by Sarina Bowen
“That’s cocky,” DJ teases.
I give him a grin over my shoulder. “Sometimes it’s just your turn to be cocky.”
“Fair enough.” He tenses his hand over the sound board again, waiting for the faceoff. I enjoy the view of his muscular forearm poised over the levers. DJ looks more like one of the jocks on the ice than a music geek. He’s a study in contrasts, actually. Hockey nut. Music nerd. Great kisser.
Breaker of dates.
I’ve already forgiven him, though, which means either I’m an idiot or I’m just that smitten. The third period of the hockey game is going fast, and I’m not eager to hear the final buzzer. This is the most fun I’ve had at Harkness. Except for that kiss…
This boy likes me, I think. Maybe? The fact that he stood me up is confusing. Yet every time he looks at me, he smiles.
“Glory Days” plays on as the ref takes an extra moment to reset the position of the Saint B’s net. DJ waits and watches for his cue.
“Can I do it?” I ask, my hand hovering over his.
“Sure,” he says. “Fade out the second you see that puck drop, but not before.” He retracts his hand, but doesn’t move his body. We’re so close that I can feel the warmth of him radiating over me.
The puck falls and I drag the lever down, fading The Boss down to silence. “Now I have the power,” I brag.
“Nice job, smalls.”
“What’s with the short jokes?” I complain, and his answering chuckle is evil.
A few minutes later the game ends, and we’ve won 3-2. That makes me the only Harkness fan who wishes there were more time on the clock. “Do you ever play any going-away music?” I ask hopefully.
DJ shakes his head. “The management doesn’t want me to give the crowd a reason to linger.”
But I want to linger. Whoever runs this place is totally onto me.
My phone chimes from my pocket, and it’s a text from Bella. Your photographer is standing outside the front door. I told him you left already and then walked away. Get Graham to take you out the back door.
Roger that, I reply. Thank you!
I watch DJ pack up his laptop. I’m in no hurry to leave him or to run into the paparazzo outside. At the other end of the desk, Graham slings a pack over his shoulder and stands. “Lianne? Bella texted me to walk you out the back door. Ready?”
Crap.
But DJ says, “I got it, man. I’ll walk her home.” So my heart starts doing the tango. “Who are we ducking, anyway?”
Graham rubs his chin. “A photographer with a camera the size of a tanker truck. Let’s all go together.”
“It’s just not that big a deal,” I argue. “Go ahead, Graham. I’m good.”
A slow grin overtakes Graham’s face, and I pray DJ is too busy packing up to see it. “Okay then. Goodnight.”
When he walks out, DJ and I are alone in the booth. I have an irrational hope that he’ll invite me out for drinks or something to make up for last night. Or ice cream. Or a walk around the parking lot. Anything.
He picks up his backpack. “Let’s get you home, then.”
Right.
I hold up my phone. “Bella said we should go out the back. If, um, that’s no problem.”
“Sure thing. Follow me.”
I do, and it’s a pleasure, because I love the way DJ fills out a pair of jeans. I like the way his shoulders move when he walks—his gait is tough but casual, like a soldier at ease. My whole life I’ve been surrounded by beautiful people. But many of them have a Hollywood sheen—a self-conscious beauty. DJ is a different brand of sexy. And it’s a brand I like a lot.
I could be a very loyal customer of his brand.
He walks me down a set of stairs at the back of the mezzanine level. There are signs pointing toward the various locker rooms, and I notice there are women’s as well as men’s. “Who DJs the women’s games?” I ask.
DJ turns around and winks at me. “Who do you think?”
“You?”
“But of course.” He stops in front of a metal door. “Do you want me to take a look outside?”
God, I am sick to death of the drama. But there will only be more of it if that asshole is outside waiting for me. “That would be awesome. He’s about forty, dirty blond hair, big camera resting on his beer gut. You can’t miss him.”
