by Elle Kennedy
Hunter stands in the center of the ice where we’ve gathered for a little ceremony of sorts. Coach, sensing something’s up, lingers just outside our circle with a suspicious look on his face. It’s an expression I’ve seen Brenna don on more than one occasion. It’s almost scary how alike Coach and his bitchy daughter are.
“So,” Hunter starts, “we brought you here today pretty much because we wanted to say thank you, Coach. This bunch of degenerates and hooligans wouldn’t have made it as far as we did without you, and even though we couldn’t bring home the big trophy for you, you made all of us better. Not just better hockey players, but better people. And we all owe you a lot.”
“Like bail money, right, Captain?” Bucky pipes up, getting a laugh from the guys.
“Thanks, Buck.” Hunter flips him off. “So anyway, thank you, from all of us. We got you a little something to show our appreciation.”
Gavin and Matt all but drag Coach into the center of our circle so Hunter can present him with the custom-engraved Rolex everyone on the team chipped in to buy. Which is to say, our parents did. Mom sent me a blank check with my stepdad’s name on it and I told Hunter to just write in the amount. I’d rather not know.
“Man, I, uh…” Coach admires the watch, at a loss for words. “This is real nice, guys. I, umm…” He sniffs, rubbing his face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was about to cry. “This is a special group. I mean it when I say I’ve never had a better bunch of guys.”
“Better than the years Garrett Graham and John Logan were on the roster?” Foster demands, naming two of Briar’s most famous alumni. Graham and Logan both play for the Bruins these days.
“Let’s not be crazy now,” Coach replies, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes. “You all worked hard for each other, and that’s all I can ever ask. So thank you. This is great.”
Foster brings out a cooler of beers from the bench and passes out bottles while we all take one last chance to appreciate being on this ice together. I have no doubt next year we’ll be a strong team. But it’ll never be this one again.
Eight months ago, I showed up on this campus with a sudden pang of regret, wondering if I’d made a rash and ill-considered decision to ship my life nearly three thousand miles across the country to start over. I feared I’d never fit in with the ivy-covered legacies of this place, that I’d choke on the Ralph Lauren polos and inbred poshness of it all. And then I met these idiots.
I couldn’t have asked for better friends.
And Taylor. I’ve known her less than a month, yet I count her among the short list of people I trust. She makes me want to be a better person. With her, I feel like I can finally get something right, like maybe I can actually have a real relationship based on friendship rather than lust. Even if some of my friends are having a hard time believing that.
“All I’m saying is,” Foster babbles in the Jeep on the ride home, “Con didn’t come back to our room Saturday night. So unless he hopped in bed with you and Demi, Captain, I’ve got a good idea what he was up to.”
“Dude, jealousy is not a good look on you,” I drawl.
“For real, though.” Hunter leans forward from the backseat, where he’s sitting with Matt. “What’s up with you two?”
Hell if I know.
I mean, I like Taylor. A lot. But I’m also pretty sure that if I bring up the matter of renegotiating the terms of our relationship, I’ll scare her away. I don’t think she’s convinced yet that I’m reformed, and to be honest, no one is more surprised by my recent turn in favor of monogamy than I am. For the moment, though, I’m enjoying myself.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” I respond.
Foster snorts. “So then what’s your excuse?”
“Con, you should make Foster pay rent if he’s gonna stay on your dick this much,” Hunter says with a grin.
I’m starting to have sympathy for the hell we gave Hunter over Demi and the ridiculous celibacy pact he made at the beginning of the semester. This shit’s annoying. The guys are like dogs with a bone, and I can only imagine it’ll get worse now that the season’s over and they’ve got nothing else to do than hound my ass.
So when Hunter corners me when we stop to pick up some lunch at the diner, my newfound sympathy has me being a bit more forthcoming with him.
“How serious is this?” he asks while we wait by the car for Matt and Foster to grab our orders from inside.
