by Sara Ney
Rowdy: JESUS you’re fucking savage.
Scarlett: I’m so sorry, I couldn’t pass that up. I thought I was flirting??
Rowdy: You could have taken a nice long pass on that joke.
Scarlett: Sorry I’m being a brat, especially when you’re being so sweet, but I’ve been dying to use the phrase “nail me” in a sentence.
Rowdy: If I wanted to be abused, I’d go to the gym and let the physical therapist work out the knots in my shoulders.
Scarlett: **takes mental picture of your body with no shirt on**
Rowdy: Next time you won’t need a mental picture. All you have to do is ask, and I don’t even care what tone you use.
Scarlett: I’m pretty good with my hands, maybe I’ll give you a rub down one of these days.
Rowdy: Don’t ever say rubdown because now a massage is the last thing on my mind. All I can think about is an actual rubdown.
Scarlett: You’re just…
Rowdy: Horny?
Scarlett: Do you suppose there’s a better word than that? Horny sounds so gross.
Rowdy: It sounds better than me saying I’m having lascivious thoughts about you.
Scarlett: Did you just google that word?
Rowdy: Yeah, the list of synonyms is terrible. None of them are dirty enough.
Scarlett: You’re right, they’re not. Weird, right?
Scarlett: When do you start spring training for baseball—like, what day?
Rowdy: January…twentieth or something I think, I’m not exactly sure, I’ll have to look at the schedule. I actually come back before break is officially over, we start a few days before class resumes.
Scarlett: How did I not know this?
Rowdy: I was hoping you’d make a better WAG than this.
Scarlett: A what?
Rowdy: lol, look it up.
Scarlett: When are you done with exams?
Rowdy: The 12th but I have a bunch of shit to do at the field house before I leave; already have my plane ticket for December though.
Scarlett: Pause. Can we focus on the fact that you keep using semicolons in your text messages?
Rowdy: Is it turning you on?
Scarlett: Proper use of grammar always turns me on.
Rowdy: I’ll remember that. You want me to email you my calendar?
Scarlett: Uh, sure? If you want?
Rowdy: I want.
Rowdy: What are you doing next weekend? I thought maybe we could hang out or something.
Scarlett: Going home for the first time in months.
Rowdy: Oh.
Scarlett: What about you?
Rowdy: I don’t have any plans.
Scarlett: I’d bring you home with me, but my parents don’t know you and I think my dad would have a fit. Plus my mom has this project she needs help with for my dad…
Rowdy: I need help with a few projects, lol **eggplant and water emoji**
Scarlett: You’re **such** a pervert!
Rowdy: Are you complaining? Should I dial it down a notch or 12?
Scarlett: No **bites down on lower lip**
Rowdy: So there’s no chance you’re going to be here this weekend? I was hoping we could go to dinner or something.
Scarlett: Like a date?
Rowdy: Yeah, like a date.
Scarlett: Well now I feel terrible—I wish I could.
Scarlett: Are you disappointed?
Rowdy: Little bit, but I can text you all weekend, yeah?
Scarlett: I’m sorry, did you say texting or sexting?
Rowdy: You had me at sexting—now I’m kind of glad you’re going to be gone.
Scarlett: Gee, thanks.
SIXTH FRIDAY
“The Friday Scarlett is Home and I’m Bored Out of my Fucking Skull and Spend it Eating Takeout at the Kitchen Sink.”
Rowdy
I miss her.
Have I mentioned it’s only a three-day weekend? And I should grow a pair of balls and not be such a pussy? I’ve been metaphorically watching out the window for Scarlett to return to school, checking my phone constantly for her messages.
They come sparingly, her parents monopolizing her time.
Shit.
If it’s this bad now, what’s it going to be like for winter break when we’re home for an entire month and I’m a thousand miles away? It’s not a simple car ride; I have to take a plane home, which means I’m stuck there, with only my parents for company.
I punch my pillow and check my phone again.
