I walk into my bedroom after my morning shower to hear my phone ringing. And since everyone my age texts instead of calls, I know exactly who it is without having to check the screen.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet her, gripping the edge of my towel as I head for the dresser.
“Mom? Holy shish kebob. So it’s true? I mean, I thought I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy twenty-one years ago, but that seems like a distant memory. Because if I did have a son, he’d probably call me more than once a month, right?”
I laugh, despite the needle of guilt pricking my chest. She’s right. I’ve been a crappy son lately, too busy with the post-season and term papers to call her as often as I should.
“I’m sorry,” I say with genuine remorse. “It always gets crazy busy at the end of the semester.”
“I know. That’s why I haven’t been bugging you. Are you studying hard for your exams?”
“Sure.” Yeah, right. I haven’t even cracked open a book yet.
Mom sees right through the noncommittal response. “Don’t BS your mother, Johnny.”
“Fine, I haven’t started yet,” I admit. “But you know I work better under pressure. Can you hold on a sec?”
“Yup.”
I set the phone down and drop my towel, then yank a pair of sweatpants up my hips. My hair is still wet, sprinkling droplets down my bare chest, so I rub the towel over my head before picking up the phone again.
“Back,” I tell her. “So how’s work going? How’s David?”
“Good, and great.”
For the next ten minutes she chats about her job—she’s a manager at a restaurant in Boston—then tells me what my stepfather has been up to. David is an accountant, and he’s so boring that sometimes it’s painful to be around him. But he also loves my mother with all his heart and treats her like the queen she is, so I can’t exactly hate the guy.
Eventually she gets around to my summer plans, taking on that guarded tone she always uses when she brings up the subject of my father.
“So I take it you’re working with your dad again?”
“Yup.” I make an effort to sound relaxed. My brother and I agreed a long time ago to keep the truth from Mom.
She doesn’t need to know that Dad is drinking again, and I refuse to dredge up that old bullshit for her. She got out, and she needs to stay out. She deserves to be happy now, and boring as he is, David makes her happy.
Ward Logan, on the other hand, made her miserable. He didn’t hit her or abuse her verbally, but she was the one who had to clean up his messes. She was the one who had to deal with his drunken tantrums and constant visits to rehab. The one who dragged him off the floor when he came home wasted and passed out in the front hall.
Fuck, I’ll never forget the time when I was eight or nine, and Dad called the house at two in the morning. He’d been slurring like a maniac and freaking out because he’d drunk himself stupid at a bar, gotten in the car, and had no idea where he was. It had been the dead of winter, and Mom hadn’t wanted to leave my brother and me at home alone, so she’d bundled us up, and the three of us drove for hours searching for him. With only half a street name to go on because the sign had been covered in snow and Dad was too drunk to walk over and wipe it away.
After we’d found him and hauled him into the car, I remember sitting in the backseat feeling something I’d never felt before—pity. I felt sorry for my father. And I can’t deny I was relieved when Mom shipped him back to rehab the next day.
“I hope he’s paying you accordingly, sweetie,” Mom says, sounding upset. “You and Jeffrey work such long hours at the garage.”
“Of course he’s paying us.” But accordingly? Fuck no. I make enough to pay for rent and expenses during the school year, but definitely not what I should be making for full-time work.
“Good.” She pauses. “Can you still take a week off to come visit us?”
“I’m planning on it,” I assure her. Jeff and I have already worked out a schedule so that each of us can head to Boston to spend some time with Mom.
We talk for a few more minutes, and then I hang up and wander downstairs to find something to eat. I prepare a bowl of cereal, the no-sugar, all-bran bore-fest that Tuck forces us to eat because for some reason he’s against sugar. As I settle at the eat-in counter, my mind instantly travels back to what happened last night.
Leaving Grace’s room five seconds after she’d jerked me off had been such an asshole move. I know that. But I had to get out of there. The second I’d recovered from that orgasm, my first thought had been, what the hell am I doing here? Seriously. I mean, yeah, Grace was awesome, and sexy, and funny, but have I sunk so low that I’m now randomly finger-banging chicks I don’t even know? And I can’t even use alcohol as an excuse this time because I was stone-cold sober.
And the worst part? She didn’t even fucking come.
I clench my teeth at the reminder. There’d been a lot of moaning, sure, but I’m ninety-nine percent certain that she didn’t have an orgasm despite her telling me that she had. Or rather, lying to me that she had. Because when a woman drops a noncommittal “Uh-huh” after you ask if she had an orgasm, then that’s called lying.
