Misadventures of a College Girl

by Lauren Rowe

  “True.”

  “I’m mostly nervous for Tyler,” I admit. “He says every single game is critical for him. His goal is to go top ten in the draft.”

  “Wow, that’s a tall order for a free safety,” Dimitri says. “But, hey, if anyone can do it, it’s Tyler. He’s definitely having the season of a lifetime.”

  I return my attention to the field just in time to see Jake connect with his tight end for a first down. Everyone on our side of the stadium cheers.

  “So how are things going between you and Tyler?” Dimitri asks. “I saw you two walking through South Campus the other day holding hands. You looked good together. Like Beauty and the…Beauty.”

  Clarissa giggles.

  “Things are good,” I say. “We’re not officially dating. We’re just, you know…” I press my lips together. We’re just…what? Two junkies who are totally and completely addicted to each other? Because, truthfully, that’s how it feels—like neither of us can ever get enough. It’s enthralling and terrifying, all at once. If I feel this addicted now, I can’t imagine how I’m going to feel three weeks from now when Tyler and I are supposedly going to flip some magical switch and become nothing but friends.

  A collective gasp erupts in the stands, abruptly drawing my attention to the field. I gasp, too. A long pass from Jake to Aaron is spiraling through the air. Aaron is open. Running at full speed. Aaron extends his arms as he runs, and the ball lands smack into his hands midstride. The place erupts. Aaron evades a tackle. And keeps right on running. Touchdown.

  The place goes nuts. The extra point is good. The kick-off is uneventful. And now the defense, including Tyler, is jogging onto the field. Nerves grip my stomach. Come on, Tyler.

  I watch Tyler take his position in the backfield. He shouts something at his teammates. Points. Shouts again. He’s in command. He barks something urgently at one of his teammates in particular. The guy must be out of position. Either that or Tyler’s read something in the Trojans’ formation, and he’s letting the guy know what he sees. God, he’s so dang good at this game.

  The ball is snapped. The quarterback for the University of Spoiled Children drops back and lets loose a beautiful spiral headed for his star receiver. And Tyler’s right there. He leaps up and grabs the ball, making the entire stadium explode. He returns the interception for about twelve yards before he’s taken down and, again, every Bruin in the stadium goes ballistic.

  I scrutinize Tyler closely. He told me to watch him for a shout-out if he got an interception, and I can’t wait to see what he’ll do. But Tyler gets off the ground and calmly jogs toward the sideline, cradling his precious contraband in his bent arm. I hold my breath and wait. But, nope, he heads off the field with his entire defensive unit, without displaying even the slightest hint of excitement about his spectacular grab.

  “Talk about acting like you’ve been there before!” Clarissa shouts to Dimitri over the crowd.

  “He doesn’t want to get flagged for excessive celebration,” Dimitri explains, and the minute he says it, I realize he’s absolutely right. Of course. I know about that stupid rule against celebrating—so why’d I think he’d do something outwardly detectable for me after an interception? Clearly, he just meant he’d send me a little telepathic shout-out if he snagged a pass. I sit back down, feeling stupid for my high expectations.

  “He can’t celebrate at least a little bit?” Clarissa asks, taking her seat next to me.

  “Nope,” Dimitri says. “He can’t do the slightest thing after the play, or he’ll get dinged and the play will be negated.”

  As our offense heads onto the field to take over, I find Tyler on the sideline. He’s seated on a bench behind the coaches and players standing along the sideline. He’s getting high-fives and helmet slaps from his teammates. A cameraman for the jumbo screen makes his way over to the bench where Tyler’s sitting and, suddenly, his gorgeous face fills the massive screen.

  And then it happens.

  My secret signal.

  Tyler looks straight into the camera, brings the football up to his face mask, and moves it back and forth lengthwise across his face several times. And then, following that bit of awesomeness, Tyler lowers the ball, sticks out his tongue, and makes the exact face I’d imagine a cannibal would make right after eating another guy’s face off.

  Clarissa laughs. “What the hell was that? Was Tyler eating corn on the cob?”

