The Fifteenth Minute

by Sarina Bowen

  Jack stops in front of me, offering me his hand. We shake before he answers. “No guarantees. But we won’t go down quietly.”

  That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

  * * *

  We both climb into our cars, and Jack drives away first. For a few minutes I just sit there, too spent to drive myself back. It’s five o’clock. Right now the women’s game is just starting. Lianne has texted me a picture of the women warming up on the ice. “I’m ready,” she’s added. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  As if.

  I drive back to Harkness, and there’s traffic. By the time I park my brother’s car behind the rink where he keeps it, people are already streaming out of the game. I check my phone again and find a stream of text messages from Lianne. Having a great time, she wrote during the first period. Played “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” when we scored. Played “Shake it Off” when they scored.

  Yep. She totally has the hang of it.

  My phone buzzes in my hand with a text from goalie Scarlet Crowley. DJ! You are awesome! We loved the 100% chick music.

  Of course they had. Don’t thank me, I reply. It was Lianne in the booth today. I get out of the car and lock it, thinking about my shaky future at Harkness. Then I text Scarlet again. You should ask Lianne if she wants the job permanently. She might enjoy that. I add Lianne’s email address and then shove the phone in my pocket.

  An hour later I’m home in our silent house. The guys are in Boston tonight to play Harvard. It practically echoes with silence, and I could be getting a lot of school work done. But I’m ridiculously tired from being grilled all day. And my classwork seems even more pointless than usual.

  I turn the TV on and flip a few channels. My phone lights up with messages from my parents—both of them separately—asking how it went. Since they’re paying the lawyer a big chunk of change to try to extract me from my troubles, I really ought to call them back. But I can’t seem to make myself do it. They want to hear of progress, and all I can hear is Jack saying, “We won’t go down quietly.”

  Tonight the fight is all out of me.

  17

  I Didn't Order a Pizza

  Lianne

  I love Scarlet’s email at first. We loved the music! Thank you so much! But when she mentions that DJ said something about giving me the job permanently, I’m instantly steamed.

  What was that boy thinking? I’m not stealing his paycheck. He loves that job.

  So I call him up to give him a hard time. The first two times he doesn’t pick up. But I’m very persistent.

  “Hi,” he says warily the third time I call. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Well, no! Why would you want to give away your job?”

  There is a brief silence. “I probably can’t keep it much longer, actually. Somebody will have to DJ all the games if I leave.”

  “Leave and go where?” That doesn’t make any sense. Hockey season ends in April. It’s almost February already.

  “I…” He stops talking. “Lianne, I know I’m being a dick about this. But can we just drop it? I had a really shitty day.”

  The sound of his voice tells me that’s true. But I persist. “We were supposed to have Phone Shakespeare.”

  “Yeah.” He sighs. “I just… Another night, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, because what is my choice?

  But after we hang up, I’m not so sure I did the right thing. DJ sounds lonely and in desperate need of distraction. And I’m lonely and in desperate need of DJ.

  And I know just where to find him.

  I mull this over for a few minutes. Getting caught on camera with DJ is not an option, though. The odds are low, but I won’t risk it. Getting off my bed, I go through our bathroom to knock on Bella’s door. “Are you in there? I need wardrobe help again.”

  “I’m here,” she says. When I open the door she adds from the bed, “But didn’t we establish that I’m not very helpful?”

  “This time you will be. I need some hockey gear.”

  Bella sits up. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

  * * *

  An hour later I walk up DJ’s street. I look pretty awful, and there aren’t any photographers around for miles. But better safe than sorry. The big box in my hands makes it hard to knock on the door, but I can’t exactly set it down. There’s a doorbell button, but it looks a hundred years old. I angle my body and lean into it with my elbow. The satisfying yodel of a bell echoes through the door. I make my voice deep and call out, “Pizza delivery!”

  Someone stomps over to the door, and it swings open to reveal DJ wearing sweatpants and a scowl. “I didn’t order a pizza.”

  “You should have,” I say, stepping into the house, forcing him backwards. “Because you weren’t kidding about Gino’s. I almost starved to death just smelling this.”

