by Mariah Dietz
“Yeah. Totally. You shop around for guys by their front lumps. I know.”
A bitter laugh breaks the sudden silence. “I’m serious. I’m going to meet someone tonight, and I’m going to make out with him and shove my hands down his pants. I’ll report back.”
“Better yet, keep a journal.”
“A journal?”
“My roommate and I did this in college. We rated dicks.”
I stare at my sister, shock rounding my eyes.
“What?” she asks.
“I don’t know… That just seems … incredibly … incredibly … sexist.”
Maggie laughs. “It is. It was.” She moves closer to me. “But, you don’t have to pretend to be someone else. Just be you.”
“I don’t know who I am. I’ve dated five guys in my life.” The recycled words almost sound truthful.
Almost.
“What happened last night? I realized you guys had something going on when you were both gone forever.”
I want to pretend like I don’t know what she’s referring to, but tears are threatening to slip from my eyes. “He likes me, just not enough to date me.”
“He said that?” Rage coats her question.
“In the shape of a million excuses.”
She twists to fully face me, making me want to give her a safety speech about her seat belt. “Screw that. Have fun and shove your hands down all the guys’ pants tonight. Hell, consider it science. Be like Paxton and his friends.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not breaking down penis sizes by hair color.”
My sister laughs so hard, she leans forward, resting her weight against the belt barely holding her upright. “Go out tonight. Spend some time with Poppy and forget about everything.”
Her words replay through my mind like a mantra as we park and head for the stands. We find Poppy, a mess of snacks in her lap and a welcoming smile on her face. Sometimes, I wonder if we have multiple soul mates, ones who serve different purposes, because there’s something about Poppy that has always brought a calmness to me like a balm, easing the discomfort from all situations.
“Hey,” she says, shifting the bag of snacks to the ground so she can reach forward and hug Maggie and then me. “It’s so great seeing you.” Her tone is sincere.
“You, too. Gosh, I thought Rae looked old, but it’s really weird to see you both grown up.” Maggie looks between us. “You look fantastic.”
Poppy’s cheeks turn a deeper shade of red that she can’t blame on the bleak temperatures. “I can’t believe you guys don’t take advantage of the boxed seats. Dad’s a dean. Use the perks!” Maggie says, sitting closer to me.
“The only people who sit in there are adults and guests. It’s boring and stuffy.”
“But warm,” Maggie says.
“They have better snacks, too,” Poppy adds, rustling through her bag until she pulls out a bag of peanut M&M’s that she hands to Maggie.
“You remembered!” The astonishment in her voice is clear though uncalled for because Poppy remembers details about people like moms remember their children’s first word and step at the call of a dime. Poppy smiles in response, plunging her hand back into her bag of treats until she finds Skittles and passes them to me.
“Is this team good?” Poppy asks.
I nod, ripping open the bag. “This is going to be a tough game for Pax.”
“What does that mean?”
I sniff, my nose so cold it and my fingers are already starting to lose feeling. “They’re going to be trying to sack him.”
“Didn’t they say he has one of the fastest releases in the league?”
“Yeah, but they’ll still go for knockdowns.”
Her brow furrows as she reaches for the green and yellow Skittles I save for her. “Why?”
“Get in his head. If he knows someone’s going to be tackling him, chances are he’s going to start looking for where the threat will be coming from or make a mistake in an attempt to prevent it.”
“So, they’re just going to keep coming at him?”
I shift my attention from the field to Poppy, hearing the concern in her voice that is etched across her face. “It’ll be a tough game,” I admit. “They’re all going to get banged up and frustrated. This is going to be a game of patience and wills.”
Poppy and Maggie get up to get new snacks twice with the excuse to move around for warmth and hot snacks. I don’t go with them, my attention glued to the field where Paxton’s patience is slimming by the second. He’s been hit with nearly each set, his white jersey stained with mud and grass. Arlo is pacing, and Derek is yelling again. The game isn’t bringing out anyone’s best qualities. Lincoln is rigid, and I’m sure his shoulders are as tight as his covered jaw as he points a gloved finger at Arlo and makes a demand before turning his attention to Pax. I hope he’s telling them to just work toward four seconds—a flash of time that will open windows for them.
