Cross Stroke

by Elizabeth Hartey

  “Met him this afternoon, actually. We’re both on the club team, but I haven’t seen him skate yet.” There’s a beat in our conversation, only seconds, though it feels like an eternity. I take a big breath and blow it back out. “I haven’t known him long enough for my opinion to count for anything.”

  “You’re opinion about what?”

  “Um, nothing. I don’t know. Anyway, gotta go. Thank Dalton for the invite.”

  “You know Dalton?”

  “I met him this afternoon too at the Thirsty Whale.”

  “I should’ve known. My man Dalt’s a fast worker.” I think he’s joking, but a pinched, frowny expression sweeps across his face.

  “No. He wasn’t trying to hit on me. It was a quick meet and greet.” It’s not my place to mention Dalton was totally swooning over Nikki, who seemed to want to walk through hot coals rather than even look at him.

  “Oh, good.” His face relaxes.

  Oh good?

  Why should he care if Dalton hits on me? I suppose the jackass thinks his friend is too good for me.

  “I’m outta here.” I turn to make my getaway before I waste any more time snarling at him for his comments.

  “You leaving so soon? You just got here.”

  “Yeah, I have some studying to do.” How does he know when I got here? Was he looking for me?

  Of course not. He doesn’t even like you and he was flirting with Alex, my bratty little mind points out.

  “Studying? Already?”

  “Yes. I suppose it makes me some kind of nerd in your eyes. I guess we can’t all be the sexy cheerleader type.” I start to turn away. I really, really want to get away from this arrogant ass.

  “Studying is cool. Already started myself.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure you’re getting a whole lot of studying done in there,” I say sarcastically and flick my chin toward the house. The pulsating sounds of “No Church in the Wild” are blasting from the open door and the rolling bodies of dancing students move like one big mass.

  “It can be a challenge sometimes.” He shrugs and glances toward the door. “Hey, you need a ride, Bambi?”

  “Only if you plan on giving me a piggyback ride. I live right there.” I don’t want him to know I live at a I-can-see-into-your-bedroom-window-from-my-bedroom-window distance from him, but there’s no sense in trying to hide it. Our driveways are right next to each other. He’ll find out sooner or later. I point to my pretty little blue house and start walking toward it. I can’t wait to get back to its quiet, uncomplicated surroundings.

  “You live right next door? No shit? One serious looking Jeep you got there.” Even though I’m not looking at him, I can hear the sarcasm in his words. It’s the same sound they had when he commented on my shoes.

  “Yes, it is pretty awesome. Isn’t it?” I keep walking, not looking back. I don’t tell him I detest the color and think it’s just as outlandish as my shoes, because fuck him.

  If he thinks your car and shoes are outrageous what would he think about your absurd furniture?

  Who cares what he thinks?

  “Yup it’s awesome all right. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, Bambi, piggyback ride or skating lessons, just give me a shout,” he calls out to me.

  I come to such an abrupt stop my preposterous designer shoes do a little skid on the graveled driveway. “There is one thing you can do for me.” I turn my head and glare at him through narrowed eyes.

  “Yeah?” He grins. “What’s that?”

  “Stop calling me Bambi,” I growl. Stupid, snarky, nickname.

  He rubs his chin like he’s considering my request. “Can’t do it,” he drawls after a few seconds.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you never told me your real name.” He quirks his brow and hooks his thumbs in the top of his jeans. He looks like he’s getting ready for a shootout. Where does he think he is, the OK Corral? His already dangerously too low jeans are flashing just enough skin to send heated gunpowder sparks between my thighs.

  “It’s Tracey. Trace Hayward,” I force my dry mouth to speak. He may be a dickhead, but he’s an equator-hot dickhead.

  “Trace. I like it.”

  “So glad you approve,” I sneer, because I’m never going to let him see how he affects me. I turn back toward my house.

  “But,” he says after a moment, “I think Bambi suits you. So see you later, Bambi.” He emphasizes the name. “I’m Dak Andersen, by the way,” he calls out to me, again.

