Extra Credit

by Sarina Bowen

  I don’t make any promises.

  He puts the car in gear and starts her up.

  It’s a twenty-minute drive, and I spend it thinking about Graham and how happy he’ll be that I have a couple of extra days to spend with him.

  The car is silent until the moment my father pulls up in front of the giant brewery building.

  “Wow,” I say, eyeing the place. “They must print money in this place.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” When I open the car door, my father grips my forearm. “One second, okay?”

  Slowly, I turn back to face him.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks.

  “Uh…” I glance at the bar, wishing myself inside. I’m so close to freedom, and I don’t know how to interpret his question.

  “Next time we see each other, how about I visit you?” he suggests. “I could come to one of your games in the fall.”

  “Okay,” I say quickly. A visit on my own turf sounds about a thousand times better than this debacle.

  “What else?”

  “The tuition you’ve been paying,” I blurt out. “I want my degree, and I appreciate your help with the part that financial aid doesn’t cover.”

  “Of course. That’s a given.”

  Hearing that brings my blood pressure down more than a few notches. “That’s really all I need, I guess. For now. I’ll spend next summer with Gran again. It’s my last chance before I graduate in a year.”

  “One more year,” he says.

  “Yeah. Pretty hard to believe.”

  He actually smiles. “Please take care of yourself. Call my cell if there’s something else I can do for you.”

  “All right. Thanks.” I wrench my bag off the floor of the car and push the door open wider.

  “Hey.”

  I look back one more time after getting out.

  “I’m proud of you.”

  Shit! My eyes well up immediately. “Thanks,” I say, giving him an awkward wave before shutting the door. Then I’m standing there on the sidewalk in front of a giant brew pub, my eyes like fountains.

  Because I’d needed to hear that so very badly.

  I wait until my dad drives off down the street. Then I take a deep breath and begin a slow trip around the building. The brewery takes up an entire city block. By the time I make it to the entrance, the cold winter air has dried my eyes. They’re probably red, though.

  Graham won’t care.

  “Enjoy,” the bouncer says after checking my ID.

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter 7

  Graham

  The stress makes me stressy.

  No.

  Wait.

  The stress makes me sloppy. Like, seriously. With just three pints of the special ale in me, I’m already slurring. Or I will be if I decide to say anything.

  I just sit here drinking the special, getting blurry. But it’s not every day you tell your former hockey team you need a good dicking down.

  Wait.

  No, I didn’t say that.

  But I do. Need one, that is.

  Blergh.

  Suddenly, the special special ale develops some righteous hallucinogenic powers. I look up and Rik is standing across the room, trying to make eye contact with me.

  I stand up so fast the beer glasses on the table rattle.

  “Whoa, there,” Jason says, steadying his glass.

  Rikker’s beautiful mouth is curved into a guarded smile. He starts walking toward me, but I can’t wait. I take a couple of steps toward him and sort of launch myself in his direction.

  Or rather, I try to. But drunk legs don’t always go where you’ve planned. My aim is off, and my hug is going to miss its target. Rik sort of catches me before I tumble. The hug I’ve planned becomes more like an aerial rescue.

  “Wow,” he says, bracing me against his strong, delectable chest. “Easy, killer.” Gently, he sets me onto my feet then takes a step back.

  I’m disappointed until I see him eyeing the table of hockey players behind me. We have an audience, damn it. And it’s me who always refuses PDA. Rikker is just watching out for me. As always.

  But why is he here? I want to ask, but a giant beer belch stops my progress.

  Rik’s eyes widen. And they’re kind of blurry. Someone is blurry. It might be me.

  “Hey,” I say stupidly.

  “Hey, yourself. You okay?”

  “I’m…the special.”

  Everyone laughs all at once, including Rikker.

  “Uh, okay,” he says, his gaze giving everyone else a once-over. “Hi guys. Remember me?”

  “Kinda,” Matty Newman says. “But we got a refresher on your life a little while ago.”