Maggie grips my arm. “They have to win.”
I don’t agree with her or voice my concerns, focusing on the new lineup, noting there’s a change that I can’t decipher. “What are they doing?” I whisper. My attention is glued to the field, watching everyone scramble. I look at Pax, waiting for the reception, but then the ball flies into the air, and I realize Arlo just passed it downfield. The ball soars surprisingly far, and though it’s not as straight as Pax usually delivers, right now, all we need is distance from their defense. My breath catches in my chest, watching as Lincoln dives for the ball. He catches it in one of the most epic plays of the night.
That play seems to alter the remainder of the game, renewing Brighton’s intensity and confidence, and sending them into another victory that has the stadium erupting with raucous cheers.
Maggie’s beside me, screaming with both arms in the air, and I realize in that moment, watching as the team overcomes their fears and shaken disposition, how full my heart feels, bringing forth a determination to corner Lincoln tonight and tell him exactly how I feel. How I’m willing to risk my heart being broken even if it’s on borrowed time. Even if we’ll be breaking a dozen rules. Even if he rejects me.
34
My body is consumed with equal parts nerves and excitement as I follow Poppy into the house at the address Pax texted to me. I allow the butterflies to take flight, not working to tamper them like I have previously when I know I’m about to see Lincoln.
“Oh, he’s cute,” Poppy whispers, sagging back as a guy with curly brown hair and a straight nose approaches us.
The team isn’t here yet. I can tell because the hordes of girls are milling around rather than focusing on anyone in particular. The acknowledgment has me missing the introductions, but I smile, following Poppy’s lead and giggling when the guy we’ve been talking to tells us he’s on the basketball team.
My laugh is too high, and I attribute it to the water bottle filled with orange juice and vodka Poppy and I finished before we came inside. She said it was to loosen up, and loosen her up it did. I’ve never seen my best friend so fearless and bold. I’m hoping it helps give me the courage I need to approach Lincoln.
The guy whose name I can’t recall, nods.
“My best friend played basketball.” Poppy places her hands on either of my shoulders. “Raegan was so good, she even got one of those little basketball things for her letterman’s jacket.”
The guy turns to me. “Oh, so you’re…?” he points between Poppy and me, his words trailing off.
I wait for him to continue, my brows furrowed. “We’re what?”
“Taco party fans.”
I glance at Poppy, hoping for a translation. Her eyes are impossibly round, and then she belts out a laugh that hurts my ears. “Yup. We are. You’re so smart!” She reaches forward and pats his cheek.
Realization dawns on me. My jaw drops. “Why would you assume that because I played sports, I’m a lesbian?” Offense coats each of my words.
The guy shrugs, like the answer is apparent.
&
nbsp; Before I can say anything else, Poppy whirls us around, her arm tightly entwined with mine, and she hauls me deeper into the bowels of the party.
“Can we tell Paxton that guy tried to put his hands on your cooch?”
Poppy laughs. “Who cares if that asshole assumes we’re lesbians? That might be the best excuse if someone we aren’t interested in tries flirting with us.”
“Don’t you think that would be offensive and insensitive to people who are gay?”
“Probably…”
“I’d rather just punch whomever in the nose … or have Paxton do it.” I release a deep breath, considering pulling out the second water bottle she’d made for me that’s buried in my purse. “Do guys really think it’s butch for a girl to have played sports? What if I tell him I drive a manual? Or that I like beer?”
Poppy giggles again. Holding a conversation with her started to get more difficult when she cleared the first half of her drink, it’s now nearing impossible. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t even think about him. Let’s go find some hot guys and make out.” She shoves her hand in my purse and procures the water bottle. “Drink. Just a little. It will help. I swear.”