  One of Dimitri’s friends posits another theory. “Maybe the ball was the heart of the dude Tyler just picked off. Tyler’s saying he’s a fucking cannibal, man.”

  I don’t say a word. Of course, I know they’re both wrong. Obviously, that first thing was Tyler pretending to be a beaver gnawing on a log. And that maniacal tongue-face he flashed after that? That was yet another coded message to me. To my crotch, specifically. Tyler just secretly told me he’s going to eat—and savor—his eager beaver’s beaver tonight. There might be a prohibition against “excessive celebrations” on the football field, but clearly, Tyler and I are going to have our own private “excessive celebration” of his triumph tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The song blaring in Tyler’s bedroom is yet another from his playlist of all-time favorites: “Enter Sandman” by Metallica. And, lucky me, I’m listening to this hard-hitting, nasty song while being bent over Tyler’s bed and getting pounded from behind.

  Tyler leans over to my ear. His breath is hot. One hand is on my breast. His other on my clit. “I’m gonna spank your ass in three seconds unless you tell me no.”

  What was that now? I open my mouth to reply and close it again. Why did Tyler ask for a no this time, rather than an explicit yes? But before I can engage in further analysis of that puzzle, Tyler’s hand leaves my breast, and I feel a stinging sensation on my right ass cheek. Well, I’ll be damned. That turned me on.

  “Yes?” he growls.

  “Yes.”

  Tyler continues pounding me for a bit more, and then he spanks me again…and…I…come so hard, my legs collapse underneath me. I crumple onto the bed, growling with my pleasure.

  In a flash, Tyler pulls out of me, grabs the purple dildo that’s been ominously sitting on the edge of the bed this whole time, and slides that sucker inside me. Without further ado, he turns it on, bends down behind me, parts my ass cheeks, and proceeds to tongue my asshole.

  Almost instantly, my back-door muscles begin spasming like crazy. “Tyler,” I grit out, just before my body comes like a freight train, even harder than the last time. “Oh, my God.”

  I hear a splooging sound, like something being squeezed out of a bottle, and then the sensation of Tyler’s slick fingers sliding up and down my ass crack.

  Oh, jeez. I suddenly understand what Tyler’s about to do. “I’m scared,” I blurt.

  “Relax,” Tyler whispers, his breathing labored.

  I can’t relax. I can’t breathe. My chest is tight. “I’m scared.”

  “I’ll go slow,” he whispers. “The minute you say no, it’s over. No coaxing. No persuading. One ‘no’ and I’m immediately out. You trust me?”

  I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “Tell me you trust me.”

  “I trust you.”

  “This is going to feel amazing. You’ll see.”

  I take another deep breath.

  “Yes?” he whispers.

  “Yes.”

  He increases the speed of the vibrator inside me, sending its head knocking feverishly against my G-spot and the little silicone “rabbit” at its base swirling frenetically across my clit.

  I moan. I’m shaking. Short of breath.

  “Relax,” he coos. He slides his finger inside my ass, past the thick ring of muscles guarding its entrance, and… Wait. That’s not Tyler’s finger.

  I yelp. And kind of squeak. “So big,” I breathe, clutching the bedspread.

  “Breathe,” Tyler says into my ear. “Take a deep breath and exhale.”

  I do as I’m told, and he
slides himself farther inside me.

  “Yes?” he grits out.

  “Yes,” I choke out.

  One more deep breath and Tyler’s all the way inside me. He begins moving slowly. Holy motherfucking shit! I’ve got a vibrating dildo up my cooch and a giant cock up my ass? Who am I? And why does this feel so good? I make a garbled sound and tighten my grip on the bed covering. I’m hanging on for dear life.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Tyler gasps behind me, his voice strained. “Thank you, Jesus. You okay, baby?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but a tsunami of white-hot ecstasy shoots through me, and then an orgasm like nothing I’ve felt before racks me—an orgasm so devastating to my system, it causes tears to spontaneously squirt out of my eyes.

  I crumple, but Tyler’s got me. He holds me up even as his dick ripples inside me with what feels to me like a huge orgasm for him.

