STRADDLING THE LAP OF A hockey player is not the action of a woman trying to turn her life around.
To be honest, sitting on the boner of a total stranger is honestly not how I saw tonight going. Well, maybe, but in a way that would involve no clothes and certainly no audience. I forgot all about my summer self-improvement efforts the second I stepped foot in this house and that lack of commitment to the cause is exactly why I need time away from the temptations of Maple Hills.
I shouldn’t be this happy about a “good job,” but what can I say, I’m a girl that likes feedback. More than anything, I needed the reassurance I didn’t just make a fool of myself in front of most of the hockey team. It’s not my first rodeo, lap dance-wise, but it’s the first time with someone who now isn’t making eye contact with me. If I’m not looking at his face, I have to look at his body and the guy is essentially a slab of muscle.
“You won’t burst into flames if you look me in the eyes, you know,” I say softly, feeling a little insecure. Time seems to move slower in this house and, while there’s nothing unusual about two people being this close in a dark corner of a college party, the minute that’s passed feels like a lifetime. I can feel his steady breaths under the palms of my hands, his skin hot.
As suspected, heat rushes to the apples of his cheeks as his eyes meet mine again. He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic he’s done several times since I met him earlier. First in the kitchen, then when he had to take his t-shirt off and everyone cheered at his perfectly sculpted body and now while we wait.
“Listen, this isn’t working. You’re too fucking hot and the presidents aren’t helping, I’ve moved on to Stanley Cup winners but with you just here,” he gestures to my thighs spread across him, “looking like that,” he gestures up my body, “it’s going to take forever.”
You’re too fucking hot.
The compliment floods my system, melting me, and the vulnerability from ten seconds ago dissipates into nothing as the validation seeps into my system like a drug. It’s not that I’ve never been told I’m hot before, I have, but this guy seems tortured by it. Like he’ll never recover from it. Like I’m tipping point of his sanity and that is a feeling I could get addicted to.
My lips quirk as I desperately try to ignore my brain seeking more attention; it’s unreliable in the presence of men since it’s so easily impressed by mediocrity. “Presidents?” The blush spreads to the tips of his ears, something else about him I find incredibly endearing, like he wasn’t planning to share that little snippet of information. “How about you stand behind me until you’re good?”
“You’re an angel,” he sighs. “Sort of. That wasn’t very angelic, but you know what I mean. Thanks.”
He holds my hips, guiding me as I stand, the bulge in his pants unmissable even beneath the dark lighting in the den. I feel my skin flush as it registers quite how much I like his tight grip on me.
There isn’t the same energy when the game restarts and I’m too distracted by the man behind me to pay attention. It’s hard to concentrate on which block to pull when his arms are caging me in and he quietly whispers which ones to avoid in my ear. I particularly like when I bend toward the tower and my ass brushes against him, I swear I hear him groan.
Thanks to Russ’ guidance, my turn doesn’t pull down the tower, but I can’t pretend there isn’t a small part of me that wishes it would fall. The round passes by us without incident and, although there’s no reason for Russ to hide himself behind me anymore, he doesn’t move. I lean back, head resting against his chest and when his posture stiffens, I immediately start to move away from him. But his hands find my hips again and he pulls me back gently, his body more relaxed this time.
The sound of crashing blocks makes me jump and when I drag my attention back to the game, one of the guys is holding a block and staring at the pile on the table.
“Henry, you can’t just knock over the tower when you get bored,” one of the guys shouts.
“I didn’t,” Henry says. “Maybe I’m just not very good at Jenga.”
Russ scoffs behind me. “You’re never going to be good at it if you pull the one block keeping the foundation straight.”
“Not everyone is an engineer, Russ,” he says. “It isn’t my fault.”
“Time to face the consequences!” the red head across from me squeals. “Get naked!”
“If you wanted to see me naked, Lola, you could have just asked.” “Watch it,” Robbie snaps.
Emilia nudges me, interrupting the argument between what are obviously very close friends. “Bathroom and drink? I have no interest in watching a naked man scare the neighbors.”
As much as I’d like to see someone streak down a road, I don’t want to leave her alone. “Sure.”
It takes all my willpower to give Emilia my hand and let her drag me away. “I’ll be back” I mouth to Russ and fight my way through the crowd with the heat of his hands still on my skin.
HOW DO YOU LOSE SOMEONE in their own house?
“Maybe he’s hiding from you,” Emilia says, muffling her snicker with her drink.
“I thought he was interested . . .”
“I think he’s really shy, y’know,” she says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I’m sure he’s the guy JJ said just moved in. Quiet, keeps himself to himself. Not your usual type at all.”
I roll my eyes as I reach for a soda bottle. Not because she’s wrong—she isn’t, shy isn’t who I usually bring home—but because Emilia likes to regularly remind me how terrible my taste in men is. To be fair, I give her an opportunity to remind me every time a guy turns out to be the asshole the red flags told me he’d be, ignoring the signs in favor of string-free sex.