  His mouth falls open. Shock is not his sexiest look, but I like it anyway. “You brought me a Gino’s pie?”

  “I brought us a Gino’s pie. Because one of us still hasn’t gotten to try any.” He recovers from his shock just enough to lift the box from my hands and carry it over to the coffee table. I use the opportunity to yank the hideous stick-on mustache off my face.

  “Where’d you find that getup, smalls?” he asks. He helps me out of the Harkness Hockey jacket and hat I’m wearing. My copy of the Scottish play falls out of the pocket, and DJ scoops it up off the floor.

  “Bella. Duh.” When I’m free of the jacket, I make a move toward the sofa and the pizza in front of it, but DJ catches me by the hand.

  When I look up into his eyes, there’s a volatile brew swirling around in there. It’s warmth and seriousness mixed with sadness, too. “I’m sorry I was a grouch earlier,” he says. “But I am ridiculously glad to see you right now.”

  “That’s more like it,” I whisper. He gives me a smile, and I wonder if I’m about to get a kiss. Instead, he plants a warm hand on my back and steers me toward the sofa. “I’ll try to find you a soda. Unless you want a beer?”

  “No thanks. Water is fine, too.”

  I open the lid of the pizza box and inhale. It smells amazing. A moment later DJ puts two plates and two glasses of water down, as well as two napkins. “You got the MOR pie!” he says happily. “That’s a great pick.”

  His approval makes me float. I might drift up to the ceiling, I’m so light inside. I’m like that scene in Mary Poppins where the children float, except without the British accent. “Well, I asked Gino what to get for one of his biggest fans, and he said ‘You can’t go wrong with the more.’ And I was, like, more what until I read the menu and saw meatball, onion, ricotta.”

  DJ passes me a slice on a plate and then grabs one for himself. We are both starving, so we eat in silence for an entire slice. Then he grabs another one. “Jesus H, that’s good. I haven’t eaten much today. Too stressed out.”

  I don’t ask why, because he probably won’t say, and I don’t want to be shot down. “Well, I wish you could have seen my faceoff fades. They were tight. And I beat-matched the songs in the breaks between periods.”

  Chewing, he sets down his plate and studies me. His eyes glitter with humor. I know I’ve just said yet another dorkalicious thing, but I don’t even care. Because DJ gets me.

  When I’ve finished my slice, he takes the plate out of my hands and sets it beside his. Then he reaches over to slide one muscular forearm beneath my knees, and he slides me onto his lap as if I weigh no more than the TV remote. Strong arms wrap around me, and my chin lands at his collar bone. I tuck my face into his neck and take a deep breath. He relaxes back against the sofa and sighs. As if we sit cuddling like this all the time.

  It would be nice if we did.

  It’s peaceful hearing DJ’s heart glug-glugging under my ear. One of his big hands strokes my hair slowly. “Thank you,” he says, his voice a low scrape in my ear.

  I don’t know if he’s thanking me for subbing at the rink or for feeding him pizza. Or maybe for just showing up—I hope
that’s why.

  Sitting curled in his lap is doing strange things to my senses. His body heat seems to singe me everywhere we touch. I’m acutely aware of the fresh scent of laundry detergent and clean boy under my nose. I want to scrape my face against his evening whiskers and run my hands down his strong chest. The thighs under my body are surprisingly firm, and I’m tempted to explore their shape with my hands.

  I think it’s inevitable that I’m finally getting another kiss. But I’m too chicken to just go straight in. Instead, I lift my chin a couple of degrees, until my lips find the underside of his jaw. I place one soft kiss there, and then another. I trace the ridge of his jaw with my nose and then kiss him right under the ear.

  DJ says nothing. But when I suck his earlobe into my mouth, his breath catches. I’m pretty far out on a limb right now, nibbling on a boy who isn’t kissing me back. But since I’ve spent so much of the last week fantasizing about being with him again, my fear of rejection can’t sing loudly enough to be heard over the drum solo of my lust.