  Finally, we collapse onto the bed together, both of us gasping for air.

  I pull the vibrating dildo out of me. Turn it off and toss it onto the bed. “Holy fuck,” I say.

  “Thank you, God,” he whispers. He gulps at the air for a moment. “Thank you, Zooey Cartwright.”

  We rearrange ourselves until we’re both lying on our sides, facing each other, our chests heaving. “You seemed to enjoy doing that just a little bit,” I say, smiling.

  “Holy shit. That was my first time. Amazing.”

  My eyes widen. “Seriously?”

  He nods. “You de-virginized me, Zooey Cartwright.”

  I smile broadly. “Does that mean I’m a lifelong memory now?”

  Tyler strokes my hair for a moment, looking deep in thought. He gently stretches a coiled strand of my hair taut, releases it, and watches it go boing. “You already were.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It’s Sunday afternoon. And for the third week in a row, I’m hanging out with Tyler at his place following a postgame sleepover. I glance up from the paper I’m editing on my laptop and peek at Tyler across the room. His T-shirt on this particular day reads Greatness. He’s staring at his economics textbook and mouthing the words to the current song from his “all-time favorites” playlist, “Flagpole Sitta” by Harvey Danger. I watch him for a moment, chuckling to myself about the quirky lyrics of the song and how adorable Tyler is singing along to it. He’s so sweet and funny. And gentle. It blows my mind he’s the same guy who hurls himself at opponents like a missile on Saturdays.

  “Can I ask you something?” I ask.

  Tyler looks up from his book.

  “How do you get yourself psyched up to be such a savage beast on the field? You’re always such a sweetheart off it.”

  Tyler makes a face like I’ve said something patently stupid. “I’m not always a sweetheart off the field. I’m a sweetheart around you because you’ve cast some sort of Zooey Cartwright spell on me.” He smiles. “But to answer your underlying question, I don’t know how I turn into that madman you see on the playing field. I guess football unleashes something primal inside me. Or, actually, maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe I’m innately a madman and football helps me keep myself in check the rest of the week? It definitely helps me release all my pent-up rage, that’s for sure.”

  Fascinating. I would have expected Tyler to say football helps him release his stress. But his pent-up rage? That’s a mighty strong choice of words, especially for a person I’ve come to regard as incredibly easygoing. “What’s the source of your pent-up rage?” I ask, closing my laptop.

  Tyler’s features noticeably tighten. “Oh, just life’s assorted fiascos and catastrophes. Nothing specific.” He smiles and looks down at his book again, his body language stiff.

  He’s not telling me something. Obviously. Out of nowhere, something Tyler once said to me pops into my head. My dad and sister always text me before games. At the time, I assumed his mom wasn’t included in that statement for an innocuous reason. Like, maybe she simply prefers calling her son on game days. But suddenly I’m wondering if maybe there’s a different explanation for his mother’s absence from that pregame ritual—like maybe his mother is absent from his life for some reason? Is he estranged from her? Did she abandon him?

  I’m still turning the idea over in my head when the playlist blaring through the room switches to “Careless Whisper” by George Michael…and the song instantly transforms Tyler. Immediately, he’s no longer stiff and brooding. He’s light and bright. “Best song ever,” Tyler declares. He begins serenading me with gusto, apparently not the least bit concerned he can’t carry a tune. Oh, my God. He’s absolutely adorable. “Sing with me, Zooey!” Tyler commands when the chorus arrives.

  I sing as best I can, although I don’t know the words nearly as well as Tyler does.

  In the middle of the song, when a sax solo begins, Tyler pulls me off the bed and twirls me around the small room. He dips me. Kisses me. Literally sweeps me off my feet. And then he serenades me again in the final chorus like his heart is breaking every bit as much as George’s. Finally, when the song ends, we return to Tyler’s bed, laughing.

  “It’s official,” I say. “You’re the weirdo, not me.”

  “I told you I sing that song better than George.”

  “That’s honestly what you think?”

  “Not just me. It’s what everyone says when I sing it. They say I put George to shame.”