  This time I don’t stop and I don’t turn toward him as I flip him the finger over my shoulder.

  “Yeah. See you later. Jackass!” I shout back.

  ***

  Dak

  I could take Alex up on his offer to exchange hook up encouragements with our mutual friends when I ask him about Bambi. He wants to put in a good word for me with her in exchange for me putting in a good word for him with Erik. But I don’t think he’s going to need my help to get together with Erik, one of our defensemen, because it’s apparent he’s more than interested.

  He thinks he’s hiding it from the team, but I can see the way he stares at Alex when he thinks no one is looking. I want to tell him it’s cool. No one on the team will think less of him. At least not if I’ve got anything to say about it. I don’t want Alex saying anything to Tracey about me anyway, making her think I’m into some kind of fix-up relationship thing.

  “Nah, man,” I say to him. “I think you and Erik will be cool without me interfering and I don’t need you to say anything to Tracey. She’s not my type. We’re kind of like oil and water. Just curious about the new girl.”

  Alex doesn’t know too much other than she had some kind of problem with a guy and teammates at UDel.

  Shit. She transferred to another school to get away from some dickhole. Some fuck-up broke her heart or did something calamitous enough to cause her to transfer to another school and lose credits. I knew it. Girlfriend material.

  “Ah, sucks man. Exactly why I don’t do the girlfriend thing. And, uh, don’t say anything to Tracey about the two of us discussing her. Wouldn’t want her to get her hopes up. Make her think I’m interested or anything. You know what I mean, dude?” I add the shitty request because I’m a guy and a total asshole sometimes. I’m certain Alex isn’t buying my bullshit line about not being interested in Tracey though, especially when he does this elaborate comical reenactment of my collision with Bambi on the ice to remind me of my first interaction with her. His animated storytelling skills make the colossal crash seem funny, and we both get a good laugh. Then the craziest damn feeling sweeps over me. Disappointment. I’m disappointed not to see Tracey at the party.

  Even though there’s a long line of ready and willing puck bunnies, and as much as I was looking forward to indulging in one or even two of those specimens of divine womanhood, there is only one chick I want to see. That’s a new one; me waiting for one specific chick. It doesn’t make any kind of sense. I keep scanning the room in hopes of seeing her.

  When I glance up, Tracey’s standing right there and I’m as awestruck as a revirginized teen. It’s like a scene from a cheesy movie when a guy sees a chick and fireworks go off in the background.

  Her auburn hair cascades in waves past those perfect round tits I saw gift-wrapped in lace in the locker room earlier and those crystal green eyes drill right into my heart. My cock begs me to do something about the way I want her.

  I had the chance to relieve the pressure I’m feeling since my encounter with her earlier in the locker room. Not ten minutes before, Bri, who is the type of chick I normally hook up with, was rubbing herself all over me.

  All I could think about was Bambi and the way she looked up at me with those big eyes in both nervousness and longing when she tripped on her skate guards at the rink. Two minutes after, she was reading me the riot act when I plowed into her, or rather, when she plowed into me and broke my favorite stick.

  Damn.

  And then the sweet way she
blushed when I walked out naked from the shower and her eyes ran up and down my body.

  I turned Bri down. Bri, the chick with both Jesse Jane looks and skills between the sheets. Bri, the girl who’s always up for a wild night of anything goes sex, especially if her feral partner happens to be a hockey player. Bri, the girl who never has anything but sweet compliments and hot, dirty things to whisper in my ear. I turned her down. Not something I would normally do, deny myself that kind of coital bliss.

  Now all I can do is stare at the reason for the newfound state of pain and confusion I’m putting my cock through. Bambi locks eyes with me from across the room, a moment filled with more exhilaration than scoring the winning goal in a power play or catching the perfect wave and riding it to shore.

  When she turns and bolts out of the house I make some lame excuse to Alex and chase after her, even though I’m sure he saw me scoping her out.