Midnight.
She’s definitely asleep by now.
My thumb hovers over the messenger app.
I hesitate to tap it but it’s so fucking tempting. Scarlett sleeps with her sound on, and if I send her a message, she’ll wake up and we can…
Ugh. Fuck.
I flop back down against my pillows and groan, reaching into my boxers, running my fingers along the hardening cock resting against my thigh.
Thirty-six more hours to go.
A MONDAY
“The Monday After She Leaves for the Weekend.”
Rowdy
To say I’ve missed the sight of Scarlett would be putting it mildly. I spot her clear across the quad, and damn it all if my heart doesn’t pick up its steady beat. This is my first on-campus sighting of her since meeting her six weeks ago, but she’s out of reach. Still, my eyes greedily take her in.
It’s not as if we haven’t gone an entire seven days between seeing each other, but that was before.
Before the kissing…
The groping…
The dry humping that plays on a loop in my mind, causing me to jerk off more than I did in middle school.
She’s definitely too far away for me to bellow out her name; I’d cause a scene and make a spectacle of myself.
Instead, my legs sprint into motion, propelled in her direction, dodging and weaving through students like the pro-baller I am, eyes focused on the end game: reaching her side before she’s gone.
I haul ass, tightening the hold I have on the black backpack slung over my shoulder. Call out her name when I’m within range, grateful she hears me the first time so I don’t embarrass myself by shouting it again.
Slow to a jog when I catch up, get her attention just as she’s turning away, toward the parking lot, cheeks tinted a pretty shade of pink from the cold.
She’s surprised when I skid to an abrupt halt in front of her, my short sprint worth the effort when she smiles, white teeth winking. Even more surprised when I bend, kissing her on the lips.
I do it again. Because I can, and I can’t really help myself.
“Hey,” I puff out, touching her elbow, wanting the contact. Wanting to put my hands on her. Anywhere. God, I missed her so fucking much, and I don’t even care if that makes me sound whipped.
It’s freezing; temperatures having dropped over the weekend, and as we get closer to winter and the end of the semester, they continue to plummet in the Midwest—one of the few regrets I have about taking the scholarship in Iowa.
Let’s face it, I’m from Florida and my blood is thinner, so my nuts tend to shrivel up in these frigid temperatures, and occasionally, I’m a big fucking tit baby about it.
Yanking at my jacket, hating the wind, I pull it higher up my throat like a cold, little pussy.
For Scarlett’s part, she doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, the weather agreeing with her, cute black hat pulled down over her long hair, furry ball bopping at its top.
She’s dressed in a jacket I haven’t seen on before; it’s black and stylish—not that I give a shit about fashion—but every Friday night on the porch, she’s been dressed for function.
This coat isn’t puffy; it’s fitted, with a gray, faux fur collar brushing against her skin.
“Hi.” Her breath comes out in white wisps.
“I saw you from over there.” I point across the yard. “I’ve been waiting to plant you with a facer since you ditched me to go home last weekend,” I tease. But it’s the truth.
Texting while she was home helped, but nothing beats being with her in person. Except maybe beating myself off, haha.
“A facer? Doesn’t that mean ‘punch someone in the face’?” I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or serious.
“Does it?” I thought it meant kiss.
She giggles. “I think so. Maybe don’t repeat that one too loud? Unless you want to get arrested for threatening someone with assault.”
I heft my backpack. “Where you headed?”
“I was heading home.”
“Me too.”
We stand in the middle of the sidewalk, on the far side of campus, staring one another down, and in the broad light of day, I can see how clear her skin is. How long her lashes are, the defined arches of her dark eyebrows playing peekaboo with her black hat. The pert tip of her candy-colored nose.
Running into her on campus like this feels intimate, more so than having my hand up her shirt or my tongue in her mouth. Her being out of context has me out of my element.
“Can I take you for coffee?”
Her dimple pops. “I could do a coffee.”