  “And you wonder if the halo effect is real?”

  He laughs. “You’re implying I’m not genuinely brilliant at something?”

  “I would never imply such blasphemy about the great Tyler Caldwell. I’m saying it outright. You suck.” I beam a huge smile at him. “But you’re wonderful, too. I absolutely love hearing you sing, Tyler.”

  He chuckles. “You’ve got a fantastic voice, by the way. Wow.”

  “That? Oh, gosh.” I swat at the air. “I was just playing around. That’s not how I actually sing.”

  “Really? I thought it was damned good. Not nearly as good as my singing, of course. But really good.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “No? Okay, then show me how you really do it. Sing for real.”

  I shake my head.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please.”

  “Nope.”

  He scowls. “Why not?”

  “Too shy.”

  Now he looks astonished. “But you’re a theater major. You want to sing on Broadway one day.”

  “I’m not shy about singing for an actual audience. I’m just shy to sing for you. Here in your room. Just the two of us.”

  Tyler looks at me quizzically.

  “Onstage, there are blinding lights,” I explain. “I can’t see the faces. I get lost in the song. But here, when I’m just little ol’ me, being asked to sing for big ol’ you, it’s terrifying.”

  Tyler takes my hand and flashes me what I’m sure he thinks is his most charming smile. “Pretty please with a cherry on top sing for me, Zooey Cartwright?”

  I shake my head.

  Tyler drops my hands like a hot potato. “Damn. With every other girl in the world, that would have worked like a charm. No one can resist my ‘pretty please with a cherry on top’ eyes.”

  I shrug. “Until now.”

  “Well, shit,” Tyler says. “Can I at least watch a video of you singing for real? There’s got to be something on YouTube from one of your high school musicals or whatever.”

  “Yeah, sure. My performance when I won this regional showcase is on YouTube. It’s what got me my biggest scholarship.”

  “You won? Out of how many people?”

  “To start with? Thousands. By the bitter end, maybe forty?”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I’ve won lots of singing competitions. For a year, I competed in everything I could find that had scholarship money as the prize. The scholarships I won are going to pay for my first three years of expenses. After that, I’ll have to work
and take out loans, but it shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “How did I not know this about you? You’re a badass singer?”

  I shrug.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, Cartwright. Wow.” He motions to his computer. “Well, cue that showcase up, dude. I want to see it.”

  I grab Tyler’s laptop and navigate to YouTube. “The song I performed at that big showcase was ‘Defying Gravity’ from Wicked. It’s my favorite. If ever I get to perform in Wicked, that’ll be my version of playing in the Super Bowl. And I don’t even need to be Elphaba. Even if I’m just in the chorus, whether on Broadway or just touring, I’ll feel like I’ve arrived. But if I do get to be Elphaba one day, especially on Broadway, oh my freaking God, that’ll be like winning ten Super Bowls and being named MVP in all of them.”

  “I’ve never heard of Wicked.”

  “Never heard of Wicked? What? First Babar, then Josie and the Pussycats, and now this? Tyler Caldwell!”

  He chuckles. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a prequel to The Wizard of Oz. It’s about how this green-skinned girl named Elphaba grows up to become the Wicked Witch of the West. She wasn’t wicked to start with—in fact, she was genuinely kind-hearted and good. She was just always misunderstood and ostracized because of her green skin. I guess you could say poor Elphaba experienced the opposite of the halo effect, thanks to her skin color.”

  “Wow. It sounds cool.”

  “Oh, God, it is, Tyler. I love it so, so much.” I find the link to the showcase video and cue it up. “When my grandparents took me to New York for the first time at age ten, they took me to see Wicked on Broadway, and I swear to God in that moment, I knew exactly…” Something in the way Tyler’s looking at me makes me trail off. “Why are you… What?”

  Tyler smiles. “You’re totally lit up right now, Zooey. Like a Christmas tree. This is by far the sexiest you’ve ever looked to me. And that’s saying a lot.”

  I blush.

  “But go on. I’m listening. I’m hard as a rock, but I’m listening.”