From that point forward, Sage has been adamant that we need to hook up. Emphasis on the word ‘need’ and not ‘should’.
And, Lord, forgive me. If he were any other guy, I’d be all over him like a rash after a torrid Vegas vacation. The man looks like the love child of Matthew Noszka and James Dean. The fact that he is six feet four inches of tight abs and only five percent body fat does not—I repeat, does not—make it easier for me to constantly reject him. But you know what makes it really easy for me to say no? The notion that Sage, whom I grew up with and know better than anyone else, is going to break my heart into a trillion pieces, smash it to dust, then skip over all the leftovers on his way to the next pink sheet-covered bed.
Because. My. Best. Friend. Is. A. Whore!
I love him, but he is a manwhore who can’t keep his dick in his pants for longer than twenty-four hours. I’m pretty sure this fact could be backed up scientifically, if someone put effort into researching the subject. Anyway, I’m too attached to Sage—and to my heart—to mess with either of them so recklessly.
“It’s a no from me,” I say in an exaggerated English accent, folding my arms and feigning boredom, doing my best Simon Cowell impression. We’ve been bingeing on the British version of X Factor lately and Sage makes me do an impression of the British judge every commercial break. If I refuse, he tackles me to the floor and tickles the shit out of me. I thrash and try to worm my way out from between his steel arms, only to be pinned tightly onto the floor, his hard body over my soft one. He is so aggressive and dedicated, ninety percent of the time I cave simply because I’m too scared I’ll accidentally come (it’s been a while, please don’t judge).
“I’ll turn it into a ‘yes’ before the end of the semester.” He stands up, curling his fists as he stretches and yawns. His black shirt rides up and the prominent V leading to his crotch is on full display. In a last-ditch effort to save my already-damp panties, I avert my gaze, my eyes hard on the MacBook screen, and furrow my brows as the words in my lit essay slip from my vision. I decided to major in English lit because I’m good with words, but whenever he’s around, I’m nothing but a blubbery mess. Sage continues, “No girl has ever said no to me yet, and I’ll be damned if the one who does is the chick I care about the most.”
“But that’s exactly why I’m saying no,” I snap, my head shooting up from the essay. I can’t fathom why he cannot see this. Sleeping together would ruin everything.
“Why?”
Why? “Why?” I look up, huffing. Yep, I’m actually huffing. And huffers are my pet peeve, but boy, does Sage make me want to huff lately. “Do you really want to throw away ten years of friendship for a quick lay?”
He smirks. “First of all, it’s not going to be quick. I know what I’m doing in the sack. We’re talking a minimum of twenty-five minutes, lady, and I’m being humble here, because I might be a little on the excited side when I finally roll you between my sheets.” He cups his groin and winks, and I would roll my eyes if it weren’t for the fact that his room is down the hall, and the thin walls confirm his statement. All the girls he brings home (roughly twenty percent of the US female population) do moan and scream for an average of forty minutes. “And second of all, I will not be ruining anything. You have one-night stands. I have one-night stands. We can have them together and still keep our friendship intact. We’re not fucking twelve, dude.”
I guess I can kill this conversation by pointing out that (A) twelve-year-olds don’t usually have sexual intercourse, and (B) I’m not a dude. But there’s something else I need to make clear.
“I don’t engage in one-night stands.” I pick up a pen and choke it to death to keep myself from punching Sage’s gorgeous, cocky face. I know my fist is going to hurt more than his nose. The guy is seemingly built of steel, bronze, and copper.
“Of course you do. What about that Brandon dude?”
“That Brandon dude was my boyfriend for seven months,” I deadpan. Funny he should mention it, since Brandon and I broke up last year because the latter was adamant that there was something going on between Sage and me. Which was insane, inaccurate, and incredibly irritating. But what was even more disheartening was the fact that Sage did everything he could to nurture this false assumption by constantly touching and calling me whenever I hung out with Brandon like he was trying to sabotage our relationship. I swear, Sage was only a few weeks short of pissing on my leg to claim his ownership, which was kind of rich, considering how Sage’s dick has been passed around like community property. I’m surprised he’s not partly funded by the government.