“Or lunch?” Damn I’m hungry.
Hungry for lunch and her company.
I’m so fucking desperate for her company.
I rack my brain for a cause; she isn’t dazzled by the attention I get from my peers, has no desire to be part of my fan club. She doesn’t seem to give a shit about baseball, though it’s kind of cool her dad does. Doesn’t care that I’m the team captain, or one of the nation’s best shortstops. Has no interest in finding out what my prospects are to play professional baseball—hasn’t even asked.
“You want to grab something on campus?” Scarlett asks.
“No—let’s get the hell out of here.” I want to be alone with you, uninterrupted. “I’m craving something from that sub shop down on Tenth Street. Have you been?”
“Once or twice.”
“You cool with that?”
“Sure, why not.” Her feet are still rooted to the ground. “Want to walk?”
“Hell no.” I laugh. “I’m freezing my balls off. I can drive if you’re okay with that. First we have to walk and pick up my truck.”
“Sure.”
Our feet move in tandem toward my house and without thinking twice, I reach for her hand.
Her mitten-covered hand is soft. I give it a squeeze before directing my gaze forward, and if she’s not into PDA, she isn’t saying anything.
The fuzzy little fur ball on top of her hat bobs as she trudges along beside me, makes me smile. Her black leather boots click on the concrete alongside me.
Scarlett’s backpack is a generic black, like mine, with gray accents, matching her jacket with its shiny silver zipper.
We make quick work of the short walk to my place, and I open the door to my truck, waiting to close it until she clambers up and buckles herself in. Brush my fingers over her, unnecessarily checking to make sure she’s secure as an excuse to touch her.
“What?” She catches me staring at the sight of her in the passenger side, like she belongs there.
“Nothing. You just look good in my truck, that’s all.”
Good enough to eat, the rest of her face turning the same shade as the pink button of her nose as she fights back a smile—and loses.
I step onto the running board, grab the handle above the window, and kiss her again. “God you’re cute.”
Making out in my driveway wasn’t the plan, but her lips are warm and I’m starving for her—been starving for her all weekend, and no amount of texting or sexting or FaceTime was going to slake my appetite.
When I pull back, all I can think about is, “A giant fucking sandwich with everything on it.”
“Maybe some cherry pie for dessert,” she breathlessly adds, touching a mitten to her lips where my mouth just was.
Cherry pie…was that an innuendo?
Landing another peck to her pretty mouth, I step down off the running board, shut her door, and jog around to the driver’s side.
“God,” I groan. “I haven’t eaten anything since five o’clock this morning.”
I start the engine, letting it hum.
“Five this morning? What were you doing up so early?”
“Lifting.” My biceps flex as if on command.
“Lifting what?”
“Um, weights?” I laugh, amused, the sound filling the cab of the truck. “We work out during the week and check in with our trainers so we’re not lazy pieces of shit when the season starts. Some guys really let themselves go in the off season.”
“Getting up that early would kill me.”
“Not an early riser?”
“I’d be lying if I said I was.”
“You get used to it.” Sort of.
We reach Tenth Street, my eyes scanning the road for a curbside parking space. I find one, paralleling park the truck like a goddamn professional driver.
I don’t have time to make it around to Scarlett’s side of the truck; she hops out and onto the sidewalk before I can unbuckle myself, already waiting on the curb when I slide myself out.
Looking both ways, it’s slightly exhilarating bolting across the street with her by my side, grabbing her hand. I manage to reach the front door first. Open it for Scarlett and usher her through with a magnanimous gesture from my palm.
My mother taught me some manners.
We grab a table in the corner, and the place is far enough from campus that it’s not busy. The likelihood that we’ll bump into anyone? Slim to none, thank fucking God.
“I already know what I want.” She shakes her head, declining a menu when the waitress comes to take our order. “Whatever your soup of the day is, I’d love a bowl of that. And a banana nut muffin. Oh! A hot chocolate, too, please, with lots of whipped cream.”