“I don’t know if it’s serious. Definitely on the way to being not not-serious.” I shrug. “We haven’t even had sex yet,” I confess, because I know Hunter can keep shit to himself. “Buffalo was the first time we fooled around.”
“That’s sort of the best part though, isn’t it? Before sex. When all you’re thinking about is having it for the first time. All the anticipation, you know? Getting each other all messed up over the tension.”
I wouldn’t know from experience—this is the first time sex wasn’t the first step for me. Usually it’s the first and last. “I remember you being kind of crabby, actually.”
“Well, yeah.” He laughs. “There’s that too.”
“Taylor’s a good girl. We get along great.” I hesitate for a moment. “Honestly, I’m trying to see how long I can go before she realizes I’m a dirtbag and she’s too smart for me.”
Hunter shakes his head. “You know, if you didn’t treat yourself like a dirtbag, maybe other people wouldn’t, either.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Whatever, dickhead.”
I hide a smile. Hunter and I have a different relationship than I do with the other guys. Maybe because we’re both working on being better people lately. He’s the only one I talk to on a more serious level, so when he comes hard with the Mr. Rogers routine, it has a way of getting under my skin. His words are still crawling around in there when I get home and return a call to my mom from this morning.
“Where’ve you been, Mister?” she chides. “I didn’t hear from you after the game.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. It was a crazy weekend and I was exhausted by the time we got back. Then I had to play catch-up on assignments for class the past couple days.”
“I’m sorry you guys didn’t get to play in the championship. But next year, right?”
“Yeah. I’m at peace with it.” Guys who get all fucking hung up on shit like that for a whole year get on my nerves. It’s like, dude, get another hobby. “How are things there? How’s Max?”
Her sigh tickles my ear. “He wants to buy a sailboat. Went out to Monterey to look at one.”
“Does he know how to sail?”
“Of course not, but why should that stop him, right?” She laughs again. I guess it’s sort of sweet how she finds his more irrational ideas charming. “I told him, you’re hardly home enough to have dinner, when are you going to learn to sail? But if he’s going to have a midlife crisis, I’d rather it be with a boat than a younger woman.”
“You can’t go to jail for setting your own boat on fire,” I inform her. “I read that somewhere.”
“If it comes to that,” she agrees, joking. “Anyway, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Miss you. Love you. Stay out of trouble.”
“Who me?”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Love you, Mom. Later.”
I am glad she’s happy. I’m glad Max makes her happy and she’s got all the money she’ll ever need to bicker about shit like buying a sailboat. Yet a sour taste forms in the back of my throat when I get off the phone.
Talking about Max brings the run-in with Kai back to the front of my mind. It was like whiplash, seeing him again, and I haven’t felt right since. There’s been a nagging ache in my neck that just won’t go away.
Getting out of California was as much about getting away from Kai as anything else. I used to think I owed him something. For a long time he was my best friend, and when I made it out of the old neighborhood and he didn’t, I felt as if I’d betrayed him somehow. But the
n I realized, it was never about loyalty or friendship for Kai—people are just tools in his eyes. We’re only as good as what we can do for him.
When I look back on it, I recognize that Kai Turner is a rot that infects everything he touches. And I hope to hell I never have to see him again.
Feeling a foul mood creeping in, I text Taylor looking for a distraction.
ME: Can I come over and go down on you?
I’m joking, but only a little.
TAYLOR: Kappa meeting. See you later?
I don’t know if I should feel rejected that she doesn’t even acknowledge my offer with so much as a thinking emoji. I decide to cut her some slack, seeing as how she’s in the middle of a meeting and didn’t have to text me back in the first place.
ME: Cool. Text me.
I toss the phone on my bed and head to the dresser in search of some gym shorts. Guess I’ll go for a run since I can’t even get my fake girlfriend to let me eat her pussy. Never too early to start working on my cardio.
19
Taylor
I just about swallow my tongue when I read the text from Conor. That man has the very annoying habit of catching me off guard during Kappa meetings.
“What’s so funny?” Sasha rips my phone out of my hand after I send a reply to Conor. I lunge at her, but my best friend is too quick. Former gymnast and all. Bitch.
