The End Zone

by L.J. Shen

  “That’s okay. I skipped my carbs today, Miss Real Girlfriend. I think I’ll just feast on you.”

  Real girlfriend? Don’t dwell on it. He’d say anything to get into your panties right now.

  “I think my juices are more, like, protein,” I blab. I should probably shut up.

  “No such thing as too much protein in an athlete’s diet. Better go down there. Maybe even come back for a second serving later tonight.” He cups my face with one hand and twists my head around so he can kiss me. Our tongues find each other and do a happy dance together. My nipples tighten and pucker from the heat between my legs and the chilly breeze of the room and he twists one of them between his fingers. Then he lets go and slides under my blanket, where I can’t see him.

  Sage throws my legs open and settles between them. He doesn’t say anything at first, and my self-consciousness kicks in. I know my pussy is perfectly normal. Waxed—every part tucked in like a virgin rose right before blooming—smooth to a fault and bubblegum pink. Everything is where it should be. So why is he not saying anything? Maybe he is suffocating under the blanket. I should check how he is doing. This is one obituary I wouldn’t want to make.

  ‘Died between my legs from lack of oxygen on the same day I had a tuna melt for lunch…’

  Oh, God. I forgot about the tuna melt.

  “Sage?” I murmur, scooting upward. He pins me down by my hipbones in one, swift movement, throwing my legs even wider.

  “Shut up,” he says from under the blanket, this mammoth of a man shifting beneath the soft fabric. “JoJo? I think we need to break up our fake relationship.”

  My eyes flare and my cheeks flush red. “Why?”

  “Because I just fell in love. I’m talking love at first sight. Your pussy is just so darn pretty, I wanna marry it. Can I marry your pussy? The rest of your body can stay single, I swear.”

  I laugh and playfully swat what I’m guessing is his head—or his shoulder, both are super hard and round.

  “If you love her so much, you should give her some TLC. Show her how you really feel,” I encourage, biting my lower lip on a smile.

  “Can I kiss her? Or does she not kiss on a first date?”

  “She definitely does. She’s a little hussy.”

  I feel his tongue flattening against the base of my pussy, right next to my crack, and tremble at the sudden wet and warm sensation.

  “Call her a hussy one more time, and I’m kicking you out of this ménage.”

  “You can’t do that. I’m attached to her.” This is getting ridiculous. But also so much fun. Sage uses his fingers to open me wide and plunges his tongue into me, penetrating me with his tongue all the way in, and I moan loudly and clutch his head under the blanket. “Oh, my God!”

  “Fuck, she’s an even better kisser than you,” Sage says. I swat his head lightly again as he starts working me relentlessly under the cover. Thrusting his tongue into me, in and out, all while using his thumb to rub my clit in delicious circles that make me want to shed happy tears.

  “Yes, that’s it. Oh, Sage. Oh, Sage. Oh…”

  I’m getting close, and he knows it, because he pins my thighs to the bed, not letting me deny him access to my most sensitive part. Since his hands are now busy, he uses the tip of his straight nose to rub my clit in circles as he continues to fuck me with his tongue.

  “Take back what you said.” His voice is dark and serious, so far away from the best friend I know and love. And yet, this voice is no longer strange to me. This is how my lover sounds. The man I want to sleep with, and do very unfriendly, yet nice things to.

  “A…about what?” I stutter on my own carnal desire.

  “About your pussy being a hussy. She’s not a fucking hussy. She opens up and sings, but just for me. She’s a slut, but just for me. She’s a fucking horny maniac—for. No. One. But. Me. Yeah?”

  Jesus H, his dirty talk game is strong. I nod to myself, swallowing, feeling the hot wave of a climax washing over me, starting from the crown of my head and moving down like a wave to the rest of my body. I’m quivering, shaking like a leaf.

  After I come, he glides up in one smooth movement, reappearing from under the blanket. His face is flushed pink, and his lips are glistening with my arousal. Aaaand…he looks like that boy I fell in love with again. So vulnerable and broken and unbelievably youthful. It messes with my head, and I wonder if he feels the same. Like he is treading on a tightrope between familiarity and grown-up games.