  Again he shifts my body as if I weigh nothing, turning me around to face him properly. One easy move with my knee and then I’m actually straddling him. My behavior shocks me a little. But apparently it does not shock DJ. He pulls my hips in tight against his and wraps his arms around my waist.

  Then he kisses me as if he’s just invented kissing and wants to give me a thorough demonstration of how it’s done. Apparently it’s done with full, hungry lips that press firmly against mine and a gentle tongue that teases the seam of my lips just once before I open for him. And it’s done with his hands skimming my back and with the low, throaty sound of longing he makes when I deepen our kiss.

  I let my palms wander down his chest and then under his T-shirt. He groans when I pass featherweight fingertips low across his belly. I skim a hand up the ridges of his abs, wishing I could see them. Nibble on them. But I don’t know how to ask for more.

  Usually, I blame my lack of experience on my strange lifestyle, but the truth is that I’m just gutless. Bella would agree with me in a hot second. If she were in my shoes, she’d have this boy naked and moaning her name in ten seconds flat.

  I’m not that kind of girl, although I aspire to be.

  DJ’s T-shirt is in the way. That’s just obvious. So I tug it upward until he gets the message, breaking our kiss to shuck it over his head.

  Now I have what I want—an unencumbered expanse of DJ’s chest and abs. I dive back into his mouth while my hands skate around all that smooth, tight skin. He groans beneath my touch, and his hands come to rest around my waist, his thumbs gently stroking my belly. I’m turning into a puddle of pure want. Our kisses take on a hot rhythm. Push and pull. Parry and retreat. It’s glorious, and I can feel how hard he is between my legs, and it makes me giddy. Because it’s me who made him that way.

  DJ breaks our kiss by cupping my jaw, his dark eyes appraising me from very close range. “What do you want, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

  You. Everything. Please.

  God, isn’t it obvious? But he actually wants me to answer. I’ve never asked a boy for sex before, and I don’t know the script. And apparently it takes several margaritas to break through my inhibitions. The last time we were here in this house, I offered to massage him with my very drunk tongue. And the only result was embarrassment.

  What to do?

  In the end, I take the cheaters’ way out. I lift my top part way up until DJ catches on and pulls it off.

  Achievement unlocked.

  In celebration, DJ pulls me against his warm body so that we’re skin to skin. Then he sweeps the hair off my shoulder and begins to kiss my collarbone.

  Now, I was home-schooled, so there are likely gaps in my scientific education. And I’ve just discovered a doozy. Nobody ever taught me that there was an electric wire running from my neck to my lady bits. As DJ worships my neck with his mouth, I feel myself grow hot and slick between my legs.

  Meanwhile, my happy fingers wander his abs, especially the thickening trail of hair beneath his belly button. When I stroke the skin just north of his waistband, his abs clench under my hand, and he gives a throaty groan.

  God, that sound. I can’t wait to hear it again.

  I’m not brave enough to push my hand inside his waistband. So I trail it down the fabric, cupping the hard bulge I find there.

  He takes a deep breath, then leans back against the sofa. “Lianne, sweetheart.” His voice is strained, and I love the tint of pink on his face. I put it there. “Tell me what you want.” He cups my cheek in his hand.

  I lean into his palm. It’s much easier to touch him than to answer the question.

  “We can’t have any misunderstandings,” he says quietly.

  Damn it all—he’s not going to let me be my usual chicken-hearted self. But how does someone like me ever learn to navigate these tricky waters, anyway? There has to be a way, or else all the shy people would be bred out of the species.

  DJ holds my gaze, waiting. I lay my head on his shoulder and kiss his neck once. Twice. He strokes my hair, but I know he’s still listening for me to explain myself. “Act five, scene one,” I whisper finally.

  “You want to read the Scottish play?” His voice is low and growly and very amused. With one of his roughened palms, he skims my bare arm, and I close my eyes to better appreciate it.

  “Read just one line. Five-one, line seventy-one.”

  Cupping my head to hold me in place, DJ leans forward just far enough to grab my paperback off the table. I keep my face buried in his neck while he flips to the scene I’ve given him.