“‘Can I come over and go down on you?’” she reads aloud, jumping to her feet to get away. I chase her to a standoff around the antique coffee table in the huge living room. Everything in this room is some priceless artifact donated by an alumnus for some dumb reason. “Eggplant emoji, splash emoji, peach—”
“Shut up.” I hop the table to yank the phone back. “He did not send come-on-my-ass emojis.”
“It’s called subtext, Taylor.” Sasha winks at me with a shit-eating grin. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I’d let Conor Edwards come on my stuffed turtle if he wanted to,” Rachel blurts out.
“We know, Rach.” Olivia mimes throwing up in her mouth. “Fucking psycho.”
“You said yes, right?” Beth is jerking a straw in and out of her smoothing cup. “Please tell me you said yes.”
“See?” Lisa is nodding with earnest approval. “Real men eat cooch.”
“Is he good at it, though?” Fiona shoves a pillow in her lap like she’s got to cover her lady boner. “I feel like he’d be good at it. I can tell that about people.”
Sasha and I retake our seats at the dining room table, angling our chairs toward the living room so we have a view of the entire open-concept space. I feel someone’s gaze on me, and glance over to find Rebecca sitting a few seats away. When our eyes meet, she frowns and looks away.
“Can we bring the thirsty slut meter down a little?” Abigail huffs, her face red. “I don’t want to hear about Taylor’s fuckboy. We have business to discuss.”
“Like Abigail’s anointment,” Sasha whispers.
“Why even bother having an election, right?” I whisper back.
Sasha puts her fingers to her head and blows her brains out.
Our chapter president doesn’t start with the election, though, instead leading with a more pressing event. “Rayna, you want to bring us up to speed on the Spring Gala?” Charlotte turns the meeting over to Rayna, another senior.
“On Monday we’ll have tickets ready to pick up. This year we’re asking everyone to sell twenty. All the details about the Children’s Hospital charity we’re sponsoring are in your email, along with the dress code. Remind people when you sell them a ticket that formal attire is required. And I’m serious when I say black tie. Period. If the men don’t show up in a bow tie or a dazzling sequin gown, they aren’t getting in. Stephanie, I’m talking to you.”
Rayna cuts a glare at the sister barely concealing a guilty grin. Last year Steph’s date arrived dressed as Goth Rock Zombie Jesus. It did not go over well with the donor alumni.
“Can we do it in Boston this year?” Jules whines. “The banquet hall smelled funny and there wasn’t any parking. I bet I could get my dad to—”
“No,” Rayna snaps back. “The more we spend on a venue, the less money goes to charity. We’ll be in the Hastings banquet hall again, but this year we’re contracting with the church across the street to use their parking lot for overflow parking, and we’ll have valet onsite.”
“Everyone,” Charlotte chimes in, “is required to sign up for a volunteer committee for the Spring Gala. VIP planning, decorations, whatever. Rayna’s got the lists. If your name isn’t on one, I’m picking for you.”
Sasha pokes me in the ribs. She’d committed a hostile takeover of the music committee at the last meeting and conscripted me to her campaign. Mostly that involves us going through her Spotify playlists to find the right balance between danceable and inoffensive to our distinguished guests of a certain age. Last year Sasha kicked the DJ out twenty minutes into his set and ran the whole thing from her phone.
Needless to say, we’ve found it’s easier to let Sasha have her way.
After Charlotte dismisses the meeting, Abigail corners me on my way to the hall bathroom. She’s been to her bleach dealer, it seems. Her hair is now a shade of white that somehow absorbs all natural light and reflects only blinding bitch.
“You’re awfully smug these says,” she says, standing between me and the door to prevent me from peeing. I should pee on her fancy Louboutins just to prove a point about the repercussions of bathroom barriers.
“I can assure you I’m not. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“You know hockey boy is going to get bored and dump you soon. He never dates anyone longer than a few weeks.”
“Why do you care?”