And that half-assed “yeah, sure, me too” she gave me about whether she had fun? Talk about bruising a guy’s ego. Not only did she not come, but my company didn’t do it for her, either?
I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I don’t live in a magical bubble where orgasms fall from the sky and land in a woman’s bed every time she has sex. I know they fake it sometimes.
But I’m fairly confident I speak for most guys when I say that I like to think they don’t fake it with me.
Damn it. I should’ve gotten her number. Why the hell didn’t I get her number?
I know the answer to that, though. This past month, I haven’t cared enough to ask for a girl’s number after a hook-up. Or rather, I’ve been too wasted before, during and after the hook-up to remember to ask.
The thud of footsteps from the corridor snaps me out of my thoughts, and I glance up in time to see Garrett stride into the kitchen.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.” I shove a spoonful of cereal into my mouth and do my best to ignore the instant jolt of discomfort, while at the same time hating myself for even feeling it.
Garrett Graham is my best friend. For chrissake, I’m not supposed to feel uncomfortable around him.
“So what’d you end up doing last night?” He grabs a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer, and joins me at the counter.
I chew before answering. “I hung out with this girl. Watched a movie.”
“Cool. Anyone I know?”
“Naah, I just met her yesterday.” And will probably never see her again because I’m a selfish lover and bad company, apparently.
Garrett dumps some cereal into his bowl and reaches for the milk carton I left out. “Hey, so did you call that agent yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Why not?”
Because there’s no point.
“Because I haven’t gotten around to it.” My tone is harsher than I mean for it to be, and Garrett’s gray eyes flicker with hurt.
“You don’t have to bite my head off. It was just a question.”
“Sorry. I…sorry.” Real articulate. Stifling a sigh, I take another bite of cereal.
A short silence settles between us, until Garrett finally clears his throat. “Look, I get it, okay? You didn’t get drafted and it sucks. But it’s not like you’re out of options. You’re a free agent now, and you’re not locked in with a team, which means you can sign with anyone if they want you. And they’re totally going to want you.”
He’s right. I’m sure there are lots of teams that would want me to play for them. I’m sure one of them would’ve even drafted me—if I’d entered the draft.
But Garrett doesn’t know that. He thinks I’ve been passed over these past two years, and—have I mentioned what an asshole friend I am?—I’ve been letting him think it. Because fucked up as it sounds, having my best friend believe I didn’t get picked bums me out a helluva lot less than admitting that I’m never going to play for the pros.
See, Garrett had a choice about not opting in. He wanted to earn his degree without the temptation that comes with being drafted. A lot of college players choose to ditch school the moment a team holds the rights to them—it’s hard not to when you’ve got a pro team pulling out all the stops to coax you into leaving college early. But Garrett’s a smart guy. He knows he’d lose his NCAA eligibility if he did that, and he also knows that signing a contract with a team doesn’t guarantee instant success, or even playing time.
Hell, we both saw what happened to Chris Little, our teammate in freshman year. Dude gets drafted, goes pro, plays for half a season, and then? A career-ending injury takes him out. Permanently. Not only will Little never step foot on the ice again, but he spent every dime of his signing contract on his medical expenses, and last I heard, he went back to school to learn a trade. Welding, or some shit.
So yup, Garrett’s playing it smart. Me? I knew from the start I wouldn’t be going pro.
“I mean, Gretzky went undrafted, and look at everything he accomplished. The guy’s a legend. Arguably the best player in hockey history.”
Garrett is still talking, still trying to “reassure” me, and I’m torn between snapping at him to shut up, and hugging the living shit out of the guy for being such an amazing friend.
I do neither, choosing to placate him instead. “I’ll call the agent on Monday,” I lie.
He offers a pleased nod. “Good.”
The silence returns. We cart our empty bowls over to the dishwasher.
“Hey, we’re going to Malone’s tonight,” Garrett says. “Me, Wellsy, Tuck and maybe Danny. You in?”
“Can’t. I’ve gotta start studying for exams.”
It’s sad, but I’m starting to lose count of all the things I’m lying to my best friend about.
*
Grace
“I’m sorry—can you repeat that?” Ramona stares at me in utter disbelief, her eyes so wide they look like two dark saucers.
I shrug as if what I’ve just told her is no biggie. “John Logan came over last night.”
“John Logan came over last night,” she echoes.