  I find her outside all breathless and flustered. I know she’s feeling the attraction between us as much as I am. The way she devours me with her eyes, the pink flush of her cheeks when she talks to me, and the slight tremble of her body. She wants me.

  When she says something about me talking to Alex, I’m sure I blush like a little girl. There’s no way she could have heard our conversation over the crowd and loud music. She couldn’t know I was asking about her.

  Then she mentions knowing Dalt and my chest tightens. I don’t know why. I only know Dalt is a bigger manwhore than I am and I don’t want him anywhere near Bambi. No, I’m not jealous. I don’t do jealousy, especially jealousy involving a bro. The hands off another bro’s chick, even if it’s a temporary puck bunny, is part of an unspoken bro-code.

  Except Bambi’s not mine in any way, so I shouldn’t be feeling any of that. In fact, I should be steering as far away from her as I can. If there was some kind of problem with a dude at her last school, she’s complicated girlfriend material and I sure as shit don’t need a girlfriend messing with my heart again. Besides, I wasn’t kidding about us being like oil and water.

  But holy fucking hell, she lives right next door. I think God flipped me the finger. How am I supposed to avoid her? It’s like putting a bee right next to a garden of roses. Knowing she’s only steps away isn’t going to help when I’m lying in bed at night thinking about her. Not that I lay in bed and think about girls, at least not one specific girl. But I can’t get this chick out of my mind ever since I crashed into her, or rather since she crashed into me. Wrecking ball on ice skater girl has seized my brain and body. When I see her, my dick sits up and begs.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tracey

  The first time I saw the Wizard of Oz when I was around five, I gasped in shock when Dorothy went over the rainbow and everything turned to Technicolor when she stepped outside her house. The plastic flowers looked so beautiful. Although, at the time I wasn’t aware of the polyethylene toxicity of said beauty. Anyway, it’s the same distorted impression a person gets when walking in my house. Sort of beautiful, but in this case, too much of a beautiful thing can be mentally toxic. It’s the reason why unpacking all day has me exhausted, more perceptually than physically.

  My mom supplied me with a house full of Mackenzie-Childs furniture. When the delivery truck showed up at my door last week I held my breath because I knew it was going to be insane. I was right.

  Mom called me five minutes after the truck pulled away all excited asking me what I thought about the “extraordinary” new furniture she got for my new house. It’s extraordinary all right. With all the black and white checks, stripes, velvet, and bright colored flowers, I couldn’t tell her it looks like Alice came back through the looking glass and threw up all over the place.

  “Don’t you just adore the Rosie Sweet poster bed?” she squealed in my ear.

  “Um, yeah. It’s very…umm…pink and white striped.” I tried to think of something positive to say to sound grateful. The only thing I could come up with was, No guy would ever want to fuck me in the pink bed because they’d think I was twelve years old. Which, in my case, is fine since there’s no possibility of any fucking going on in the Rosie bed or anywhere else.

  Of course, I didn’t tell her that. I didn’t want to ruin her excitement over the outrageous stuff, which I know cost thousands of dollars. I can live with it for a couple of years, then I’ll donate it to Sloane and her new NYC apartment. She’s ooed and ahhed over the contents of the company’s catalogue a hundred times.

  Since the furniture placement is more than taken care of, I focus on putting clothes away, hanging posters, placing my books in order of subject on the built-in bookshelves, anything to keep my attention off of the groups of gorgeous women leaving the house next door.

  They either had another party on Saturday, or they stayed in bed from Friday night into Sunday morning. Damn. Hockey players have serious stamina. My attention strays out the kitchen window facing the hotties’ house. I notice none of the ladies are showing any indications of a walk of shame. In fact, I’d say those girls appear to be proud as hell. I guess it’s some of the ‘perks’ Dak was referring to. Apparently it’s some kind of honor to sleep with hockey players. I get they're hot, but they’re just jocks. Besides, these guys define the word player. I can’t help notice there are far more women leaving than there are men living in the house. Sheesh. These guys really are sex gods.