I accept it with another sigh and take a long drink. The juice is warm, but it still goes down easy, the hint of alcohol heating my throat.
Poppy smiles. “Okay. Now. Who do you want?”
“What?”
“Let’s make a top five list. That way we know to avoid each other’s top picks.”
“I…”
She spins me to face the opposite direction and raises an arm, pointing at a guy with long blond hair that’s in a knot on his head. “He’s on my list. Keep away from him, ho.”
I slap a hand over my eyes.
“Oh, and him,” Poppy continues, peeling my hand from my face and pointing to another blond. This one has shorter hair and is missing his shirt. His torso and biceps are corded with muscles that girls are petting like a damn puppy as he flexes.
“You’re going to have a hard time competing with his ego. I’m pretty sure he already thinks he’s the prettiest person here.” I turn, taking in more of the people here. “What’s with the ratios of girls to dudes?” I ask. “Who throws these parties?”
“You need to drink some more. You’re still caring too much about inconsequential things.”
“I’m impressed. You just used inconsequential in a sentence while drunk.”
“I’m impressive, what can I say?” She curtsies.
“Dang, girl! Don’t let Gore see you, because you might be the reason for global warming.” A guy with short, spiky hair places his hands on Poppy’s waist.
His pickup line has me rolling my eyes as I watch too carefully where he moves his hands.
She giggles in reply. “He’s on my list, too.”
“I’m on your list?” he asks. “What kind of list?”
“Guys she’s not allowed to flirt with.” Poppy points at me.
He turns his head toward me, a quick smile gracing his lips, but his eyes never rise higher than my chest.
What a winner.
“I think I saw a friend from class, so I’m going to…” I lie, pointing in the opposite direction. “If you need anything…” But Poppy seals her mouth over his before I can finish.
“And this is what a third wheel feels like,” I mutter, taking several steps back so I can keep her in view.
“Hey.”
My heart spins like it’s on the teacup ride at Disney World as Lincoln steps in front of me, stopping me.
“Hey, President,” a girl says his nickname like Marilyn Monroe sang the lyrics “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” Innuendos are practically being screamed by her eyes that are undressing him and her fingers that trail slowly across his torso.
My thoughts fall like a game of fifty-two card pickup. Do I say something? Do I try to up this game of flirting that everyone else seems so adept at? Do I focus his attention back on me and the fact he just admitted his attraction to me?
She leans closer.
My thoughts fall faster.
“Hey,” he says, smiling at her.
“Want to go see the rest of the house?” Her words cause a twisting sensation in my heart.
“I’m busy,” he says, slipping a hand around my waist.
The girl looks at me for the first time before flicking her attention back to Lincoln with raised brows like she can’t understand his decision.
I’m not sure I do either.
“I like your shirt,” he says, leaning forward, the scents of his cologne drowning me.
“You had a really good game,” I counter.
His smile is almost shy, a contradiction to the flashy smile I often see him grace others with who compliment his playing. “Tonight was brutal.”
“It was, but you guys did it. I didn’t even know what you were doing in that formation before everything turned. I was so confused, and I could tell the defense was, too.”
He grins. “That’s a high compliment, coming from you.”
I smile as my heart thunders, trying to piece together the right words to ask him to risk his friendship with Paxton and his free time for me.
“God, you’re fucking kerosene,” he mumbles.
I pull away, the word plaguing me with a million unwanted thoughts.
“I know being with you is going to get me burned, but I don’t care. I can’t stay away from you anymore.”
My heart leaps as I shake my head, a million stories of my fears playing, all of them involve me being the one who gets burned, while he moves on to success and stardom.
“I can’t breathe when you’re not near me.” His words trigger something in my heart that makes me reach for him, endless promises tangling into a jumble of words I don’t quite know how to express.