“Yes.”
“He came to our dorm.”
“Yes.”
“You were in this room, and he walked in, and then both of you were here. In this room.”
“Yes.”
“So John Logan showed up at our door, and walked inside, and was here. With you. Here.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Yes, Ramona. We’ve established that he was here. In this room.”
Her mouth falls open. Then slams shut. Then opens again to release a shriek that’s so earsplitting I’m surprised the water in my glass doesn’t jiggle Jurassic Park-style.
“Oh my God!” She runs over to my bed and flops down. “Tell me everything!”
She’s still wearing her party clothes from last night, a teeny minidress that rides up her thighs when she sits, and silver stilettos that she kicks away in an excited blur of legs.
When Ramona had walked into our room, I’d lasted all of three seconds before spilling the news, but now, with her staring excitedly at me, reluctance jams in my throat. I’m suddenly embarrassed to tell her what happened last night, because…well…I’m just going to say it: because it was underwhelming.
I had fun watching the movie with him. And I loved fooling around with him—at least until those final moments—but the guy got off and then left. Who does that?
No wonder all his hook-ups take place at frat parties. The girls are probably too drunk to notice whether they have an orgasm or not. Too drunk to realize that John Logan is selling nothing but false advertising.
But I already opened my big mouth, so now I have to follow through and give Ramona something. As she gawks at me, I explain how Logan showed up at the wrong door and ended up staying to watch a movie.
“You watched a movie? That’s it?”
I feel my cheeks warm up. “Well…”
Another screech flies out of her mouth. “Oh my God! Did you fuck him?”
“No,” I’m quick to answer. “Of course not. I hardly even know him. But…well, we did make out.”
I’m hesitant to disclose any more than that, but the revelation is enough to light up Ramona’s eyes. She looks like a kid who’s just gotten her first bicycle. Or a pony.
“You made out with John Logan! Eeeeeh! That is so awesome! Is he good a kisser? Did he take off his shirt? Did he take off his pants?”
“Nope,” I lie.
My best friend can’t sit still anymore. She hops off the bed and bounces around on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I wasn’t here to witness it.”
“You’re into voyeurism now?” I ask dryly.
“If I’m voyeur’ing John Logan? Um, yeah. I’d watch the two of you make out for hours.” She gasps suddenly. “Oh my God, text him right now and ask him to send you a dick pic!”
“What? No!”
“Aw, come on, he’ll probably be really flattered and—” Another gasp. “No, text him to invite him over tonight! And tell him to bring Dean.”
I hate to rain on her parade, but considering the way Logan rushed off last night, I have no choice but to dump a bucket of cold water on Ramona’s joy. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I confess. “I didn’t get his number.”
“What?” She looks devastated. “What is wrong with you? Did you at least give him yours?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t have his phone on him, and there wasn’t an opportunity for me to give him my number.”
Ramona goes quiet for a moment. Sharp brown eyes focus on my face, narrowing, probing, as if she’s trying to telepathically tunnel into my brain.
I fidget self-consciously. “What?”
“Be honest,” she says. “Was he actually here?”
Shock slams into me. “Are you kidding?” When she offers a tiny shrug, my shock turns to horror. “Why would I make that up?”
“I don’t know…” She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her discomfort obvious. “It’s just…you know, he’s older, and hot, and you didn’t exchange numbers…”
“So that means I’m lying?” I shoot to my feet, beyond insulted.
“No, of course not.” She starts to backpedal, but it’s too late. I’m already pissed off and heading for the door. “Where are you going?” she wails from behind me. “Aw, come on, Gracie. I believe you. You don’t have to storm out.”
“I’m not storming out.” I toss her a cool look over my shoulder, then grab my purse. “I’m meeting my dad in fifteen minutes. I really do have to go.”
“Really?” she says skeptically.
“Yes.” I have to force myself not to scowl at her. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not super mad at you right now.”
She darts over and throws her arms around me before I can stop her, squeezing tight enough to impede the airflow to my lungs. It’s one of her trademark Forgive Me hugs, which I’ve been on the receiving end of more times than I can count.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” she begs. “I’m sorry I asked that. I know you wouldn’t make it up, and when you get back, I want to hear all the details, okay?”
“Yeah…okay,” I mutter, not because I mean it, but because I want to get out of here before I smack her in the face.
She pulls back, relief etched into her features. “Awesome. Then I’ll see you lat—”
I’m out the door before she can finish that sentence.