  “Tell me she is mine,” he whispers. I blink. It takes me a second to realize that he is talking about my pussy. Again. I grin.

  “Is Sage Junior mine?” I reach beneath us to cup his hard-on. He is butt naked under the covers, and I want to see and taste everything.

  “He is yours. I am yours. We’re both yours. If…” Pause. Beat of silence. Visible swallow. “If you’ll have us.”

  He sounds serious. So, so serious. But I know him well enough to recognize that Sage is a total people-pleaser and cocky to a fault. I have to remind myself that he’ll say whatever it is I want to hear and breeze through it without thinking about the consequences to get what he wants. Truth be told, he’s never had a serious girlfriend and never brought the same girl to our apartment twice. I remind myself, therefore, that this is a game. A game that will end come May, and with it, our whole relationship will never be the same again. Sage will get drafted somewhere cool and exotic and will become filthy rich, and I’ll continue my small-town life here in Louisiana. The probability of it all slams into my chest all at once, like a cold bucket of ice.

  This is all temporary.

  The reality is, he wants a fake girlfriend until May, because after May, he’ll be gone to Boston or California, making a career. He just wants some kind of girlfriend experience before he goes so he doesn’t feel like he’s missing out.

  He will use me.

  And will dump me.

  He. Will. Forget. About. Me.

  And every time I witness him visiting his mama across the road, on Christmas or Thanksgiving, I’ll remember being a notch on his miles-long belt.

  I swallow, the back of my eyeballs stinging with unshed tears.

  “Simon Cowell,” I croak, my voice barely audible. His eyebrows drop into a shocked frown, his lips parting in disbelief.

  “JoJo?”

  “Simon Cowell,” I repeat, raising my shaky voice. “Please,” I add.

  He rolls off of me, propping his head on his forearm and watching me. My heart stutters as I scurry to the edge of the bed, throw my nightgown on, suddenly forgetting about being tired and hungry and happy, and pad my way to the kitchen.

  Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.

  In the kitchen, I open the freezer and take out the Cherry Garcia Ben and Jerry’s. This is Sage we’re talking about, not Brandon. He is totally worth the calories. I prop my lower body against the counter, shoving spoonfuls of ice cream down my throat, not even bothering to taste it. My back is to the hallway so I don’t see him. But I feel him. His big steps. His commanding body. The heat rolling off his muscular frame.

  “What the fuck was that all about, JoJo?” he asks behind me. He doesn’t sound pissed off at all. Just sad and…disappointed. God, the idea of disappointing him after everything we’ve been through is nothing short of agonizing. We promised each other so much, and kept good on those promises. I don’t want this to change. I don’t want us to change.

  “I can’t be your fake girlfriend anymore.”

  “But…”

  I turn around and meet his gaze, my vision slicing right through all the pain that’s swimming in his blues. I don’t want to see it. Facing it will undo every logical decision I need to make right now. He is wearing a tight pair of black boxers, an Adonis with a sculpted face, asking for his mortal friend to play a game only the gods can win.

  “Simon Cowell,” I say one last time. “Please let go.”

  He shakes his head, turns around, and walks away, doing exa
ctly as I tell him to.

  The next day, I do the unthinkable—the un-fucking-doable, and push a teammate to the ground because he stretched too close to me. Yep, I shit you not. Quarterbacks usually try to protect their hands and arms, not shove them into other footballers’ personal space to start a fight.

  “What the fuck is your problem?!” Michael asks, throwing his helmet to the grass and shoving my chest. I’m just looking for an excuse to rearrange some random dipshit’s face, so this is all the invitation I need to get in his personal space and growl, “You’ve been asking for this, motherfucker!”

  I’m about to throw a punch—knowing that it’s going to put me in a very bad spot, knowing that scouters are roaming the training area, knowing that I could be flushing my whole future down the toilet—when I feel a big hand yanking me away from Michael. Tom and Dre are pushing Michael in the other direction while Mark is hugging my midsection and dragging me to the other end of the field. Lines of mud are forming beneath my feet. I’ve always been an aggressive player. Comes with the territory of being a huge-ass kid with a shit ton of issues. I was actually supposed to be an O-Liner. But it so happened that my first coach said I was too intelligent not to be a quarterback and forced me into the position. Today, I’m feeling especially confrontational. The kind of asshole that needs to be thrown inside the octagon or ring with Conor McGregor and Floyd Mayweather and can still come out of there unscathed.

