by Jenna Rose
“Baby!” he says with a smile. “You made it. What do you think? Purple or pink tie?”
He holds one up and then the other. Honestly, I don’t like either. But I don’t want to get into it.
“Purple,” I tell him.
“Really?” he asks, eyeing me strangely. “I think I like the pink.”
Of course he does.
“Hey, listen,” I tell him. “I can’t make it tonight. Charles gave me a story.”
“Nat! It’s the big formal tonight! I told you weeks ago!”
He did, and I’ve been dreading it ever since. As a girl with “a few extra pounds,” the last thing I want to do is squeeze into a dress and parade around with all the other girlfriends who look like they belong on a runway.
“There’s nothing I can do, babe,” I tell him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry!”
“Nat!” Rick calls after me, but I’m already out the door and back outside. I have a job to do tonight, and the last thing I need right now is an argument. I need to be focused if I’m going to survive doing a story on Bobby Brodeur.
As I get into my car, I realize that for the first time in a long time while getting ready for an assignment, my heart is racing. I’m nervous…
I was nervous for my first few assignments, but I got over it quickly. To use a sports analogy, I just dove right in headfirst, deciding it was the best way to learn how to swim. But for some reason, as I pull out of the parking lot and head for the arena, I’m nervous. I’m actually nervous, and I know what the reason is.
Bobby Brodeur.
2
Bobby
“Bobby-motherfucking-Brodeur! How many goals you gonna score this season?”
I glance up at Ray as I pull off my helmet. He’s grinning like a skull as he gives me a fist-bump and takes a seat beside me. I had a hat trick tonight—that’s three goals for those not in the know—and two of them came from assists from Ray.
“Let’s say….three times more than you?” I suggest. Ray was the biggest scorer on the Bruins until I showed up; now he has to play backseat to me, but together we’re an unstoppable duo. Out on the ice, when we’re in sync, nothing can stop us.
“Yeah, well, I get three times as many girls,” he scoffs, smacking me on the shoulder as he pulls off his glove. I grin and knock the helmet off his head.
“Problem is they all look like my grandma!”
The rest of the boys roar with laughter. Spirits are high; we just stomped the Flyers 4-0. We’re undefeated this season, and if I keep playing like I have been, I’ll be leading the boys to another Stanley Cup this year.
It’s safe to say that hockey is my thing. I may not have been the best student; I may not be able to paint you a picture or play the piano, but if you get me on the ice, I’ll give you a show you’ll never forget.
I’ve been in skates since just around when I learned to walk. Pops got me started early. He played himself but blew a knee right out of college. He managed to play a couple more years, but he was never the same. Every time I go out there, I’m thinking of him. He passed away the summer after I graduated from college—never even got to see me play in the NHL.
“Still on for the bubble bath tonight?” Lance asks, standing completely naked in front of me. I glance at him and shake my head.
“You really did it, you madman.”
“Damn right I did!” Lance laughs. “I’m as smooooooth as a butterfly.”
“Butterflies aren’t smooth, dipshit,” Jordan says, shouldering him out of the way. But Lance doesn’t care; he told us two days ago that he was going to wax his whole body to bring out the definition in his muscles, but none of us thought he’d actually go through with it.
“You look like a canned ham,” I tell him as I get to my feet and head for the showers.
The bubble bath he’s referring to tonight is one of my famous parties we’re having on the rooftop of the Revere. It started my senior year at BU; you get a whole bunch of bubbles, a bunch of half-dressed chicks, some music and some booze, and party until the sun comes up.
Come on. Can you blame me? I’m having the time of my life. Why would I want to get tied down to some girl who only wants to be my girlfriend so she can live the easy life? Maybe one day down the road I’ll meet a girl who really grabs my heart, but I’ve been taking a pretty generous sample size survey of the female population of the US, and so far it doesn’t seem likely that that’s ever going to happen.
I scrub the sweat off my body, hit the water, grab my towel, and head back into the locker room to grab my stuff. Lance is chatting with some press that have clustered around the door; he’s a sucker for that kind of stuff. I personally like to keep my distance. I fucking hate reporters with their leading questions and prying bullshit. Let them think and write what they want; they’re going to anyway. But when I see who Lance is talking to, something comes over me that I haven’t felt in a long time: jealousy.
The reporter he’s grinning at is an absolute goddess with curves that have my jaw hanging open. She shouldn’t be writing for a magazine; she should be in one. Any men’s magazine would kill to have that body in between their pages. Her thick, brunette hair hangs down her shoulders, framing her plump breasts that she’s hiding behind a professional black shirt. I instantly wonder what she’s wearing underneath, and my cock swells at the idea of sliding inside her and making her moan my name.
She’s obviously dressed to be taken seriously, but she’s also wearing a pair of black fuck-me pumps and a matching black skirt that pull my eyes to her baby-making hips. Supple. Fertile. Breeding material. She’s all that and more, and as I drag my eyes up her body, I feel like I’ve just taken the hardest hit of my life.
But there’s something on her face that has me even more intrigued; it’s like she doesn’t want to be here, and the way she’s flicking her eyes past Lance—who is clearly working game on her—makes me think she really wants to be talking to me. And really, who am I to deny a reporter an interview, right?