  The fact I spent the night cuddling with my vibrator while unwanted visions of the jackass danced through my head doesn’t help suppress the steamy sensations I’m feeling at the moment as I glance out the window and see one of Dak’s roommates. He’s shirtless, barefoot, and in low hanging sweatpants, sucking face with the same brunette who rubbed up against Dak on the porch Friday night.

  The boy is ripped. He has muscles in places I didn’t even know there were muscles. The tats running down the length of his arm and across his chest only accentuate his massive muscles. A big sigh escapes my lips.

  Oh man. It’s definitely been too long. Not that I haven’t tried since the infamous night. Can’t do it, though. Can’t let anyone get too close. Lost in my daydream, I absently stare out the window. I become aware of my creepy voyeurism at the same time the guy looks over and catches me drooling at him and his ‘girlfriend’—I use the term loosely. Her back is to me, giving me a clear view as he runs his hands down to her ass and squeezes, and then winks at me over her shoulder.

  I could duck and pretend he didn’t see me, but I know he did. Anyway, why should I be the one feeling uncomfortable? He’s the one feeling a girl up on public display.

  “Nice,” I mouth to him, shake my head, and get back to unpacking. One thing about athletes, you can count on them to only be in it for the meaningless fuck.

  Found that out the hard way, and I’m not talking about a hot, fun, hard way. I’m talking about the painful, demoralizing way I found out about Sean. Although, after him and all his lies and false promises, a meaningless fuck with a man-whore athlete who I’m not in love with might be nice.

  Yet even if I could let someone get close again, I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl. I like the emotions, the closeness of being in a relationship, the stupid warm fuzzy feelings.

  My thoughts are a tangled mess of “I want it, but I can’t do it; stay away from it, run for your life.” I want to hold my fingers up in a cross pattern and point them at the house next door to ward off the demon sex-gods. I can’t wait for classes to start tomorrow. Then there won’t be time to think about mind blowing, heart pounding, in fact all kinds of pounding—sex.

  ***

  After making a quick veggie stir-fry for dinner, I hit the books to do more research for my thesis on ocean acidification and its effects on marine life. Living alone is great for allowing lots of quiet time to study. Since there are no distractions in the house, there’s no need to stay locked in my bedroom to study.

  Unfortunately, the luxury of studying wherever I want in the house will be changing soon, because I’m going to need to find
a housemate. Even though they can more than afford it and wouldn’t mind paying for everything to help me out, I don’t want to depend on my parents for rent money. They helped me out more than enough during my undergraduate studies. And I’m trying to overcome all the shit that went down in Delaware and be an independent, strong adult. I can’t keep relying on them every time there’s a bump in my road. It’s time to put on my big girl panties and figure out how to make things work on my own.

  Problem is, the rent on this house is draining my bank account of the money I saved giving kayak tours in Delaware last summer. If I’m going to make my funds last, it’s time to find someone to share the rent. I’m also going into Bar Harbor sometime this week to see if I can get a part-time job with one of the kayaking tour companies. The touring season is almost over for the winter, but if the weather holds up there will be another month of tours.

  The companies I worked for in the past were always impressed by my knowledge of the ocean and marine life. They encouraged me to add some information about the changing oceans, not only to make the tour more interesting, but also to help make the tourists more aware of the environmental perils the ocean is facing if we don’t do something.

  Since my family has always lived on the coast—Long Island in the winter, Newport in the summer—the ocean is a big part of my life. Marine life has been my passion ever since I was old enough to understand the significance of the ocean. I hate what’s happening to the oceans on our planet and I intend on making a difference with my Marine Ecology degree.

  I was doing a lot of research on the coastal wetlands and ecosystems in Delaware, but since my move to Mt. Desert Island, my focus has shifted to the outlying islands off the coast here. The move has made for a lot more work, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no way I could stay at UDel. Which brings me right back to the reason why it’s important to stay focused on my research, keep my nose in the books and my mind on the environment, not on the manscape of Dak Andersen.