by Sara Ney
The sensitive nub between my thighs throbs and I squeeze my legs together to alleviate the pressure building there.
This creeper session is seriously better than porn.
The only difference is, this boy? He’s real, not unattainable, and lives only nine houses away.
I imagine all the sneaking around we could do on our roommates. I imagine him crawling through my window, waking me up with his face between my legs. His hands running along my skin, up under my sleep shirt, sliding into my white eyelet shorts.
Imagine myself running my hands under the straps of that black singlet, sliding them down his brawny biceps, hands dragging down his damp, sweat-covered chest.
“Uh, what are you doing?” My roommate stands in my doorway, hand braced against the doorjamb, brows arched.
“Oh my God Donovan, Jesus Christ!”
“Scared you, did I? What are you doing in here?”
“Nothing! Jesus.” Shit, did I say that already? “You scared the crap out of me. Don’t you ever knock?”
I slam my laptop closed with a thwack, heart rate accelerating at an alarming pace.
He laughs. “What were you looking at? You look weird.” Donovan narrows his eyes. “Your face is as red as your damn hair.”
“Nothing, God Donovan!”
“You look guilty as all hell. Just tell me what you were looking at and I’ll leave you alone.”
“No you won’t.”
“You’re right, I won’t. So just tell me.” His manicured eyebrows rise and the nosy asshole laughs, wriggling his fingers. “I want to see. Learn to share, Bishop.”
“No.” I hug my laptop. “Mine.”
“Tell me what it is!” he whines, entering the room, his big body filling my personal space. Ugh, he is so annoying sometimes.
“Get out!” I sound like a little kid telling her pesky brother to get out of her room. “Seriously, I’m not kidding.”
“You never act like this.” He sits on the edge of my bed instead, resting his chin on my footboard. “Truth: were you looking at porn?”
“Truth? No!” It was something better. My panties are so damp, I might as well have been.
“If it’s not porn—not that I’m judging—why the hell are you bright red? Tell me.” He holds up two fingers like a Boy Scout. “No judgment. I jerk off at least twice a day.”
Gross. “I did not need to know that.”
“Would you just freaking tell me before I wrestle you to the ground?”
Wrestle me to the ground? My red face gets warmer, imagination getting the best of me as it produces visuals of Rhett wrestling me to the ground.
I almost tremble with delight.
“Fine, you win—I was looking at pictures of Rhett. He’s the guy I’ve been, you know…” The inflection of my voice conveys my meaning, and Donovan nods.
“The guy Alexandra had you text that you’re not hooking up with?”
“Right.”
“Let’s see him in action, come on, come on.” He bounces on the bed, impatient. “You know I can’t resist men in tights.”
I crack the laptop. Enter my password with nimble, eager fingers.
He looks over my shoulder. “You totally want to text him right now, don’t you?”
“Oh my God, yes.” I click on the browser window. “So bad.”
“Where’s he at this weekend?”
“On his way home I think, from Penn State.”
“Penn State? Woo, fancy.”
Donovan slides my laptop to his lap, scans the screen with perceptive eyes, raking over the images of Rhett emblazoned there. One photograph after the other. Clicks on one, zooms. Studies it. Clicks another, then another, all without saying a word.
“Well.” My roommate sighs. “He’s certainly no Thad Stanwyck.”
“Thad?” I huff indignantly. “Seriously Donovan? Why the hell would you bring him up? Ugh.”
Thad was a guy I dated last year for four long, exhausting months. As gorgeous as he is vain, Thad is a stereotypical carbon copy of your tan, arrogant, privileged student athlete with a revolving door of bed partners.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking hopping on the carousel; being his girlfriend was emotionally draining.
The sex was robotic and routine.
Dick? Average.
Dates? Nonexistent.
Communication? Worse.
To compare Rhett to Thad isn’t fair, despite their obvious physical differences.
“He’s nothing like Thad.” He’s better.
He’s amusing, and charming, and refreshingly oblivious.
Clueless. Obtuse. Naïve. Take your pick.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.” I chew on my thumbnail. “Think I should text him?”
Donovan nods, handing me back the laptop. “No, I meant—what are you going to do with him?”
Guh! “I honestly don’t know yet.”
“Do you like him?”
“I think so, yeah. I mean, yes. I’m starting to.”
“Like with feelings and bullshit?”
I smack him then shove him off the bed. “Donovan!”
He stands, heading for the doorway. “I’ll let you have your privacy but you better pony up the details next time. No games with him. Guys hate that shit.”
“Okay, promise.”
Palming my phone, I thumb through our last chain of messages.
Tap out a quick text.
Hey there…
Rhett
“Who were you talking to?” Gunderson asks, throwing his lanky body into the seat behind me. He invades my personal space, resting his knobby elbows on my headrest, peering over the seat and into my space. “You look all dreamy-eyed and shit.”
We’re on a bus on our way back from Pennsylvania after one of Iowa’s biggest overall victories of the season: defeating top-seeded Penn State.