“That douche was never your boyfriend, JoJo,” he shakes his head, sighing, like I’m an adorable puppy.
“Sorry to disappoint, but he really was.”
You will not punch your best friend. You will not punch your best friend. You will no…
“Well, now I want to kick that guy’s ass even more.”
“What? Why?”
“Because—sorry to disappoint,” he mimics my tone, and pretty accurately, too (the bastard), “but he was banging a Kappa Alpha Slutta whatever chick named Nadia. I saw them hanging out at parties at least twice while you were so-called ‘dating’, but I thought you’d never seriously dated the dickbag.” He runs his huge palm over his sandy blond hair and messes it to tousled perfection. I swallow, feeling my nostrils flare. Goddamn Brandon. “So I never thought I should mention it to you. You know I always got your back.”
I smile tightly, stand up, and walk to the kitchen with Sage following behind me. I want him gone, so I can cry myself to sleep, or call my bestie, Chelsea, to talk so much shit about Brandon his ears catch on fire and burn down his whole apartment block. I feel played, and stupid, and about as desirable as a bowl of stale broccoli. True, it’s been months, but it still stings. What is it about me that attracts douchebags? I mean, I do occasionally wear Taylor Swift’s perfume…
“Come with me,” Sage coaxes again, his husky voice bleeding into my body and melting my lady parts into warm goo. I shouldn’t be so turned-on by him, especially as I know him. Truly know him. All the bad and unflattering parts of him. Countless times I watched him go home with other girls, puking in national parks, and experiencing meltdowns. Crying happily when his parents got divorced, weeping sadly when his father died of liver failure after years of alcohol abuse, and roaring triumphantly when he got a full scholarship for college.
“I have an exam, remember?” I open the fridge and take out a carton of OJ. I slam the door and when I turn around, he is caging me in, bracing the counter from each side of my waist, his mouth so close to mine I can see the dimple in the center of his full lower lip. He stares me down predatorily.
My heart is in my throat.
My soul is most probably in my eyes.
And I am scared. Completely, utterly, and desperately frightened of what he can do to me if I let my guard down. If I let him in.
“Wasn’t talking about the party, Jo. Let’s go to my room. Forget about Brandon. About people. About all the bullshit. I want to make you feel good.”
“Sage,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes. “Please don’t make this an issue. I’d hate to move to another apartment, but I will, if that’s what it takes to save our friendship.”
And my heart.
He throws his head back, staring at the ceiling, exasperated. Then he pushes off the counter and I’m left to stand here, watching his tight ass walking toward the hallway. What’s with this dude? Did he actually not know I had lady bits before he saw me naked? I refuse to sacrifice our friendship because he suddenly sees me as the convenient booty-call-from-across-the-hall.
I swear, he’s been acting so strange lately.
I watch his back, knowing the knot in my stomach—the one I’d formed when I was ten and he moved next door—is going to tighten. As if on cue, it does. Blinking, I pour myself a glass of orange juice, spilling some on the countertop, knowing the rest of my night is a bust.
Twenty minutes later, he wal
ks through the door clad in a navy varsity jacket, dark distressed jeans, and his I-just-fucked perfect hair, looking like the perfect sin.
Forty minutes later, Chelsea appears at my door armed with Halo Top ice cream. (I liked Brandon, but not enough to waste my Pilates body on real ice cream because of him.)
An hour later, I get a stream of text messages.
Sage: Dedication doesn’t have an off-season. Get ready for me, JoJo. Because I’m coming for you. And guess what? You’ll COME for me, too.
Sage: Please told me you got the sexual innuendo.
Sage: *tell. Not told. Don’t give me shit. I’m not drunk. I have thick fingers.
Sage: (that was another sexual innuendo, btw)
Sage: Also, we’re out of milk, but don’t worry, I’ll buy some on the way home. Notice how I spared you a third sexual innuendo even though it’s white and sticky...
Chapter 2
Sage
“Please tell me you didn’t forget to ask her this time.”