I stare down at my menu, studying the photographs one by one, undecided. Then, “Give me the pita with everything, extra roast beef please. Mayo, mustard, oil. No tomatoes. Lots of lettuce, and I’ll take extra fries with my fries.” I close the menu and hand it back. “I’ll stick with water and a cup of whatever soup she’s having.”
The girl scribbles on her pad, sneaking furtive glances at me beneath her lashes. She’s definitely a student and definitely recognizes me; I wonder if she’ll ask me to confirm my identity later, or if she’ll leave us the fuck alone to talk in peace.
Then, Scarlett does one of my favorite things: stands to remove her coat.
I don’t know what it is about this gesture that gets me excited, but it does, probably because she’s taking off clothes—any clothes, it doesn’t matter to me.
She’s sliding down the zipper and I intently watch it part, anticipation thrumming my chest. Man, I love when she peels her jackets down her shoulders, revealing whatever she’s got on underneath.
The tight shirt does not disappoint, hugging her fantastic rack. Her slender hips sport black leggings tucked into leather boots.
Scarlett plucks her hat off, finger-combing her hair until it’s smooth. It falls in straight sheets, a stark contrast against her crisp shirt. I watch her bend to shove the hat in her jacket pocket before plopping her tight ass back into her chair.
Mine.
And I’d be remiss not to notice her boobs bouncing when she seats herself.
I shake my head to center myself.
Focus, dammit.
“I want to clarify the conversation we had the other night, since we never really finished it.” It’s been eating away at me, niggling my mind—mostly because I want to fuck her so goddamn bad. “You know, the sex talk.”
I pluck a pink sugar packet from the metal holder in the center of the table and roll it between the pads of my fingers. Tap it on the tabletop to busy my hands, folding back the corners.
My knee bounces under the table.
“Which sex talk? The one we had at my house, or the one we had this weekend when you texted me a picture of your rock hard…bat?”
No, I did not send her
a dick pic. She is literally talking about the vintage Louisville Slugger my parents gave me when I signed with Iowa.
“The one where we discussed being responsible about it instead of having it.” My nostrils flare.
“Oh that sex talk.” She shifts in her seat, right leg crossed over her left knee.
“Yeah. That one.”
We’re silent for a few seconds when the waitress comes back with our drinks, setting them one by one on the table, loitering. I raise my brows at her, irritated, hoping she’ll take the hint and walk off.
“So let’s talk about it, because it’s all I can fucking think about.”
“That’s because you’re a raging hormone.” Scarlett takes a dainty sip of her hot chocolate. “I mean, look at you. You look like you want to leap across this table and…”
“Bang you?”
She sputters a little, white frothy whipped cream stuck to the corner of her lip. “That’s one way to put it.” Her forearms rest on the table, but her fingers never leave the ceramic mug. “But you know…I don’t want a relationship based on sex.”
“I don’t want a relationship based on sex either, but it would be super neat if we had lots and lots of it.”
“And all this sex you’re wanting to have is with me?” The sip she takes from her hot chocolate is anything but casual as she eyes me above the rim.
“Uh, yes?”
Her laugh is interrupted by yet another server who sets our plates down. She hovers, too, a blatant attempt at striking up a conversation, though not with us as a couple—with me.
My fingertips tap the table, agitated. Knee bounces.
“Can I get you anything else?”
You can get the fuck away from us. “Nope.”
“Are you sure? We have some really great cookies—they were just delivered from the corner bakery.”
Scarlett smiles politely, oblivious. “We’re good.”
“If you need anything else—”
“Didn’t you just hear us say no?”
Jesus Christ, I’m so irritated. Is she hard of hearing? Why won’t these fucking waitresses leave us alone? We were having a goddamn sex talk!
“Sterling,” Scarlett’s voice intones kindly, and she glances up at the girl, smiling apologetically. “We’re good, but thank you.”