  I can tell when he finds it, because his stomach contracts in surprise. “It’s Lady M’s line,” he says. “You’re supposed to read those.”

  “Read it for me,” I insist, my face burning up.

  He lowers his lips until they’re brushing the shell of my ear. “To bed,” he says in a husky voice. “To bed, to bed.”

  I hold my breath, wondering if I’ve made myself clear.

  Big hands grasp my rib cage, and DJ rights me gently so I’m forced to look him in the eye. My face burns with the knowledge that I’ve just propositioned him. But in the positive column, the view from his lap is pretty damned good right now. He’s staring back at me with tousled hair and kiss-bitten lips. He looks hot and turned on and all mine. “I’m crazy about you,” he says.

  “I know,” I tease. But it’s all bravado.

  He chuckles anyway. His fingertips trace up and down my bare back, and it’s heaven. “I’m having a terrible year, Lianne. You’re the only good thing in it.”

  “It will get better,” I insist.

  For a moment he’s quiet. “The thing is, I’m not sure it will.” Instinctively I tighten my arms around DJ. But he doesn’t dive in for a kiss like I want him to. “Christ,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” My voice comes out all breathy and weird. Like I’ve just run a race. My heart wobbles on the edge of the diving board, wondering if we’re about to get thrown over.

  “I’m a bad bet right now, smalls. I might not be around much longer.”

  My scalp tingles. “Daniel, am I trapped in a John Green novel? Do you have three weeks to live?”

  His abs shake as he chuckles at me. “It’s nothing like that, but thanks for the dose of perspective. I might not finish the semester, though.” His smile fades immediately, and he reaches up to my face, his thumb gliding across the cheekbone. Even this PG-rated touch gives me tingles. “And I’m done with one-night stands. So I wasn’t going to go there with you.”

  Well, damn. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the chivalry. But it isn’t every day I decide to sleep with someone. And I know he wants to. At least part of him does. I put two hands on his firm chest, and I lay my head on his shoulder again, just because I can. “Look,” I whisper. “I’ve never Shakespeare-propositioned anyone before. I wouldn’t do that unless I was sure.”

  DJ hugs me again, giving me a gentle kiss on the
temple. I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’ll decide. I tilt my head to the side so his kiss lands again on the delicate skin near my collar bone. And then he’s sucking gently, kissing me, while I melt like a cheap lipstick over his body. Two hands slide down my back, landing on my ass. Then he squeezes, and it’s so wonderfully dirty that I hear myself whimper.

  He groans. Then he stands up, lifting me, slinging an arm underneath my backside. While I cling to him, he carries me on a short trip to his darkened room. A few seconds later my back hits the bed, and I pull him down, too.

  As DJ’s weight settles onto my body, he lets out a husky sound of approval, and it vibrates down my body, boomeranging at my toes and zipping upward again. I let my hands slide up DJ’s smooth back, enjoying the dip of the centerline and every single muscle along the way. Meanwhile, he’s kissing his way up my neck and onto my throat.

  Suddenly, it’s just not naked enough in here, though the weight of his hard body is glorious. He’s winding his fingers into my hair while his mouth worships my skin. I am a puddle of need underneath him, and nothing he does is quite enough. The clothes that separate us are my new enemy. I want them gone, but it’s a problem. Because I refuse to push DJ even one millimeter away in order to fix it.

  All I can do is roll my hips upward, willing my jeans and his sweatpants to vanish, like a bit of Princess Vindi sorcery. If there was a spell for getting naked, I’d utter it.

  Luckily, DJ understands. In between scorching kisses, he presses up off my body and puts a hand on my fly. “Are these coming off?” he asks.

  In answer, I pop the button myself and lower the zipper. DJ tugs the fabric and the jeans are history. I give his sweats a tug and whoosh! They disappear, along with his boxers.

  My eyes are adjusting to the dark room. The streetlights beam through his one window, and it’s just enough to appreciate how beautiful he is. His abs could be featured in a fitness magazine, and that V of muscle diving down past his hip bones… Yum. Is it terrible if I just stare?