Before he steps outside, he turns around to give me the kind of smile that makes me forget my own name. “Be right back.” Whistling to himself, he steps out the door.
Now I’m alone for a moment with my own thoughts. Invite him over, my heart whispers. But I’m not sure I’m that brave. Saying the words isn’t all that difficult. But the follow-through is problematic. He would come upstairs to my room and…then what? I’ll probably start babbling like a moron. I won’t know where to sit. I’ll just quietly freak out while I try to figure out whether he’s going to kiss me…
There’s the sound of a key in the lock, and the door opens. “Looks deserted,” he says, and I follow him.
He’s holding the door, and when I step outside he lets it close and then puts a wide hand in the center of my back. I like the feel of it. In fact, it’s fair to say I’ve never felt this kind of sizzle for anyone before. It’s unfamiliar, this fizzy brew of excitement swirling through my insides. Everything seems more intense when he’s around.
It’s a crisp January evening, but I want to walk slowly toward Beaumont House in spite of the chill. In the distance I can hear the murmur of happy voices in the dark — stragglers from the game, probably. It’s Friday and our team won and a very attractive boy is walking beside me. I love the way this feels. The night is so full of possibility.
“So how was your week?” I ask, because that seems like a safe question.
“Eh. I’ve had better.”
“Me too.” But I realize part of the reason my week sucked was our date fiasco, and I don’t want him to know how much it bothered me. So I change the subject to the first thing that pops into my head. We’re passing a kiosk—a place where people hang flyers of all kinds. “I need to hire someone, like a drama student. To help me with some…homework. How much do you think tutors get paid?”
DJ thinks it over. I like the way the light from the street lamp slides over his handsome features. “Depends on the subject. If it’s math or statistics, it could be like forty bucks an hour. But writing tutors get about half that much.”
Of course, money isn’t an issue for me. I just wanted to make sure I put the right amount on my flyer. “All right. What I need isn’t exactly skilled labor.”
“What are you hiring for?”
“Reading Shakespeare out loud.”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “Can’t you do that yourself?”
“Of course I can. But I need someone to read with me, a whole play, two or three times. I want to hear every line of it. That’s the only way to really understand.”
“Are you taking a Shakespeare course?”
I shake my head. “It’s, uh, a personal project.”
“A play?”
“The Scottish play.” I give him a smile, because I probably sound like a crazy person. “There’s a superstition against saying the name of it. But there’s three witches, and the king gets murdered.”
“MacBeth,” DJ says, then he nudges me with his hip. “Is it unlucky for you if I say it?”
“I hope not.”
“So this is a play you’re doing? Like, for work?”
“Only if I’m lucky,” I admit. “I want this part very, very badly. The film won’t be made for a year, but the director is casting it soon, and if he calls me in I want to be so well versed that it’s practically dripping off me. So he won’t be able to imagine someone else playing her.”
“One of the witches?” DJ asks.
I whirl on him. “Bite your tongue! I want Lady M.”
He holds up two hands in submission. “Easy. You mentioned the witches a minute ago. I’m just trying to follow along.”
We’re s
tanding under another street light, and I realize I probably sound as loopy as one of the weird sisters in the play. “Sorry. I’m just a little nutty about being typecast. I’ve spent seven years waving a magic wand. It’s a problem.”
He doesn’t seem offended, though. He’s smiling at me again. “‘Lady M,’ huh? You can’t say her name? Someone’s a little superstitious.”
I raise one hand toward the cold night sky. “Guilty.”
He shrugs. “Athletes are superstitious, too. My brother used to have a pair of lucky skate laces. They broke, like, five times before he was finally willing to give up on them. But I’ve never been superstitious. I don’t have a lucky mouthguard or any pre-game rituals.”
“You play hockey?” I blurt out.
His expression flickers. “Used to,” he says, jamming his hands in his pockets. He starts walking again, and his voice dips low. “I didn’t get recruited for the Harkness team, though. Came close with a few Division One schools, but it didn’t happen for me. Could have played Division Three, but it meant picking a college that just wasn’t as good.”
