by Sara H Ney
I tell myself I’ll start a load of towels.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do: start a load of towels...
I’m not going to think about it, I’m not going to think about it...
Seven minutes of going through the pretense of sorting light and dark colors, I cannot stand it anymore.
I walk back into the kitchen and snatch up my phone.
Yay me, seven whole minutes!
Aren’t you impressed?
I know what you’re thinking - let me tick them off for you: I have no willpower. He’s just a guy. He’s a jerk. He doesn’t deserve any more attention. I’m better than this... The list could go on and on.
Believe me, I’m disappointed enough in myself for both of us. What a fortress of will power I turned out to be. Roger would be so disappointed in me.
But guess what? Right now I couldn’t care less.
Because Matthew Wakefield is so full of himself, I simply do not have it inside myself to resist the urge to knock him down a peg.
And so...
TO: Matthew Wakefield
DATE: September 13, 2014 at 8:19:31 PM CST
FROM: Cecelia Carter
Subject: You are a jerk.
Oh, I’m SOOOO sure all the girls are beating down the door to your den of sin (I hope you’re picking up on the sarcasm here). I will let Molly know I got ahold of you, and you can go fornicate the rest of your evening away. No need to reply. - C
Sent from my Android Smartphone
Okay.
I admit. The email sounds catty, bitter, and perhaps I should have waited a little longer than seven minutes before I sent it.
Sigh. Too late now, I guess...
TO: Cecelia Carter
DATE: September 13, 2014 at 8:22:07 PM CST
FROM: Matthew Wakefield
Subject: Fornicate?
Den of sin? Wow. I LIKE THAT!!! But you’re giving me WAY too much credit. And why would I go fornicate when this is so much more fun? Question: are you this big a bitch to everyone, or is this just my lucky night? PS: I bet a hundred dollars you reply to this message. And that you’re wearing sweat pants.
MSW
Sent from my iPhone.
I sit on the couch with my mouth hanging open, and look down at my gray sweat pants. What a dick! Of all the nerve! Excuse me, but I happen to have a great ass thank you very much, and do not need to flaunt it in low rise jeans every hour of the damn day.
I huff loudly.
Then I huff again, stalking into my bedroom and flouncing onto my bed, bouncing up-and-down because the mattress is such a cheap piece of crap.
I’m so irritated my hands are actually shaking. Suddenly, I begin to feel like the lunatic he accused me of being. I need to get a grip here, and fight the power because the bastard knows I’m going to respond to his email.
Actually, he knows it and I know it.
I hit REPLY, change the subject line, giggling out loud at my own wittiness, and wondering if he’ll notice.
TO: Matthew Wakefield
DATE: September 13, 2014 at 8:35:14 PM CST
FROM: Cecelia Carter
Subject: YOU HAVE A STUPID EMAIL ADDRESS
I am not a bitch. And for the record, I am NOT wearing sweat pants. - C
Sent from my Android Smartphone
Am I going to hell for being such a liar?
I look down at my sweat pants again, and at least have the decency to blush. Cringing, I delete the entire message and send this instead:
I am NOT a bitch. And I guess since I replied to your damn message this means I owe you a hundred bucks. So... Good luck collecting.
- C
Chapter Two
Matthew
“How did I get into her pants? Well that’s an easy one. I whispered the three words every chick wants to hear: ‘I play hockey.’ - Jay Mendelson, teammate.
A few thoughts occur to me as my email notification goes off for the sixth time in an hour:
1. This is fun.
2. I have work to do tonight for the team to prepare for tomorrow’s game and shouldn’t be wasting time playing around on my phone.
3. My sisters’ boyfriend Weston (who’s sleeping in the hotel bed next to mine) sounds like goddamn chainsaw that’s having a seizure when he snores. In fact, I want to suffocate him with a freaking pillow. I wonder if Molly knows how loud he is - but then this thought immediately reminds me that he is probably “sleeping” with my little sister, which doesn’t just make me want to smother him, it makes me want to beat the shit out of him, too.
Speaking of Weston, I glance over to where he’s sleeping, and curl my lip. It’s dark, and he’s sleeping, but the sight of him irritates me nonetheless. How do I always get stuck rooming with this guy?
You might be wondering at this point how I even ended up in a room with him to begin with. Well that one is easy: I play professional hockey for the Anaheim Ducks, but in the off season I come home to Wisconsin, where I keep a condo near my folks place.
Just so happens that when my first season hiatus with the NHL began, it seemed like a natural progression to begin working as one of the Development Coaches for my Alma Mater, the University of Wisconsin Madison Badger Hockey team - you know, in my “free time.”
Whoa. That was a mouthful.
Basically, my job in the off season is to coach certain collegiate players; train with them in the fitness room, make sure they’re keeping their grades up - working with them on and off the ice. Which means I occasionally travel with the team (not always, but sometimes) and when I do, for some ungodly reason the team’s travel agent insists on sticking me in the same room as McGrath. Probably as some sick joke to torture me.
The guy is a pain in my ass.