  “Are you trying to shit all over your future?” Mark bares his teeth, slamming me against the wall of the sports auditorium. I shrug, taking off my helmet and running my paw through my now long-ish hair. I normally ask Jolie to cut it for me, but I’ve been too busy trying to get in her pants lately to ask her to take care of that shit.

  “It’s fine. He won’t say a word to Coach Drescher.” I wave Mark off. He puts his hands on his waist and paces in front of me like an exasperated parent. Behind him, my teammates are arguing and yelling and I did this shit. The realization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “Doesn’t matter, bro. You’re still acting like King Douche of Cuntland, and you need to cut that shit before you get blacklisted. You can’t afford to do that. Not when you’re so close to getting drafted.”

  I know he’s right. I also know that I’ve been acting like a dick all day, and that’s unlike me. I need to get my head back in the game, but it’s hard when I know that JoJo’s a few feet away, going about her day after smashing my fucking heart yesterday on the kitchen floor.

  “So, I shouldn’t be a massive dick to everyone even though I have a massive dick. Gotcha.” I nod, trying to lighten up the mood. Mark lifts his head and pins me with a serious look.

  “What’s gotten into you? Something’s wrong?”

  Like I’d ever tell him.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s so dandy and fucking right I want to break into a dance.” The sarcasm drips from my mouth like drool.

  “Yeah? So this has nothing to do with you and Jolie?” He lifts one lonely brow.

  Her mere name on his lips makes me want to punch the wall behind me, then run a fucking marathon to spend all the pent-up aggression coursing through my body.

  “Everything’s great between JoJo and me. Don’t say her name again, please.”

  Mark stares at me, dumbfounded. A smile spreads across his lips. We’re not super tight, Mark and I, but I know that he is good people. I also know that he was born and raised in a nice Southern family where people hug a lot and talk about feelings and shit. That makes me uncomfortable around him sometimes. Like he can see through me. See the parts I’m only really comfortable sharing with JoJo.

  “You’re in love with her,” he says, chuckling. “Holy shit, man. You are in love with your roommate. That’s hilarious. Does she know?”

  Does JoJo know? Maybe the better question is—do I know? Sure, yeah, I like her, but what, exactly, does it mean? Fuck, I can’t even seem to read myself anymore. Why else would I act the way I do? Like the Duke of Dickwads. But admitting to myself that I’m in love—not just love, but in love—with my best friend is somehow like admitting defeat. Because other than a couple times recently, JoJo has never flirted with me in her entire life, and I’m pretty sure if I ever told her how I feel, she’d laugh in my face and tell me it’s a phase.

  It’s not a phase.

  It’s here to stay.

  I’m in love with my best friend.

  With the girl who ran in the rain for me.

  With the girl who did my homework all the way through elementary and high school so I could concentrate on my football, and gave me pointers and summaries when we walked to school together every day.

  With the girl who believed in me before even I believed in myself.

  And showed up at my games every weekend, her textbooks on her lap, doing homework in-between cheering for me.

  I’m in love with my roommate.

  With the girl who cuts my hair and knows my favorite color is black and my favorite food is Cajun fried catfish.

  With the proud owner of the sweetest pussy in Louisiana.

  I’m in love with Jolie Louis.

  And I’m going to conquer her. Consequences be damned.

  “I just had the best date of life yesterday. Not an exaggeration. A fact,” Chelsea swoons, throwing her arms across the library desk and burying her head between them. She blows a lock of raven hair from her face. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes are bloodshot, and her huge smile is telling me that she is crushing hard, all while riding the mother of all natural highs. I sit across from her, smiling as I rearrange my sensible blouse. I’ve always pegged myself as a maternal chick. It’s not the most feminist thing in the world to admit, but I already know my most rewarding role in life will be being a mom. But Chelsea? She’s something else. She aspires to become a nanny after we graduate. Save up for a few years before becoming a mother herself. She’s got a wedding and (at least) four kids on her (utterly crazy) brain twenty-four-freaking-seven.