“Sorry,” I say. See how good I am at flirting? I’ve got this boy talking about rejection.
“I’m over it,” he chuckles. “I used to think that not playing college hockey would be my life’s greatest disappointment.” The mirth drains from his voice at the end of the sentence. There’s a story there, but he doesn’t volunteer it, and I don’t ask.
Maybe it’s bravery, or maybe it’s foolishness. But I reach out and take one of the oversized hands I’ve been admiring all night. When his fingers close around mine, this little act of courage is vindicated. Yessss!
His hand swallows mine up. Then his thumb strokes my palm, and…holy cow. Who knew there were so many nerve endings in my hand?
“I could do it,” he’s saying.
“What?” I mumble. I’m too busy focusing on his touch to hear him.
“Reading out loud. Shakespeare. Even a dumb jock can read the lines of a play.”
“You…” My brain cells realign themselves just enough to allow me to respond to his offer. “You’d take the job?”
He gives my hand a squeeze. “You don’t have to pay me. Jesus. It’s just some reading, right?”
“Well,” I squeeze his hand back. “It’s a bunch of hours, though. Maybe…six? But not all at once. And if you got sick of it I could just hire someone after all.”
“I won’t get sick of it,” he murmurs.
Looking up, I’m startled to find we’ve reached the gate to Beaumont House. And I’m not ready to let him go. But he drops my hand anyway, presumably so I can dig out my ID.
Fumbling, I do that. And it’s now or never. “You want to”—my voice squeaks—“come in?” It’s probably not possible to deliver that line with less finesse than I just did. Seriously, Actor’s Equity should yank my membership.
DJ’s expression becomes so solemn that my heart drops into my shoes. “This is as far as I can go,” he says.
That’s an odd way to word a refusal. But I don’t call him on it, because his face tells me that his answer is non-negotiable. So I pull myself together and stand as tall as my five-foot-one frame allows. “Thank you for walking me home.” I look him in the eye, but I’m dying inside. What does a girl have to do for a little more of this guy’s time? Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I’ll become it. I’ll study up, and I’ll ace the test.
Those long lashes blink at me once. Twice. “Goodnight, Lianne.” Then he leans forward and I hold my breath.
The kiss lands on my forehead, lingering sweetly there for a moment.
Then he’s gone. I watch his ridiculously attractive denim-clad backside retreat into the shadows of the walkway between Beaumont House and the architecture library.
Damn.
Damn damn damn.
I race up the stairs to my room, where I let the door fall shut with a frustrated crash. Then I’m kicking myself, because the noise will probably bring Bella through the bathroom door to see what’s wrong.
It doesn’t though, and in a few seconds I understand why.
“Ohhhhh, Belleza.” It’s a deep, resonant moan, and it’s followed by some curses in Spanish.
Bella and Rafe are going at it again.
As I nudge my computer mouse to wake up the machine, he moans again. By the time I’ve double-clicked on the song I want, they’re both moaning and grunting like a couple of wild boars during truffle season.
Maybe it’s a good thing DJ did not come upstairs with me. Casual conversation is a lot trickier when you’re chatting over the sounds of escalating sex in the next room. I would probably combust with embarrassment.
Pat Benatar’s “Heartbreaker” begins to echo off the walls of my tiny room. So I sing along with all I’ve got, especially the high-pitched bit that DJ’d sung in the press box. I try to recapture the silly fun I had earlier, but it’s harder alone. It’s nine-thirty on a Friday night, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one on campus who’s alone tonight.
It doesn’t help that Pat Benatar’s “We Belong” comes on next. I’ve always loved the heavy-on-the-reverb opening riff, and the devastation in her voice. And just like that I’m a cliché, singing about loneliness in my dorm room.
Yikes.
By the time the song is over, it’s quiet next door. So I shut everything off and get into bed with my copy of the Scottish play.