You think girls are high maintenance in the bathroom? This guy takes the prize: he brings his own shampoos and after shave lotions, changes into special flip flops for the shower, and travels with his own pillow.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that as soon as he walks into the hotel room, he yanks all the covers off the bed so they’re on the floor so he doesn’t have to touch any semen infested linens (his words, not mine).
What was that? You don’t think that sounds so bad because you do all those things too? Well trust me. It’s really annoying and against Mother Nature for a guy to act like that - girls yes, guys no.
Plus - he brings food but won’t share it.
I glance over and eyeball a bag of his Sun Chips, letting out a loud sigh. If I take it, he’ll hear the crinkle from the bag and wake up, and that’s the last thing I want.
Company.
Adjusting myself on the bed to get comfortable, I click off the bedside table lamp and relax against the head board before opening the new message, laughing when I read the subject line of Cecelia’s email, and laughing again when I read the content.
I am not a bitch. And I guess now I owe you a hundred bucks. So... Good luck with that. - C
Not a bitch? Bullshit.
That chick is to a bitch, and I’ve witnessed it first-hand. Not only that, judging from the way she looked the first - and only - time I’ve met her, she is probably totally sitting around right now in some kind of sweat or yoga pants. Trust me, I know girls, and that’s totally what she’s doing: pacing around that shitty apartment of theirs in a complete tizzy.
I click reply.
This is too easy. I think for a bit about what might piss her off, knowing already that it doesn’t take much.
TO: Cecelia Carter
DATE: September 13, 2014 at 8:47:24 PM CST
FROM: Matthew Wakefield
Subject: IM USUALLY ALWAYS RIGHT
If you don’t have the cash, I can collect it in other ways... IF you know what I mean.
PS: What was your name again
?
MSW
Sent from my iPhone.
I chuckle at my own wittiness, and toss the phone onto the shitty hotel bedspread that’s folded down at my feet, hoping that later when I hold the phone up to my ear it doesn’t give me an STD (or something) because it landed in something gross. You know, like a bodily fluid, since it’s been on this bed since 1982.
Okay. So maybe Wes has a point about ripping off the bed spread... I make a mental note to rub my phone down with hand sanitizer.
Crossing my arms behind my head and flipping through the sparse cable channels this hotel has to offer, I finally settle on a rerun of The Breakfast Club, and briefly close my eyes. Maybe if I try hard enough, I can conjure up a mental picture of my sister’s roommate Cecelia (yes, I know her name), which isn’t easy because we’d only ever met once a few weeks back. However memorable the encounter was I can honestly only remember a few things about what she looks like - mostly a pile of messy hair and smudged makeup.
Not a good look for her.
But I think I remember her being kind of tall, fit, and most importantly, she had a shit ton of food in her freakishly heavy overnight bag.
You might not think this is important, but trust me. It is.
My phone chimes, and the little green email light flashes.
How weird - my pulse actually accelerated... Or maybe I’m just imaging it. Why would I get excited over some unkempt chick I think is incredibly annoying and quite possibly a total bitch?
Maybe something is wrong with me. I put my hand to my forehead and feel for a temperature.
Hmm. Or maybe I just need to get laid. It has been a while.
TO: Matthew Wakefield
DATE: September 13, 2014 at 9:06:23 PM CST
FROM: Cecelia Carter
Subject: JACKASS
Stop emailing me. I get dumber every time I read one of your messages. - C
Sent from my Android Smartphone
This has me throwing my head back against the headboard and laughing out loud. Then, out of the dark comes an angry, muffled “What the fuck? I’m trying to sleep.” Weston’s head pops up and he’s glaring at me from his side of the room, his hair sticking up in ten different directions. Dude needs a haircut. “Whatever it is you’re doing, knock it off.”
“Sorry,” I answer. But I’m not.
Not at all...
Chapter Three
Cecelia
“All I could hear over the loud music when he was talking was ‘Blah, blah, blah, I’m a rude asshole.” - My best friend Abigail Bennett
Leaning against the damp counter in the small bathroom of Lone Rangers, the one bar in Madison not entirely dominated by the under twenty-one crowd, I look up and study myself in the cracked mirror.
There are girls standing around waiting for a stall, some of them slumped against the tile wall - a few because they’re drunk, and others because they’re bored from the long wait. Realizing I need to make it quick because of the growing line, I pull out a tube of gloss (Cover Girl Baby Lips in Pink Punch, my favorite in case you were wondering) and swipe it across my lips.
I give my boring, plain white tee a once over (only some of it is wet from leaning against the counter), note that my face isn’t too shiny (thank goodness) and my hair hasn’t lost much of its volume. Considering how freakishly hot it is in this damn bar, I take that as a good sign because there’s no telling when my friends will want to leave. In fact, people might have to look at me for a few more hours yet, and I’d rather they not to have to stare at my hair when it gets frizzy...
Although my eyeliner is a tad worse for wear, I leave it and grab my drink off the counter before yanking the door open.
Noise assaults me, and my eyes do a quick scan of the room, spotting my little group of girlfriends at the front of the bar (figures, since I’m all the way in back). A virtual sea of people separates us, and elbowing my way through the sea of people is not an easy task, let me tell you...
Someone even grabs my ass.
Drunk people are so rude.