I get right up, let my towel fall to the floor, and stride right over to her. Lance is giving her some anecdote about when he was first picking up hockey as a kid, and I shoulder him out of the way, wanting to get him as far away from this goddess as possible. Shit, I think. Up close she’s even sexier.
I’m feeling slack-jawed, but it’s her eyes that go wide when she sees that I’m wearing nothing more than my birthday suit.
“Oh! Um…hi!” she stammers with a voice that sounds like honey. “Bobby! I—I was wondering if I could do an interview with you.”
“I don’t do interviews.” I smile as she does her best to keep her eyes above the waist. I’m half-hard already, despite the crowd of people around me. Thankfully, there are no other reporters behind her. She must have snuck in somehow. I like her already.
“Yes, I hear that, but—”
“I’ll do dinner though,” I smirk. She’s blushing. Nothing like she would be with my tongue against her clit.
“Mr. Brodeur—” she starts to say. I cut her off.
“Bobby. Call me Bobby. Or Champ if you’d like.”
I’m throwing her off, but she’s doing a good job keeping it together.
“I was just wondering if—”
“You look young,” I tell her, eyeing her up and down. Her shirt is doing its best to hide her rack, but failing miserably. “You don’t work for ESPN. Barstool?”
“Boston University,” she says proudly. Ah, now I get it.
“My alma mater.” I nod. “They sent you over here to butter me up and get the scoop, huh?”
“We’d just love to get an interview with such a successful alumnus.”
I lean in and take a breath. Christ, she smells good. “And I’d like to get those clothes off you,” I tell her.
I expected her to break, or at least show some sign of embarrassment, but she just nods slowly with pursed lips.
“Well, unlike you, Mr. Brodeur, I don’t take my clothes off for just
anybody.”
She turns to go, but before I even know what I’m doing, I have my hand around her wrist and I’m pulling her back to me.
“No? Who then?” I ask her. “Your boyfriend?”
“Who says I have a boyfriend?” she asks.
“Sexy girl like you,” I reply with a smile. “How couldn’t you?”
She seems to accept about two percent of my compliment but maintains her composure.
“Yes, I do have a boyfriend,” she replies.
“What’s he do? Does he spoil you? Treat you right?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Maybe not.” I shrug. “But if you want to know my business, you’re going to need to open up a bit.”
She shakes her head. “Not gonna happen. Sorry, Mr. Brodeur, but I can see where this is going. I’ll be leaving now.”
“Tell you what,” I say, holding her wrist tight. “Come to the rooftop of the Revere tonight and I’ll give you the whole scoop.”
She glares at me suspiciously. I just flash her my million-dollar grin and keep my eyes on hers. I’m hot between the legs. No girl has had this kind of effect on me since I first started hitting puberty. And I don’t even know her name yet.
“I think I have all I need,” she replies. She tries to pull away from me, but I don’t let her. I can’t. I don’t ever want her out of my presence.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
She shrugs.
“Don’t worry about it. We won’t be seeing each other again.”
She kicks me hard in the shin with her heel, causing me to drop her wrist, and quickly runs out of the room.
Damn, I think as I rub my skin. Yeah. That’s the one for me.
3
Natalie
“I knew it,” I grumble as I slam the car door shut and twist the key. “Arrogant prick!”
My tires squeal as I slam on the gas, and an old lady just about jumps out of her skin as I peel out of the parking garage and into the Boston streets. I’ve had interviews that didn’t go so well, but that was by far the worst experience I’ve ever had as a reporter.
I mean, who does he think he is coming over to me completely naked?! Sure, he’s got a great body—there’s no denying that—but talk about all the inappropriate things to do! I guess it’s worked for him in the past though; he just sidles up to some wide-eyed fan of his, shows her the goods, and the next thing she knows, she’s riding his rocket all the way to the moon.
Fumbling with my phone, I scroll quickly to Charles’ number, but as I go to press it, it slides out of my hands (I realize I’m sweating) and falls into my lap. Grumbling, I reach between my legs and grab it, and realize something else—something worse: I’m also wet.
“Fuck…”
I’m almost disappointed with myself. I knew I was attracted to him, but I didn’t realize just how much. It was the most I’d ever seen of a man before. Rick and I have made out, and I’ve even felt his dick through his pants before, but I’ve never actually touched or seen it before. I tell myself that the image that flashes through my mind of Bobby wrapping his arms around me and kissing me is just a reflex, like when someone says cake and you picture one in your mind, but I’m not so sure.
I grab my phone and dial Charles. He picks up on the last ring.
“Hitchens!” he says jovially, sounding a bit buzzed. “How’d the Brodeur story go? Get the scoop?!”
“There is no scoop, Charles,” I tell him angrily. “There is no story. I’m done.”
“Done?” he replies. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy’s a jerk!” I spit. “That’s all there is to it! He tried to talk to me while he was naked! Can you believe that!?”
Charles laughs, which just makes me more upset. “That doesn’t exactly surprise me.”