  “Really,” Rikker says, his expression cautious again.

  “Congrats on your division championship last year.”

  “Thanks?” He looks me up and down. “You got wasted and then got confessional?”

  I turn my finger in a circle. “Other way around. Not sure why I’m so…” Burp.

  “It’s the special ale,” Jason says. “It’s fifteen percent alcohol.”

  “Fifteen?” Rikker and I say in unison. He leans over and lifts my nearly empty glass off the table. He takes a sip. “So that’s, like, two or three times as potent as a normal beer.”

  “That explains a lot,” I say slowly, careful to articulate each word. “Want one?” I ask. “Sit?” Short sentences work better right now.

  The rest of the guys sort of shake off their surprise. Chairs scrape against the floor as they make room for Rikker.

  Still, he hesitates. “Sure? I didn’t mean to crash.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were hanging with the parents?”

  “Not so much.” His shoulders slump. “I’ll fill you in on that later.”

  “Oh fuck.” And now I notice the suitcase in his hand.

  “Whatever. Hey—did you eat anything?”

  I shake my head.

  He puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me gently toward my empty chair. “Sit. Let me find you some food, because I think you need it. Anyone else want anything?”

  Newman stands up. “Should I just make this simple and order a burger for everyone?”

  “Sure,” Jason says, tossing a twenty dollar bill toward Newman.

  Feeling a little more sober, I watch Rikker walk toward the food window with Newman. “So you played for Michigan State, right?” Rikker is saying. “You must know Jared Smith.”

  “Sure do…”

  As they move out of earshot, I’m admiring Rikker’s muscular ass in a pair of well-worn khaki pants. It’s just occurring to me that his troubles at home mean that I’ve gained two extra days in his company. And I am…wasted.

  Bummer.

  “So…” Jason says. “You’re, like, a couple? Really?”

  “Yeah. He won’t graduate this spring, though,” I slur. “We might be long distance.”

  Jason looks from Rikker to me once more and then frowns. “Still don’t quite get it.”

  “S’okay.” I shrug. “Took me a while, too.”

  He laughs, but I’m dead serious. “Do people give you shit sometimes? Is that why you stopped playing hockey?”

  I shake my head. “It’s complicated. People can be dicks. But you figure out pretty quick who your real friends are. And everybody who doesn’t treat you like a leper, you’re grateful for those people. It makes you a better friend to them.”

  “Yeah, all right. That makes sense.” He nods slowly.

  Rikker and Newman come back a few minutes later, with two trays heavy with burgers and fries. Rikker uncaps a bottle of water and hands it to me. “Drink this.”

  I do.

  “Now eat this,” he says, passing me a plate.

  Half a dozen hockey players eye us as if we’re about to start humping in public, or something.

  I’m too drunk to care. I eat the burger and never take my eyes off Rikker.


  Chapter 8

  Rikker

  After a good burger and fries, I feel more optimistic about humanity than I did before.

  When the hockey team party breaks up, I take Graham’s keys and prepare to drive his family Subaru back to the suburb where we grew up. “Should we call your parents and give ’em a heads-up?” I ask in the parking lot. “Your mom wasn’t expecting a guest.”

  Graham shakes his head sloppily. “They’re out tonight. And she won’t mind at all. Think she was half expecting you to turn up, anyway.”

  I groan. “Hope she put money on it, then.”

  “How bad was it?” my boyfriend asks, dropping onto the passenger’s seat and pulling his door closed.

  “Well…” I toss my suitcase in the backseat and then get into the driver’s seat. “My dad wasn’t the problem. He’s been surprisingly cool. But he hasn’t done a good job of corralling my mother. She invited that bigot of a pastor over tonight to try to talk me into therapy.”

  Graham twists toward me so fast his knee bangs into the stick shift. “No shit?”

  Nodding, I start the engine. “I just walked out without saying anything. My father is probably gonna be in the doghouse for weeks for driving me over here to meet you.”