“If I wanted to be rejected by a man tonight, I’d have called my dad.” An awkward not-quite-a-laugh bubbles out of me as I fill up our glasses, careful not to spill the soda this time. “God, I can’t wait to get away from Maple Hills.”
Before I can say anything else, Emilia’s cellphone lights up in her hand. “I’m gonna step outside and take this call from Poppy. It’s breakfast time in Europe, you good for five minutes?”
“I’m sure I can keep myself out of trouble for five minutes, go. Give my love to Pops, please.”
Emilia kisses my temple affectionately. “You say that, but I’m not convinced. I’ll be back. Text me if you’re about to go missing.”
She looks genuinely excited as she makes her way toward the backyard to talk to her girlfriend. I love their love, I really do, but God they make me feel single. It’s hard being the official third wheel to two people disgustingly perfect for each other, especially because I’ve never had a real relationship in my life. I haven’t even had a first date. For the most part, I’m happy single, but sometimes, when they’re curled up together under a blanket at home, for a tiny moment that I’d never admit to, I do feel a little jealous.
When faced with two people so well suited, it’s impossible not to wonder what your own version of that might look like. But then I remember how fun being traumatized by my parent’s relationship was and the desire for my own evaporates as quickly as it arrived.
For all the romance books I’ve read and all the happy endings I’ve enjoyed, I can’t imagine my own. I’d like to hope I’ll have one, but hope can be dangerous.
Someone much smarter than me once said something poetic and clever about love being when you give someone the power to hurt you but trust them not to, but I can’t imagine ever trusting someone that much. I’d like to, though, maybe.
If I want my feelings hurt, I am more than capable of doing it to myself.
It’s a skill I’ve honed over many years and arguably my best one.
Pulling my cellphone out of my purse, I decide to wait for Emilia by filling my time pretending to look at what people are saying about F1 qualifying from earlier today. My aimless scroll lasts ten seconds before I give in to the real reason I got my phone out: snooping on my dad’s latest girlfriend from my fake account.
It’s my current favorite way to hurt my own feelings and, luckily for me and my masochistic tendencies, Norah loves updating every second of her life on her stories, like she’s a thirteen-year-old with social media for the first time and I love being unhappy watching it.
I also love reporting the pointless lives she does for bullying and harassment.
At least ninety percent of the impulsive decisions I’ve made in the past month have been triggered by her posting about how wonderful my dad is
—and yet here I am again, watching it. Her face fills the screen, far too close and terribly lit and then, in a move that makes my heart stop beating, she pans around to film my dad packing boxes in what appears to be in her daughter’s dorm room.
I’m not sure my dad would even know where I go to college if he didn’t pay my tuition.
I hate watching it, but I can’t stop. My entire life has been a fight for my dad’s time, so to watch him give it away so freely is like a punch to the gut.
When he didn’t travel to Spain for the Grand Prix this weekend because he had “important plans,” the foolish part of me that still hopes her dad isn’t a total jackass questioned if it was because he did want to prioritize saying goodbye to me before I leave for the summer. Now I know who he considers to be important and, once again, it isn’t me. I hate the type of person it’s turned me into, one desperate for attention and validation, and I hate that I’ve let my life become one shaped by kneejerk reactions to feeling forgotten.
For once, I want to make a decision because it will make me happy, not because something has triggered me into acting out.
I lock my phone screen and push my phone back into my purse as soon as the body in my peripheral vision gets too close. It’s not that Emilia doesn’t know I snoop, but it’s still embarrassing, particularly because her dad is actual perfection and as much as she tries, she’ll never understand.
It isn’t Emilia.
“Hey,” Russ says carefully. “Are you okay?”
Forcing a smile, I look up at him with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “Yeah, I’m great. Are you?”
He watches me carefully before responding. “Are you really okay? Did someone bother you?”
“He’s been bothering me for twenty years, it’s totally fine.”
His mouth forms an “o” as he nods, apparently understanding immediately. “What can I do to make you feel better?” My brain immediately tells me to tell him to take his t-shirt off again, but that feels like the wrong move. So I shrug, because I don’t have the answer to what will make me feel better yet. “There must be something.”
“Tell me a secret.”
“A secret?” he repeats.
“Yeah.” I don’t know why I said it but he’s thinking about it. It’s a silly thing my sister and I started asking each other when we were kids. We’ve never been the closest siblings, but our middle ground has always been doing things we shouldn’t and it was our way of sharing.
“You make me nervous,” he says eventually, immediately taking a swig of his beer.
“That isn’t a secret,” I laugh. “That’s very obvious.”
He blows out a sigh and rubs his hand against his face. “I think you’re stunning.”
His admission catches me off guard. Stunning. I shake my head anyway, my hair dances in front of my eyes. “That isn’t a secret either . . .”
“You’re impossible,” he chuckles. His hand reaches out slowly, cautiously, tucking my hair behind my ear, hovering a little longer than necessary. “My secret is I don’t really like parties, but I’m glad I came to this one and met you. And when I couldn’t find you I was sad when I thought you’d left.”