DJ had said he’d read this sucker with me, and I’m totally holding him to it. Watch me.
* * *
I don’t see Bella and Rafe until the next morning. I’m on my third cup of coffee—and Act Three of the Scottish play—when they put their trays down at my table in the dining hall.
“Hey, pequeña,” Rafe says. “A little light reading?”
“Sure.” I clap the book shut as Bella sits down. “How about that win last night?”
“Wasn’t it awesome? Aren’t you glad you went?” She nudges Rafe. “Baby’s first hockey game.”
“Soccer is where it’s at, Lianne.” Rafe winks at me.
“Hush, hottie. That’s not funny,” Bella whispers, and her hand moves so I know she’s touching him under the table.
The cloud of affection between them is so thick I can hardly draw breath, even from the other side of the table.
Bella must notice this, because she stops mauling her boyfriend and frowns at me. “Who walked you home?”
“Uh, DJ.”
Her face lights up. “Really. Did he come upstairs?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
Her eyes bug out. “Why didn’t you invite him upstairs to see your collection?”
“My collection of what?”
“Oh, honey.” She gives me an eye roll. “It doesn’t matter what. Just invite him upstairs.”
“I did!” I squeak. “He turned me down.”
Her forehead creases. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Did you see him up there?” God, I know my game needs work. But does she really think I could get this wrong?
“Okay, how did you ask him?”
I sit back in my chair. “Really? You’re going to make me relive it?”
“Yes I am,” she says, cutting up a piece of sausage. “Something just doesn’t compute.”
My sigh sounds more diva-like than I’d wish. But it’s extra-embarrassing to describe my pathetic life with Rafe listening, too. “I said, ‘Want to come in?’ And he said, ‘This is as far as I go.’”
Bella squints at me, as if there must be something I’m missing. “And then?”
“He kissed me on the forehead, like you do with your little sister.”
Bella doesn’t bother to hide her cringe. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t get it. You two are totally into each other.”
Oh, the mortification. I drop a hand over my eyes. “Apparently that’s not the case.”
&n
bsp; Bella snorts. “Honey, I saw the way that boy looked at you the other night. Like he wanted to have you for dessert. Just watching the two of you size each other up got me all hot and bothered. I had to stop in Rafe’s room on the way home and strip him naked and…”
I hold up a hand for silence at the same time that Rafe does, too. “I get it.” No need to hear the details. And whatever Bella thought she saw at Capri’s, it wasn’t there. If it had been, I wouldn’t be alone right now. Or, at the very least, I would have gotten a real kiss.
Damn it.
“Something is wrong with this picture,” Bella muses, lifting her coffee cup.
I’m tired of thinking about it. “Obviously.” Into my own coffee cup, I add, “I’m totally unfuckable.”
“What?” she asks.
As it happens, three cups of coffee makes me really tetchy. “I said, I’m obviously totally unfuckable!”
Several heads turn in our direction, and Rafe claps a hand over his mouth and tries to stifle his laughter.
And all I can think is: Thanks, January. Thanks a lot.
10
How Goes the Night
DJ
Hockey players are good roommates, but they aren’t tidy. I’m doing laps around the house I share with four other guys, cleaning up. This weekend the team has two away games—Brown last night and RPI tonight.
I could have asked them to put their shit away before they left on Friday, but I didn’t want anyone to question my motives. So I’ve taken it upon myself to throw books and gym bags into bedrooms. I take a pair of dirty socks out from between two couch cushions and toss them into Orsen’s room, though they may or may not belong to him. I stack up all the video game paraphernalia and wash every glass I find in the public areas of the house.
Lianne Challice is coming over. To my house.
Crazy.
When I texted her two days ago asking if she still wanted help reading MacBeth, she said she did. I’d suggested the library, but she’d pointed out that you’re not supposed to perform Shakespeare at the library where people are trying to study.