Mark’s elbow is propped against the kitchen island I’m leaning on. The party is a bust. Even though it’s at a big-ass mansion on the outskirts of Baton Rouge, the vibe is just…off. Every fucker in my year seems to be here and I don’t know half of these people who talk to me, but everyone knows me. This chains me into a string of endless, meaningless, mundane conversations about grades and football, two things I shouldn’t be thinking about during my time off.
Mark snaps his fingers in front of my eyes, and I blink, realizing that he’s been doing it for some time now. He is the tall, dark, handsome, nice-enough-not-to-fuck-his-secretary-in-twenty-years type. Congressman daddy. English teacher mommy. Three sisters. Perfect reputation. White picket fence and two dogs with adorably stupid names. Wholesome and nice. He is the exact opposite of me.
I chew on the red Solo cup that I’m holding and zone out again, letting the half-naked bodies and the heaps of alcohol melt together in my vision.
“Asked who what?” I buy time.
“Your hot roommate. Did you ask her if she’s into me?” Again, I find myself wanting to punch my own balls for downplaying my relationship with Jolie. This is all my doing, and the reason I don’t tell people how close we are is because I don’t want any cock-blocking scenarios to get in my way of a good pussy. Well, this month it backfired in my face. Not only did I experience a life-changing moment with another girl, which pretty much served as a wake-up call to who I really need to be with, but now I have to deal with my smitten teammate, too.
Ever since Mark Tensely struck up a thirty-minute-long conversation with Jolie when he swung by to pick up some football gear the other day (specifically, the day before I ran into her naked in the hallway—insert fucking fist-bite) he’s been eyeing my best friend and begging for me to hook him up with her number.
Yeah. No.
Perhaps the worst part is that Mark is smart, good-looking, well-off, and is actively seeking a steady girlfriend. Unlike Barf-worthy Brandon, he’s genuine. He’s the whole package. Me? The only thing I have to offer is my package. I’m swimming in small endorsement deals and have a scholarship, but I’m so far from well off, I can barely fucking spell the term. Plus, Jolie knows about my antics. She constantly tells me that STD stands for Sage The Douche. We joke about it, like it doesn’t worry her and it doesn’t insult me. But the truth is, my string of one-night stands have all ended in disaster recently. Though, even before that, I was starting to get bored with the constant hopping from one strange bed to the other.
Look, I know I’m a hypocritical bastard. I fuck around, but the minute my roommate gets a suitor, I go all Jason Momoa on his ass. But I can’t control it, can I? And if it makes things slightly better, I haven’t porked anyone since Mark made that comment about JoJo. Between throwing him off, dealing with my latest disastrous fling, and jerking off to memories of Jolie’s naked body, sex with strangers is the last thing on my mind.
Thing is, I can’t really relationship-block Mark right now. What the fuck would I say to him? “Hey, listen, man, there’s nothing going on between Jolie and me, but I still don’t want her to date you?” Even I know it’s a solid ten on the Douche-O-Meter. It would be much easier to just say, ‘Look, bro, I’m tapping that. Why don’t you go ahead and move along to someone less awesome and, I don’t know, less Jolie?’
“Jolie! I’ve been asking you to ask her about me for weeks. Forget it.” Mark waves me off, grabbing a beer bottle from the fridge. There’s a keg right. Freaking. Here. But I guess he’s too rich for Solo cups. “I’ll just ask her out. I see her around campus every Monday at three.”
Over my dead body.
“Get some chill, dude. I got a lot on my plate this month. I’ll ask her as soon as I get home.” I clutch his shoulder and offer him the most casual smile in my arsenal. Inside, there’s a green angry monster wreaking havoc in my body. If Mark takes Jolie on a date, it wouldn’t be the first time she went out with someone else. JoJo had two serious boyfriends in high school and dated a string of douches ever since we started college. But they all seemed so temporary. Her mind was always elsewhere. School. Family. Even the Pilates classes that gave her that bangin’ body. But this is all going to change at the end of May when we graduate. I know my best friend. Know her well.
She’ll want to settle down.
Find a nice teaching job.