  “Where did Mark take you?” I probe, pretending to be typing on my MacBook. Really, I’m just stalling and trying to look like everything is okay. Like I’m not a mess of epic proportions. Sage and I haven’t spoken a word to each other today. No texting. No stumbling together, laughing in the hallway. Even the drive to campus was silent. He tapped the wheel, I texted my mama, and liked every single thing my friends posted on Facebook. It was awkward to say the least.

  “We had a picnic under the stars. Then we went to my place. Nikki is gone for the week, so we had the place to ourselves. We watched Suicide Squad. Then we…” She blushes, looking away. “Then we did other stuff. And, so, yeah, he’s a great guy.”

  “I’m so happy for you.” And I am. A friendship ain’t worth the time you spend together unless you can wholeheartedly feel the joy and love your peer experiences when something amazing happens to them.

  “Thank you, sweets. So, what about you? Still mad about that jackass, Brandon? You should really put yourself out there more, lady. Guys will be lining up as soon as you give them the signal you’re interested.” She wiggles her brows and closes her thick textbook. I offer her a weak smile, looking around us to make sure the library is deserted. It is. I haven’t told her about the whole fake relationship with Sage yet. I kind of figured it would run its course before we even had the chance to explore it, as with many of Sage’s crazy ideas. I was even partly right. True, I did most of the ruining of said fake relationship, but it doesn’t matter. Not really. I don’t, however, want to keep anything from Chelsea.

  “I kind of hooked up with Sage this past week. Nothing too serious. We just messed around.” I drum my collarbone with my fingers.

  “I know,” she says, straight-faced. I raise an eyebrow.

  “What?”

  “Dude, I know, Penny knows, every single person on campus knows,” she reports nonchalantly, downing the rest of her latte and throwing the cup into the trash at the side of our desk, shrugging. “Mark and I talked about it. Sage to
ld him. Apparently, he told the whole football team that if they as much as breathe in your direction, he’d cut their noses off. Kind of possessive, if you ask me. Never thought he was the caveman type.”

  I’m staring at Chelsea with my mouth agape, realizing that it’s not a good look, and yet too shocked to respond coherently.

  I look around me. There is only one more desk occupied in the whole library other than Chelsea’s and mine. It’s a bunch of sorority girls sitting across the room with their feathery pink pens and white, lush cardigans and blonde, high ponytails. They’re staring at me, and I know why. If eyes could stab, I’d be bleeding to death on the floor. To them, Sage is not a real person, with a story, a personal tragedy, and complex personality traits. He’s a legend. A status symbol. Like a Ferrari or a Versace item. Fierce protectiveness grips my throat. I don’t know how I’d be able to live if I ever found out that he got married to this type of girl. The ones who see him for so much less than who he is.

  “Earth to Jolie.” Chelsea waves her little hands in front of me, smiling. I snap out of my stupor, shaking my head lightly.

  “Sorry, you were saying?” I close my MacBook and grab my shoulder bag from under my chair. I admit defeat. There’s just no way I’ll be able to concentrate on anything other than him today.

  “So things must be serious between you and Sage, if he is claiming you as his in front of the entire world.” We both stand up, gather our belongings, and make our way to the door. I’m about to answer Chelsea, when…

  “Slut,” one of the sorority girls coughs into her curled fist, just as I pass her by.

  “Social climber,” the other one breathes viciously. I keep walking, ignoring them, but just as I’m about to round the corner into the hallway, I notice that Chelsea is no longer by my side. I turn my head around and see her standing in front of their desk. My eyes nearly bug out of their sockets, cartoon-style. Oh, no. Chelsea has some serious mama-bear-on-steroids-when-aunt-flow-is-in-town bones in her. She takes care of her own and never passes down a chance to stand up for a friend. But this bitch doesn’t deserve her attention. Not one bit.