  “He can take it,” Graham argues. “If he wanted you home so bad, he should have made sure she wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. But for the first time I feel a little sorry for my dad. It had almost been easier to hate both of them equally. I back out of the parking spot. “Okay, don’t laugh. Which way do I turn? I never really drove around downtown before.”

  Graham flinches. The neighborhood where I’d gotten beaten up is probably less than two miles from here. That awful day had happened right after I got my license. “Turn left. We need the highway entrance.”

  “Okay,” I say after a minute. “This looks sort of familiar. It’s trippy. Like I know this place, and I don’t.”

  “Sorry I got so drunk,” he says quietly. “Didn’t mean to.”

  My hand crosses the gearbox to squeeze his knee. “It’s not a problem. I’m proud of you for coming out to those guys. That must have been scary.”

  He shrugs, not wanting the praise. “I’m getting better at it.”

  “I know you are.”

  Walking into Graham’s house is like walking into my past again. Only this time I don’t mind. There’s the kitchen table where we used to eat a whole package of cookies in one sitting. And there’s the door to the basement where we used to go to play video games and make out.

  “I’m putting your bag in my room,” Graham says, his hand on the bannister. “Let’s watch a movie. I need to sober up.”

  “Okay. In the den?” I don’t know where Graham watches his TV these days.

  “On my bed. I’ll be right back to look for popcorn, unless you want to do it.”

  “Sure.” I’m not hungry, but I open Mrs. Graham’s cabinet above the toaster. Some things don’t change at all in seven years. The microwave popcorn is right where it always was.

  All the best parts of my early teenaged years had happened in this house and on the ice rink a mile or so from here.

  Humming to myself, I put the popcorn in the nuker and throw away its plastic wrapper. I check my phone and find a text message from Trevi, the Harkness team captain. My sister knitted me another pair of socks for Christmas. Want to bet on whether Big-D calls them gay?

  There’s a photo attached, and it makes me laugh. The socks are a painfully bright orange.

  I’m sure your sister loves you. But she hides it well, I reply.

  No kidding. DJ got socks in a nice, soothing navy. How’s your vacation?

  Standing in G’s kitchen right now making popcorn. It could be worse. As I tap this out, I realize it’s true. Even if the day has been an emotional shit show, I’m going to be okay. You?

  Heading out to a pickup hockey game.

  Have fun!

  I dump the popcorn in one of Mrs. G’s bowls. Then I grab two cans of Coke out of the well-stocked refrigerator and carry everything upstairs. Graham’s room isn’t very familiar to me, because we’d always hung out in his basement when we were young. His room is also a shrine to high school, I notice. There are hockey trophies on the bookshelf, much like the ones in my Vermont bedroom.

  I make myself at home on the bed and turn on his TV, wondering what we should watch.

  Graham emerges from the bathroom a minute later, wiping his face with a towel. “You pick something?”

  I haven’t. “Diablo?”

  “We looked at that one before.” Graham frowns. “Weren’t the reviews terrible? You’re in a Scott Eastwood mood, huh?”

  “I might be.” I look down at his serene face. His eyes are closed even as he argues with me. “I don’t care what movie we watch. I just want to sit here with you and think about nothing.”

  He opens one eye. “That’s all you want to do?”

  “Well…” I chuckle. “I can think of some other fun activities I could get up to with your big drunk self. But your parents could show up at any point, right?”

  “Yup.” He sighs, relaxing against me. “Pick a movie. You don’t even have to tell me what it is.”

  The warm weight of him feels great against my chest, and I sift my fingers through his dark-blond hair. Then I choose a movie.

  “What the fuck?” Graham sputters a minute or so later when he realizes that I’ve picked The Longest Ride. “This is a chick flick.”

  “Scott Eastwood riding bulls, though.”

  He laughs so hard he gurgles into my abs.

  “Breathe, dude.” I rub his back. “It’s not that funny.”

  “It is!” He wraps his arms around my waist and howls.