Oh shit. “That was smooth.”
“Was it actually? Because I tried really fucking hard. I was really close to confessing to a crime I didn’t commit because of the pressure.” There he is.
“You did a great job.”
“Thanks, I don’t do this a lot. I’m uh, I’m not good at it.”
“You don’t go around telling strangers your secrets?” I hide my smile with a sip of my drink. A real smile this time.
“I don’t tell anyone usually, but I meant I’m not good at talking to people I’m interested in.”
I don’t know what it is about his uncertainty that I find so charming. Maybe it’s because even though he’s not sure of himself, he’s sure he wants to talk to me—and I’m clinging to those slivers of certainty with both hands. “You said you live here.”
“Because I do.”
“You have a room.”
“Is that a question? They don’t make me sleep outside if that’s what you mean.” This fucking guy. “Yeah, I have a room.”
Painful. Actually painful. “Are you going to . . . show it to me? You said you don’t like parties. We could get away from it.”
I practically see the lightbulb appear above his head when he realizes what I’m asking. “That depends. Are you drunk?”
“A little buzzed, but definitely not drunk. Are you drunk?”
He shakes his head, trailing his hand across my shoulder and down my arm until his fingers thread through mine. “Buzzed, but not drunk.”
Russ’ hand makes mine look tiny and our linked fingers are what I watch as he leads me through the crowd toward the stairs. Drunk people are draped over the banister watching the events of the living room, presumably waiting for a bathroom or something, but they all turn to watch us with interest. I keep my head held high and try to not let it show that I know this will be on the UCMH gossip page tomorrow.
I pull out my cellphone as he taps the door code, pulling up my chat to Emilia, and follow him into the room.
EMILIA BENNETT
Bedroom at the top of the stairs
Door code is 3993
Russ?
I knew I shouldn’t have left you unattended
You sober enough to be making good choices?
Yeah he’s awkward It’s charmed me
When do I ever make good choices?
But yes
Remember we have breakfast with your parents tomorrow And a flight to catch
Do you have condoms?
Yeah
Please manifest him knowing what he’s doing The universe doesn’t care about your orgasms Aurora
Be safe
Remember to share your location
“Sorry,” I say to Russ, putting my cell back in my purse and setting it down on the bedside table. “I was just letting my roommate know where I am.”
“Responsible.” He smiles and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “My old captain made us use a tracking app, but it was mainly in case anyone’s
location pinged at a police station.”
“You don’t seem the pinging at the police station type . . .”
“Uh, thank you . . . I think.” He laughs, deep and warm; it tugs at my stomach in a weird way.
I finally take in the room, wandering aimlessly, looking for picture frames or something about him, but finding nothing. I’m not joking when I say this is the tidiest bedroom I’ve ever been in, mine included. Even the empty cardboard boxes have been collapsed and lined up next to his wardrobe. His bed has more than one pillow. And they even look like nice pillows.
They all have pillow covers on them and they don’t look like they’ve been runover by a sixteen-wheel truck like many of the guys on this campus.
I reach his desk and other than some engineering books, there’s nothing personal. No signs that it’s him that lives here. He watches my tour of the room quietly, eyes following me from corner to corner. Turning to face him, I slide myself onto his desk, pushing his textbooks out of the way. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
My question catches him off guard, his mouth twists in confusion. “No?” “Your room is really clean. There’s nothing about you in here: no pictures, hobbies . . .” I wouldn’t even know he played hockey if he didn’t live here. There isn’t one piece of dirty, smelly equipment littering the floor.
“And you have pillows. With covers.”
The last one makes him snort and he stands, strolling over to the desk. “Is the bar really that low? Pillows with covers makes you think I have a girlfriend that I’m cheating on?”
He finally stops right in front of me; I widen my knees and he steps into the space they create, his body dangerously close to mine. My heartbeat speeds, heat prickles at the nape of my neck as his body leans over me. He doesn’t touch me though, his hand travels past me and toward a shelf above the desk.
Much like everything else in here, the picture he hands me is pristine— not even a slightly bent corner. It’s him and several of the guys I met downstairs, trying to hold up a trophy. They look like they’re all jumping on Russ and he has the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.
“A picture and a hobby.”
I look up at him, a small smile on his lips. “You look really happy.” Putting the picture back on the shelf, he nods. “Best day of my life.” “Why?”
“Tell me about the best day of your life.”
His redirection is odd but there’s no point in me pushing him because it’s not important really—and emotional baggage isn’t really well suited to the whole one-time hook-up thing anyway.
“I don’t think you brought me up here to hear about my life, did you?” I shuffle closer, legs widening to accommodate his huge frame, and lean back on my hands. “Or do you need a Jenga tower to want to touch me? Should I find a boardgame? What about seven minutes in heaven? Should I set the timer?”
“Aurora,” he says softly. His hand finds my chin, nudging my face up to look at his. The moonlight peeking through his half-cracked blinds illuminates him, making him borderline ethereal. “If a timer goes off, I’m smashing your phone.”