I’d just ended a call with my dad when Gunderson plopped down—the call where I broke the news of the four-hundred-dollar Pancake House tab to my parents.
“Were you talking to Laurel? Are you seeing her tonight?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to stay out of my business, but instead, I say, “No. It was my dad.” I crane my neck so I can look him in the eye. “I had to explain about the four-hundred-dollar credit card charge.”
“Oops, my bad.” My roommate cringes. “How’d that go?”
“Terrible.”
“Does he not give a shit that you just beat Penn? I mean, it’s Penn fucking State.”
“Not really, not when it comes to money he doesn’t have.” I narrow my eyes into slits. “The whole conversation was fuckin’ shitty.”
Shitty is an understatement. My parents—my father in particular—were so fucking pissed, the entire call was mostly him sputtering with anger. He’s mad, understandably so.
“I wondered when you were going to call,” my dad said by way of greeting when I called them after my win.
“You saw it already?”
“Yes Rhett,” he said sarcastically. “I saw it already. We check your credit card statement and your brothers’ a few times a week. I’ve been waitin’ several days for you to call and enlighten me.”
There was a dead silence on the line as I found the words to explain myself. “There were fifteen of us and we went to eat as a team and—”
“They stuck you with the bill,” he interrupted, not a hint of amusement in his tone.
“Yeah.”
My old man snorted into the receiver of his phone. “This wouldn’t have happened if—”
“If I hadn’t transferred? Yeah, I know.” Because my parents never miss an opportunity to remind me about their disappointment that I’m at Iowa.
“You’ll be workin’ it off this summer I’m going to assume.”
“I won’t have to. My roommates are splittin’ my half of the rent to make up for the money.”
“That isn’t the goddamn poi
nt, Rhett.”
“But Dad—”
“And I’m callin’ your coach. This is hazing and it’s bullshit, do you realize that? Your mother is beside herself with worry. What else have they done to you?”
I slouched into my seat on the bus, lowering my voice. “Dad—”
“What kind of operation are they running over there?” he demanded, raising his voice.
“Dad—”
“Don’t Dad me, Rhett. I’m callin’ your coach. This kind of bullshit would never have been tolerated at LSU.”
Nothing I say will change his mind because I left a great school to be part of the hailed NCAA championship wrestling team for better opportunities, more exposure, and more scholarship money—and my parents are never going to let me live it down.
I try to wipe the entire conversation from my mind, attempt to ignore the sound of my father’s fuming, disappointed voice in my head.
Gunderson stares down at me over the seat.
“Let me put it this way: it’s a good thing I’m so far away and can’t go home for break. My dad would kill me.”
“Look, that sucks. I get it.” Gunderson hesitates a beat, leans farther over into my seat, eyes darting around the bus like he’s trying to be sly. “But switching gears, some of the guys have been talking…”
Jesus Christ, here we go.
I wait him out.
“We’ve been talking about all your girl problems and want to help.”
“My girl problems?” I don’t have girl problems…do I? “I don’t have girl problems—the only problems I have are you butting into my business.”
“Just hear us out before you get premenstrual, okay? We have a few things to say—wrote them down, matter of fact.”
I glance around, catch several of the guys casually watching with interest, quickly averting their gazes when they notice me scanning the bus.
I narrow my eyes.
“So you’re the village idiot they’ve nominated to relay the message?”
He grins, satisfied I understand. “Exactly. As the team manager, I might be the messenger, but I didn’t come up with this awesome shit on my own.”
A sheet of paper appears in my line of vision, Gunderson smoothing out the wrinkles on the headrest, clearing his throat and giving someone toward the back of the bus a quick nod. He receives his signal to begin.
His voice goes up an octave and clears his throat as if he’s about to deliver an inaugural address. “We have a few rules we think will help get you laid. Since you brought Whatsherface home the other night, you’ve been kind of bitchy.” He looks down at the paper, then back at me, grinning. “That part was improsized.”
“You mean improvised?”
Gunderson rolls his eyes. “That’s what I said.”
You can’t argue with stupid, so I keep my trap shut.
“First off, you’re too nice. Not a single one of us has ever heard you insult a member of this team, or insinuate that you’re sleeping with someone’s mother or sister. That’s not normal.”
In the background, one of the guys coughs out, “Pussy.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but girls are attracted to assholes. Just look at Daniels and Osborne if you don’t believe me—two of the biggest pricks dating two of the loveliest girls. Coincidence? I think not.”
“Did you just call James and Violet lovely?” comes a shout from the back of the bus.
“Shut up Pitwell, I’m handling this.” Gunderson cups a hand around his mouth like a megaphone, bellowing down the center aisle of the bus. “I have the floor here—you all had your chance.” The paper in his hands gets raised to his face. He clears his throat dramatically.
“As I was saying, try insulting us more to be funny, especially around women, and brag.” He catches someone’s eye and winks. “You have stats better than Daniels, why don’t you talk about it?”
“Yeah dude, what the fuck?”
I eyeball Gunderson skeptically. “Are you purposely trying to turn me into a douchebag?”