  “Mmm. Lower,” I encourage.

  Still chuckling, he kisses the fly of my jeans. Then he does it again, the tease.

  “Kiss me, fool.”

  His smiling mouth lifts to find mine. And—drunk or not—Graham’s kiss is sweet and hot. He presses his delectable hips against mine and tilts his head. “Mmm,” he breathes as his lips make the perfect connection.

  Indeed.

  I open for him, sliding my tongue between his lips. He tastes like toothpaste and comfort. His big hands grip my body as our kisses grow deeper. It isn’t frantic, though. When we were teens, making out was a sweaty dash to the finish line. Our sixteen-year-old selves were too desperate to get off to savor each kiss.

  But we’re older and wiser now. Both rhythmic and lazy. This is the good part, too.

  With my arms around Graham, I roll us to the side. Our bodies line up so perfectly and our movie is forgotten. Hands skim and caress. My dick is pretty excited about bumping against Graham’s, but the rest of me is more relaxed than I’ve been all week. Everything is finally okay.

  I love you, my kisses say.

  I know, is his reply. And then Graham’s kisses slow down, his body lolling against mine.

  “You’re falling asleep kissing me, aren’t you?”

  “Not all the way,” he mumbles.

  Laughing, I tuck him against my side, the back of my hand stroking his drunk face. He lets out a contented sigh.

  We have all night. So I turn my attention back to the movie. Scott Eastwood and the earnest little college student spend a lot of time staring into each other’s eyes.

  It’s a little dull, to be honest.

  “Hey,” I say, jiggling Graham a little when there is finally some nudity. “Scott Eastwood, naked. Shower sex.”

  “Mmrrhb,” Graham says. But then he shakes himself awake. He glances at the screen and perks up even more. “Now we’re talking.”

  But he doesn’t watch. He moves the bowl of popcorn off the bed, and then lifts my shirt. Two seconds later his lips are teasing the skin just below my belly button. And his hand is fumbling with the button on my khakis.

  “Well, hello to you, too,” I say happily. Since I’m still holding the remote, I pause the movie and co
ncentrate on what’s really important—Graham’s mouth near my cock. He’s teasing me a little—kissing my stomach and slowly unzipping me. Even when that’s done, he only strokes me over my briefs, his fingers teasing me through the cotton.

  I push my fingers through his golden hair and sigh. My hips roll eagerly and he chuckles.

  “You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

  “Yep,” he says between kisses. “S’nice.”

  Yes, it is. I reach down and adjust myself, which has the benefit of making the tip of my erection visible.

  Graham takes the hint, lapping at me with his tongue. But he’s still making me wait for more, because he knows it makes me crazy.

  Really, things could be worse.

  “Michael? Are you still up?” The sound of Mrs. Graham’s voice cuts through my happy, horny reverie.

  I’m basically stunned like a deer in the road. But Graham reacts, sitting up fast, grabbing the popcorn bowl and planting it squarely over my unzipped crotch. The jerky movement flings a few kernels of popcorn overboard, though.

  As her face appears in the open doorway, I grab the remote and try to look innocent.

  Her eyebrows lift in surprise at the sight of me on the bed with Graham. “Johnny!” she whispers. “Hi, honey!”

  “Hi, Mrs. G!” I give her a big, awkward smile.

  Her eyes flit toward the screen, where Scott Eastwood’s wet, naked body is frozen in HD. “Good movie?” she asks, and I can hear the humor in her voice.

  “Eh,” I say. “It has its moments.”

  “I was fixing to have cookies and tea, if anyone’s interested,” she says. “I just need to take off these heels.”

  “Great plan,” I agree sheepishly.

  As she disappears, I think I can hear her chuckling.

  Downstairs, I dip pieces of a chocolate chip cookie in milk while Mrs. G asks me questions, first about myself and then about Graham, who declined to come down with us. “You’re sure he’s okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  “His old friends weren’t awful?”