“Okay, well there’s your story,” I tell him. “I’ll write a personal piece on how I tried to interview the infamous Bobby Brodeur and how poorly it went. I’m sure some other girls will write in with their own personal experiences and we can publish them—”
“No, no, no, no,” Charles replies, sounding more like my boss now. “We’re not printing a hit piece because you don’t like the guy.”
“Okay, well I’m not going.”
“Going?” he asks. “Going where?”
Shit.
“Uhm, never mind—”
“No, not never mind,” Charles interrupts. I’ve got his full attention now. “Did he invite you somewhere for an interview?”
I sigh. Part of me wants to just crash the car into a lamp post. “He invited me on a date,” I tell him. “Tonight at the Revere.”
“Well, you’re going,” Charles replies simply.
“Charles—”
“Have fun!” he says loudly. “Make it good!”
He hangs up.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath as I stuff my phone into my purse. This is just what I need—having to cover a story with a guy who my brain despises but my body seems to adore. Rick is not going to like this.
“Babe! Are you kidding me?”
I’ve just told Rick I can’t make any of the formal tonight, as I have to go back out to cover the Bobby Brodeur story.
“I wish I was,” I tell him, half meaning it. “But Charles is adamant about me getting this story done. I’ll call you tomorrow, 'kay?”
I turn to go, but Rick grabs me and pulls me back to him. It’s an out of character move for him, and I see a timid, but excited look in his eyes. For a brief second, I wonder if he’s about to propose to me.
“Nat…I had something special planned for tonight,” he tells me.
“Sp—special?”
“Yeah.” He smiles. “I thought we’d both have a couple of drinks and then…you know…”
“You know…?” I repeat.
“Finally consummate this relationship of ours,” he replies.
“So you want to get me drunk so I’ll sleep with you?” I ask. “Nice, Rick.”
“That’s not what I meant, Natalie!” he protests.
“I—I think I need a break, Rick,” I tell him. It’s not the first time we’ve done something like this. He’s asked for one before too when he first realized I wasn’t going to just jump into bed with him. In fact, he’s done it a couple times.
“Natalie, wait!” he says, but I’m already gone, pushing through the rest of the dressed-up dudes and girls and out the door headed for my car. This night is already going to be bad enough; the last thing I need is a fight with Rick.
I honestly can’t believe he’s still trying to push me into having sex with him. I know it’s probably ridiculous that I’ve been holding out on him this long, but I just don’t feel ready. I’ve seen his ex-girlfriends; they’re hot. Hotter than I am. Honestly, I don’t even know why he’s with me.
Becky, his last ex, looked like a model. She was 5’11’’ with perky little boobs and a tight, athletic butt that I’d kill for. She played field hockey. The one before was Claire, who was a typical blond bombshell who wore bright green bikinis and trucker hats and loved to party, and before that he was just single and going through all the hottest girls on campus. What’s he going to think when he gets me naked?
Just thinking about it has me feeling super self-conscious as I drive to the Revere; that is not what I need to be feeling going into this interview. Bobby is going to be a pain in the ass, and I need to be on my A-game.
When I get to the hotel, I can tell the party is already in full swing. I park, and as I’m heading up the steps to the lobby, I see a cloud of bubbles and suds floating down from the roof deck. I duck out of their way, slip inside, and head for the elevators. I’m stopped by a big man wearing a black suit.
“Excuse me, miss,” he says. “Are you a guest at the hotel?”
“I’m a reporter,” I reply. “I have an interview with Bobby Brodeur.”
“One moment please.”
He turns and steps away from me while whispering
something into his walkie-talkie, then turns back to me and nods.
“You’re good to go.”
“Thank you!” I say, a little snippily, as I step into the elevator and thumb the button for the roof. My stomach lurches as the lift moves, and I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. By the time the doors ding and open, I’m back in control, but when I see the scene in front of me—one of complete and utter debauchery, I wonder if I’m going to actually be able to go through with this.
4
Natalie
Bubbles. Bubbles everywhere. It’s like I just walked into the world’s largest bubble bath, only instead of it being a cute scene with a mom and her baby boy, it’s a bunch of jocks and a horde of screaming, cheering, giggling naked girls.
“Woow, ya, girl! Get it!” one of them screams as the other twerks the suds off her butt while standing on a table drinking champagne from a bottle. Three girls cheer and another joins her on the table, flashing her suds-covered fake-boobs around for anyone to see.
Fuck. I should just get out of here.
No, Natalie. You’re a professional! You can do this! And I can. I just have to find Bobby, get him to spill his guts, and get the hell out of here to write up something passable for Charles so I can get him off my back. But as I step out of the elevator, I realize it’s not going to be that easy.
“Wooo, more meat!” I hear a girl shriek and glance to my left just in time to see a completely naked blonde leap onto me. She’s soaked, covered in bubbles, wraps her legs around my waist and dumps a glass of champagne all over my head.
Sputtering, I stagger to the side and brace myself against the wall, but it’s not enough. She’s waving her arm in the air like a cowboy riding a bull, and my legs give out from under me. I brace myself for the impact, but it doesn’t come; instead, I feel a set of strong arms grab me beneath the arms, and when I look up, see Bobby Brodeur grinning down at me.