“What about Paxton?” I ask.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“What about—”
His lips crush mine, ceasing my words that are reaching for reasons to keep us apart. He steals more than my words and thoughts in that moment, as I grip his shoulders, pulling him closer to me.
He pulls away too fast, his eyes heavy with lust. “If we go upstairs, people will assume the worst. Go to the bathroom. It’s at the end of the hall on your left. I’ll knock three times.” He brushes his thumb across my bottom lip before he twists and disappears.
I feel my heartbeat pounding in my head and my neck, even in my fingertips as I glance around, wondering who might have seen us—waiting to see their shocked expressions to confirm it was real.
But everyone is preoccupied with their own agendas and crushes, leaving us in a bubble of anonymity that likely would have been abruptly popped had we pushed the limits. I pull in a deep breath, trying to calm my heart as I follow his instructions to the bathroom. I expect a line. Movies always portray long lines at bathrooms, and in my short college career, I’ve managed to avoid them, my aversion to public restrooms strong. Instead, the hall and bathroom are both empty as I close the door and debate locking it as I flip on the lights, blinking when the harsh fluorescent bulbs buzz and flicker.
A knuckle scrapes the door in three quick bursts, and my heart somehow beats faster, threatening to break my ribs that have worked for so long to cage in my feelings.
I open the door and come face-to-face with Lincoln, who flashes a pirate smile before slipping inside and locking the door behind him.
My tongue feels swollen and my head slightly faint as his fingers brush against my sides. I don’t know if I should explain I’m a virgin or that I don’t want my first time to be in the bathroom of a house I don’t even know.
His smile grows like he can read my thoughts, making me wonder if it’s actually possible for him get inside of my head. “I just need to be near you. I need to feel you.”
I swallow. “I don’t think I understand everything you’re saying.”
He shakes his head, his grin turning into a smirk. “I’m not sure I do, either. Just tell me a
ll the noise that’s guaranteed to come from everyone when they find out about us isn’t going to scare you. Tell me this is more than just my name and your love for the game.”
It’s the first time he’s ever exposed an iota of vulnerability, and it’s like a sucker punch to the gut, making me drunk on him in a split-second. I slide my hands around his neck, careful to avoid his shoulder that I know is going to be sore after tonight’s game. “I’ve tried telling myself I don’t like you for three years. Trust me, this has nothing to do with the game, and sense left me a long time ago.”
“Three years?” His breath fans across my lips as he steps closer, a victorious light shining in his eyes, making me regret the admission and for my cheeks to stain with embarrassment. “You’ve just made my fucking night.” He leans closer, brushing my lips with his in a kiss that makes me forget secrets and rejections as I memorize his taste with each lick of his tongue, his hands gripping me tighter, pulling me into the current I’ve striven to avoid for so long. His kisses become deeper—urgent, and though my breath is growing faster, it finally feels like I can breathe, like he’s breathing life into me as my remaining excuses tumble and fall away.
His fingers tangle in my hair, and his kisses turn languid, slowing as his tongue turns purposeful, leaving lingering paths of heat and promises of the many things he could do to my body, making my stomach and areas farther south clench with anticipation. A contradiction of emotions has me feeling both empowered and weak as I wrap my arms tighter around his shoulders, my chest flush against his, feeling the warmth of his skin through his long-sleeved tee and my top that I’m ready to beg him to remove. I want to feel his flesh against mine, memorize the heat and pressure of his body like I have his expressions.
“I want to feel you,” I whisper, pulling only my lips away. “I want to feel you touching me.”
His nose grazes my neck, nuzzling my flesh and sending a current of goose bumps down my back and arms, and then, like he senses my reaction to him, he flicks his tongue against my neck, sending a shockwave to my aching core.
I slide my hands down his shoulders, moving another step back so I can pull my shirt free, dropping it to the floor with a nearly silent kiss of air. It’s the only sound as Lincoln’s eyes drink me in, staring at my body like art enthusiasts stare at the Statue of David, making me feel reveled and beautiful, strong and desired.