And then there, in the middle of the crowded floor, is none other than Matthew Wakefield.
Wait, where did he come from?
I falter for a brief moment, tripping slightly on the short girl who suddenly appears in front of me, to study him. Immediately the metaphoric wall goes up, and I paste a passive expression on my face... but pretending not to be affected by him is easier said than done.
I’m sorry, but have you seen him?
Matthew Wakefield is like a bad episode of some low rent MTV show; think ‘Awkward,’ for example - it’s a terrible show, with even worse acting, and it’s gotta be a fact somewhere that you get stupider watching it. And yet some sick part of you wants to see what is going to happen to that dipshit main character.
So much so, that when your little sister walks into the room and rudely changes the channel, you scream at her to change it back.
Er... Not that it has happened to me (cough).
I won’t insult your intelligence by gushing that Matthew is the hottest guy I’ve ever seen; time is not standing still right now, nothing is moving in slow motion, the crowd is not parting like the Red Sea when our eyes meet across the room. Too cliché. But you know... there is definitely something about him...
Maybe it’s his arrogance that I’m warming up to.
Maybe it’s his rich auburn hair, which is incredibly thick, unruly, and seems like a terrible waste on such a man.
Or maybe it’s the sinewy biceps, that have actual defined edges and can be seen beneath his shirts.
Or his dark green, expressive eyes, that are hooded, sharp and never miss anything.
And the freckles? Can you say swoon!?
Not to mention the shallow dimple in his cheek. It’s not a deep one, but I’d lick it anyways.
Holy shit - Oh. No. I. Did. Not!
I’d lick it anyways? What the hell is wrong with me?!
Shocked with myself, I slap a hand over my mouth and stifle a groan. Shit. Guess I have a dirtier mind than I give myself credit for...
Then I think about his white, toothy grin - the one he gives so freely, even when he’s being a prick.
Alright, alright! Enough already!
So - even though we spent the good part the week sending each other what basically equaled, well - hate mail - I would still never have the nerve to venture to his side of the room. Or publically acknowledge him.
Or say hello.
Or for that matter, look directly at him.
Not on purpose, anyways.
Some girls might have the lady balls to do it, but I am not one of them.
So I stand here, taking in every detail but pretending not to watch him. Which - believe me - is a skill that few have achieved at my level - but not impossible to learn.
Want to know what my secrets are? Simple:
1. I always make sure I’m looking above the person I’m watching. Like, above the top of their head. Find something fascinating on the wall behind them; trust me - you can stare at someone without ever looking directly at them. And whoa! Never in the face. That could be the kiss of death: I mean, do you really want to be caught staring?
2. And if you are caught? Do. Not. Panic. Do not find the nearest exit. Do not run away. Stiffen your spine, raise your chin a notch and give a wave. No, no no! NOT TO HIM. Pick someone near the object of your affection... Anyone! The bartender... the wingman - Give them a wave. This will give the illusion that you were staring at someone else the entire time. Crisis averted. Congrats, you no longer look like the Stalkarazzi.
3. Or, if you’re feeling brave; Go right ahead and keep on staring. One of two things is sure to happen:
a. The person you’re staring at will freak out and think you’re a creepy stalker, and it’s possible he will tell his friends to steer clear of you. Which is terrible. Especially if his friend are cute.
b. Or! The person you’re stari
ng at will think you’re cute. Yay you! He will be intrigued and stare back. Which could turn into either a staring contest, or (if you’re lucky) he will have big enough balls to walk over and strike up a conversation.
Now, I wouldn’t exactly call these proven methods, and if you try to pull this off and fail miserably, don’t blame me. Plus, I wouldn’t recommend trying them straight out of the gate: practicing on a friend first is probably your best bet. It’s also important to note (while we’re on the subject of these mundane details), that I’m sharing all this because girls have to stick together. I mean hey, it’s entirely possible you don’t have a friend who is sharing dating bits of wisdom with you.
So for now I’ll consider it my civic duty to inform you some of the things I’ve picked up on over the years.
But I digress...
Back to Matthew.
I can hear the deep baritone of his vulgar voice booming over the crowd, and even though I can’t understand what he’s saying from here, it must be pretty freaking hilarious because the throng of groupies hanging on him is nothing short of obnoxious. Their giggling and laughter isn’t charming. It isn’t cute. It’s downright aggravating.
It’s not just girls either - guys are laughing at him too, like he’s a damn comedian.
Well I have news for you: there’s a difference between being funny because well... you’re actually funny - and then there’s having people laugh at you because they feel forced into it by some messed up obligation to kiss your famous ass. I have a feeling with Matt, it’s the latter.
I don’t know if I would want to be popular because I’m a conceited asshole; it isn’t exactly an endearing quality and eventually it does catch up to you. Professional athlete or not, karma can be a bitch.
Even with the ridiculously loud music being pumped through the speakers and people shouting to be heard, I can tell a lot of the laughter surrounded Matthew is fake - mostly because he’s surrounding himself with groupies.
And we all know those types (see: desperate) will force out a laugh over anything to get attention, even if it’s not remotely funny.
Ugh, I bet the arrogant ass is telling stories about himself.