Get married. Have babies. Mark’s babies. No way is she having Mark’s babies. That fucker doesn’t drink keg beer and knows how to tie a tie without looking in the mirror. He’s not the type to run in the mud and rain for her. To climb on trees with her. To sit on the sidelines at school and talk shit about people in codes only she and he know.
I’m that person. I’m her person.
“I’ll deal with it tonight,” I say again, thinking, you can say that again.
“Yeah, okay, man,” Mark mumbles, pupils dilating, and that’s when I realize that I’m squeezing his shoulder hard. He shakes me off, taking a step back and bumping into two girls who are yelling the latest gossip into each other’s ears over the sound of “Fetish” by Selena Gomez. They both shoot him a pissed look that softens when they notice me. “I’ll text you tomorrow.” Mark moves his thumbs in the air, like I don’t know how texting looks like.
“Sure.” I shrug, raising my cup and backing toward the landing. “See you Monday at practice.”
You know shit is going downhill when you find yourself listening to a pop princess and there’s no blowie to stop you from leaving. I turn around and a girl from computer science slams into my body purposely. She does the whole 90’s-rom-com charade, where she laughs nervously and pretends to be embarrassed—sweetheart, I’ve seen this show a thousand times—and introduces herself. I can take her home. Hell, I can even take her upstairs. A month ago, I would have. But tonight, all I can think about is that Jolie is hella bummed about what I told her about Brandon, and I’m bummed about that goddamn tool, Mark.
“I’m Stephanie,” she yells into my ear.
“And I’m not interested,” I yell back, in the exact same tone.
The mask of her syrupy smile falls to the floor, almost with a thud, and her eyes narrow before she sulks and leaves. I dig out my phone and send Jolie a string of semi-coherent text messages. Then I come up with a plan to eliminate Mark Tensely from the picture.
By the time I drive back home, stone-cold sober, making a stop at a gas station to get some milk, my plan is bulletproof. Here is the end game:
Jolie is not dating anyone.
Jolie stays with me.
Chapter 3
Jolie
“We need to talk.”
Reluctantly, I crack one eye open, while still rolled between my white cotton sheets, the TV playing the same channel I fell asleep to the night before. After Chelsea left, I watched When Harry Met Sally. Then I opened a bottle of wine, downed three glasses, and waited for the alcohol to run through my bloodstream before I willed myself to answer my male BFF’s texts.
&n
bsp; Me: Do you think Brandon cheated on me because I’m a prude?
Me: Maybe it’s because I went to see my family every other weekend when he wanted to hang out. Although, screw him, right? So I like spending time with my grandmama and parents. Ain’t no shame in that.
Me: And yes to you bringing milk. I will need something to help the hangover tomorrow morning.
Me: And no to you and me sleeping together. I already told you, Sage. I care too much about you to lose you for a fling. Even if the feeling is obviously not mutual…
My bed dips under the weight of my quarterback guy friend and I bury my face into my pillow, inhaling the vanilla, lilac, and lavender of my body creams and shampoo. His warm hand sneaks under the covers, cupping one of my feet and tugging me away from the pillow and toward him. With my ankle on his lap, he massages my foot. And I should really get a gold medal, or maybe a simple acknowledgement, for not spreading my legs for him right here and now and giving him exactly what he has been begging for.
Because. Sage. Poirier. Is. A. God.
That’s why he’s a manwhore in the first place. There is no denying his masculine appeal, raw beauty, dirty mouth, and cocky confidence.
“What do we need to talk about?” I murmur into my arm, which I’ve thrown over my face to block the sun seeping through the thin curtains of my window. He elevates my foot and kisses just below my kneecap. Shivers run down my spine, racing down to my tummy and making it roll with delicious anticipation.
“I need a fake girlfriend,” he announces, his voice grave.
“Then go get one. Literally, you can step out of the building and every single woman with a pulse and no ring on her ring finger would gladly fill out an application,” I say, hyper-aware to my morning breath. He plucks my arm from my face and throws it on the bed, leaning into me so we are nose-to-nose.
Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology Page 74