“Yes. You’re way too fucking nice. Maybe it is time to douche that shit up a bit.”
“Wow. You guys must think I’m really fucking dumb, huh?”
Behind me, someone huffs. “New Guy, stop acting butt hurt and listen to what he’s saying.”
Gunderson rolls his eyes, irritated at continually being interrupted. “Thanks Davis, but I can handle this.”
He returns his attention back to me—unfortunately. “Which brings me to the point: your nickname.”
“I don’t have a nickname.”
“Exactly. That’s why you need one. New Guy is only going to cut it first semester, then you won’t be new anymore. It’ll just sound idiotic.”
“Uh…”
“Ozzy. Zeke. Boner. Pit. See? We all have nicknames, so don’t be a little bitch about it. We voted, and we think you should be called Quasimodo because you’re so damn ugly.”
I throw him two hard middle fingers. “Fuck. You.”
“When you come up with a better idea, let us know. Until then, you’re Quasimodo. Also, we noticed you don’t wear enough cologne. No one has suggested you stink, but—”
“That’s ee-fucking-nough,” I growl. “Get the fuck away from me.” Fuming, I push the ear buds back into my ears, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me the fuck alone.
A sheet of paper flutters into my lap not two seconds later, and I grab it. Fist it into a ball. Toss it to the floor. It sits there an entire twenty-three seconds before I sigh, bending at the waste and scooping it back up.
I hate litter.
The list is entitled How to Be a Bigger Douchebag, and I scan it, disgusted.
Insult your friends more to be funny. No one likes someone who’s too nice, especially women.
Brag.
Give yourself a nickname.
Text other women during your dates. This will make you look desirable to the opposite sex.
Wear more cologne.
When asking a girl out, don’t just ask—tell her she’s going out with you.
Wait at least three hours before texting her back.
The list is one dumbass suggestion after the next, and I have to seriously wonder if they think I’m a fucking moron. Honestly, is that their impression of me, or are they genuinely just a fuckful of douchebags?
I shove the wadded-up list into my backpack as we pull into the stadium parking lot, the weight of this whole transfer pushing down on my shoulders. They may be wide, but they can only carry so much, and this month has been a shit storm I can’t find my way out of.
My phone pings.
Hey there…
Laurel.
I smile, replying before I have to stand to collect my things.
Hey. What’s up?
It’s basic and impersonal, but I still haven’t figured out why this girl insists on befriending me. Why she’s still texting, why she flirts with me. Why she brought me warm cookies I’m almost positive she baked herself.
I’m genuinely confused.
Confused as fuck.
She could have dropped the pretense of liking me the second I put two and two together at that party and realized who she was.
Laurel: You up for going out tonight? A few of us are downtown, somewhere nice. Want to meet us out and swap beer for wine?
Wine instead of beer? Who is this chick?
Me: I should probably stay in.
Laurel: Tired?
Me: Something like that.
Laurel: Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.
Me: Thanks for the invitation.
Laurel: :)
“Now who were you on the phone with?” My other irritating roommate is on his tiptoes, trying to see over my shoulder as we make our way to the exit. I wish he’d climb down out of my ass already.
“Laurel.” Like it’s even any of his business.
Eric nudges me in the spine with his elbow. “Dude, for real?”
I glowe
r. “Yeah, for real.”
He shuffles behind me, lugging his duffle.
We walk in succession, each of us with our head down, tired, filing off the bus single file like we do week after week during the season.
“I have to see this chick—Gunderson said she’s smoking hot.” He’s riding my tail, bag literally bumping into my thighs. “Is that true?”
“Uh…” I hesitate. “I guess.”
“Gunderson said she has red hair—how red we talking here?”
“I don’t fucking know, Eric. Red.”
“So, you’re dating a fire crotch?”
Jesus Christ, for the fifth time, “I’m not datin’ her... and don’t call her fuckin’ fire crotch.”
He scoffs. “If you put a little effort into it, you could be slicing that pie. He said you’re giving her blue balls.”
“Should I bathe in cheap cologne, act like a dick, and give myself a pet name to lure her in?”
“Nickname—there’s a difference.” He bangs into me again with his bag.
“Would you shut up?”
We’re still bickering when a firm hand grasps my forearm.
“Rabideaux.”
That voice. The use of just my last name.
Shit.
I turn to see Coach, grimace when he pulls at the brim of his Iowa wrestling ball cap, hard eyes focused, mouth set into a firm line. “You have a minute?”
“Uh…” Fuck. “Yeah, of course.”
He sees the glance I shoot Gunderson and Eric, leveling my roommates with a narrowed stare.
“Meeting in my office. Twenty minutes.”
“Yes sir.”
We watch as Coach walks off, head bent, talking with the director of wrestling operations and our strength and conditioning coach, heading back toward the stadium, where their offices are housed.
“Dude, what’s that about?” Gunderson asks.
“No idea.”
But I have an inkling.
A hard knot forms in the pit of my stomach, squeezing from the inside, tightening with every step I take toward the building, every step I take that’s farther in the opposite direction of my Jeep.
