. I took the catalog from his hands. “Which brand are you used to?”

  His face reddened further. “Can’t remember,” he said, studying the floor. “I accidentally brought my, um, little brother’s instead of mine.”

  Ah, freshmen. They weren’t used to taking care of themselves. “The one you have doesn’t fit? Your cup runneth over?”

  He barked out a nervous laugh. “Yeah. But the ones in the catalog don’t look the same.”

  “Eh. It’s not rocket science. Are you wearing it in compression shorts or in a jock?”

  “Shorts.”

  “Do you want your dangler to point down, or are you used to tucking it up at the top.”

  “Down,” he said to the floor.

  I cuffed his shoulder. “No problem, O’Hane. I’ve got you covered, so to speak. I’ll order it for you.”

  “Thanks,” he said in a strangled voice, then headed for the showers.

  Our new coach was next to walk by. “Coach Canning!” I called, halting him.

  “Yeah?” The new guy was a lot younger than our retired coach. He had a sort of grumpy edge to him that I did not appreciate. Some people don’t realize that gruffness wasn’t necessary to earn respect.

  I gave him a friendly smile nonetheless. “I’m putting in my equipment order first thing tomorrow. If you need to add anything, you can email me tonight.”

  “Thanks,” he said, snapping his gum. “Hey, should you be in the locker room?”

  “Um,” I checked my watch. The barbecue didn’t start for another half hour. And I wasn’t in charge of the party. That was sissy work. “Is there somewhere else I’m supposed to be right now?”

  He frowned. “No, I meant… the guys don’t mind?”

  That just made me stare at him. Seriously? “Coach Canning, the players are in the locker room. I can’t get them what they need if I’m not here, too.”

  “Yeah. That’s true,” he said, an unreadable expression on his stupid, grumpy face.

  “Don’t forget,” I said slowly, “female journalists have been permitted in locker rooms since before I was born. Including this locker room.”

  He stared me down for a long beat. And then he walked off without another word.

  I stood there for a minute wondering what had just happened. As the student manager for our kick-ass men’s hockey team, I solved the players’ problems, and I moved people from point A to point B on schedule. I was good at it. Sure, it was a job that was usually held by a guy. But there was no reason it had to be a guy. All that was required was a good attitude and an all-consuming love of hockey. That was me. Surely Coach Canning would realize sooner or later that I lived for this job.

  Anyway, it was time for the annual barbecue.

  Though for the first time, I didn’t quite feel the level of excitement that usually came with the rush of hockey season. These were my closest friends. In a few weeks’ time, we’d spend every weekend traveling the Eastern Seaboard together, playing teams from Maine to Newark. I’d get to watch every game from the bench, which was just about the coolest thing in the world.

  Even so, tonight I felt… down. Hopefully a beer and a pulled-pork sandwich could fix it.

  * * *

  A few hours later, I stood in our retired coach’s backyard, still feeling strangely wistful. All the rituals of Coach’s annual barbecue had held up
tonight. Vast quantities of meat were eaten. Potato salad and coleslaw were consumed. Beers were drunk. This year there were two coaching speeches—one by our retiring Coach (in which he quoted several dead presidents,) and one by the new guy. And, as always, there were cupcakes for dessert, because Coach’s wife liked them.

  But I was still chased by an unexpected sadness.

  In the first place, there was an undeniable hole in my heart where last year’s seniors had been. I could hardly believe we were starting the season without Hartley and Groucho and Smitty. That just seemed wrong.

  Not only did I miss them, but the progression was suddenly terrifying. Because this was my last year. How was that even possible?

  I glanced around Coach’s darkened yard with fresh eyes. A year from now, most of these players would be standing here again, celebrating the start of yet another season. But where would I be?

  The truth was that I had no clue. None at all. Until now, I hadn’t let it bother me. Four years had always seemed like a long time. So whenever my family prodded me with questions about my lack of plans after graduation, I’d found it easy to brush them off.

  Rather than worry about the future, I’d immersed myself in a fun major (psychology) the best sport in the world (ice hockey) and my favorite people (hockey players). But now I felt as though an excellent book was coming to an end, and the slim stack of remaining pages in my right hand felt entirely insufficient.

  With the party easing towards its conclusion, I wound up standing with the dates. There was Amy, our new captain Trevi’s girlfriend, and also our goalie Orsen’s date, whose name I had not caught.

  “Who are you here with?” Orsen’s new little friend asked me.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten that question. I opened my mouth to explain that I wasn’t with anyone, but catty Amy beat me to the punch. “She’s here with everyone,” she snickered.

  Lovely. Amy was one of the girlfriends who’d never liked me. “I’m the team manager,” I explained. I wouldn’t dignify Amy’s cattiness by getting irritated.

  “Oh,” the newcomer said. “That must be exciting.”