“We’re sisters, Tay-Tay,” she coos, cocking her head in that way that makes her look like a broken marionette. It’s fucking creepy. Or perhaps it’s all the blood rushing to one side of her brain to give her the ability to form words. “I wouldn’t want you to get your heart broken.”
“No worries.” I shove my hand out and force her to dodge it so I can push forward. “Our relationship is solely based on having lots of sex, so…”
I brush past her and do my business, then wash my hands and step back into the hall. Where Abigail is still standing. Doesn’t she have better things to do than obsess over my love life?
She tails me down the hall toward the foyer. As I’m opening the door to leave, none other than Abigail’s boyfriend Kevin struts inside. Lovely. He who smells like too much body spray and Cheetos.
Every time Kevin sees me there’s a brief blank stare and then his eyes drop to my chest and it’s like spotting someone you know in a crowded airport. His face alights with recognition. “Taylor, hey.”
“Taylor,” Sasha shouts at me from the staircase. “Get your ass up here.”
“Look at it this way,” I chirp, sliding past Abigail and her gross boyfriend’s leering stare, “when I’m done with hockey boy, you can shoot your shot.”
A thrill of excited energy pours through my blood. Standing up to Abigail, even just a little, feels good. Powerful, even. Taylor Marsh, able to leap tall bitches in a single bound.
“We should talk to Charlotte about having paramedics standing by,” Sasha says as we climb the stairs to her bedroom. “Abigail’s liable to drop dead of jealousy any minute.”
“I don’t know about jealousy.” In Sasha’s room, I plop down in her beanbag chair and toss my hair over one shoulder. “I think what drives her crazy is that her cruelty backfired into actually making me happy.”
Sasha sits on the other beanbag and fixes me with a serious look. “So this is legit then? You and Conor are a real thing now?”
“It’s something,” I say for lack of a better word. “I don’t know what.”
“But it’s real.”
I swallow hard. “I think so. I mean, we’ve kissed and whatever. Messed around a little in Buffalo.”
“You drove seven hours for a booty call,” Sasha sa
ys, laughing. “I hope it was more than a little.”
“Six and a half hours. And fine, it was a little more than a little.”
“Do you still have your V-Card?” she demands.
“I’m as yet unacquainted with his penis.”
That earns me snort. “All right. So. Where’s your head at? Is this like a fine-for-now thing, or is it headed in a linear direction?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I’m into it. Things are a solid A in the fooling around category. He’s sweet and respectful and makes me feel comfortable.”
“But,” Sasha says for me.
“But I’m still hesitant. He’s been nothing but wonderful to me, and yet I can’t shake the idea that if I have sex with him, I’m still a number on a very long list. It feels…” I trail off, unable to find the words.
“That’s the patriarchy talking. Who gives a shit how many women he’s slept with? Did he cheat on them? Did he promise them a ring to get them into bed and then sneak out in the middle of the night? Is he posting sex selfies on Insta and passing trophies around to his friends?”
“Not that I’m aware of, no.”
“So fuck it, then. Or him.” She wiggles her tongue impishly. “If you want to. When you feel like it. If the mood strikes.”
“Okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I get it.”
“Society tells boys to divide and conquer, and tells girls to save ourselves for some younger future version of our father. Just doing some quick math in my head and…yep, that comes out to a bunch of hypocritical bullshit. Your self-worth is not tied up in your vagina or how many girls came before you.”
“No pun intended.”
“Precisely.”
20
Conor
I haven’t fingered a girl this much since high school.
Taylor lies in my bed on her side, cheeks flushed and lips parted slightly. Her bra is tossed across my desk in the corner. Her shirt is pulled up to expose her perfect tits for me, jeans pushed down only enough for me to get my hand beneath her skimpy white panties. I haven’t even seen this girl fully naked yet, but she’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed. Blonde hair splayed over my pillow and warm little body wrapped around mine while she writhes against my hand. Her eyes clench tighter every time I swipe my thumb across her clit. I could do this all day.