Fading Out

by Trisha Wolfe

  “Chill, man.” Beck raises his beer to take a sip. “We’re just fucking around. We know you got dibs on that. First, anyway.” He winks at me.

  Hell. “Forget you guys.” I push my tumbler of Coke away. I’m not sure why I’m in such a foul mood all of a sudden. I’ve sat right here, hundreds of times over the past few years, and laughed while they talked about nearly every girl on campus this way.

  But Arian’s different—in the way that I’ve made some kind of unspoken claim to her. One I feel the rest of these hard legs should recognize. My insides coil tight at the memory of calling her a bitch. No excuse; just asinine on my part. But that wasn’t their cue to start pissing circles around her.

  From my peripheral, I see her and her friend take a seat at the bar. My attention is painfully divided by the conversation going on about a new play we’re running tomorrow and Arian talking to the bartender.

  I zone out like this for a while until I hear: “Lap dance!”

  My full attention goes to the guys as they beckon the group of cheerleaders to dance for them. This happens often, too. I don’t think anything of it, my attention being diverted away again, then I spot Beck—my OT—motioning toward Arian.

  “We need a couple more girls, man,” he says to Jeremy. “Hey, yo! Condom girl!” He tries to wave her over, and I cringe when I think of how she’ll respond. I feel the sudden need to duck. “I have a free lap that needs a hot little ass on it.” He pats his big thighs. “Come give big daddy a dance.”

  To her credit, Arian ignores him easily. Which is not so simple to do, considering the guy is massive. Not just tall but thick and stocky. He guards my ass on the field. But Arian doesn’t even waste a glance his way.

  I consider telling him to knock it off, but Beck’s already up and walking toward her. Without another thought, I spring from my chair.

  “Actually,” Beck says when he’s just a couple feet from her. “I think my man Ryder needs that dance more.” He nods toward me, and I squeeze my eyes closed for a brief second. Shit.

  Arian twirls around on her stool, her face pinched. Mouth tight. “By all means,” she says, waving her hand through the air, “don’t let me stop you. Give it to him good. And make it sexy.” Her head nods encouragingly while she says this, and a laugh slips from my mouth.

  But Beck doesn’t see the humor. His features twist into a hardened expression, and I’m by his side in a flash. “We’ll leave you ladies alone now.” I eye him, trying hard not to look at Arian, whose slitted eyes are shooting daggers at me. As if I sent Beck here for this request.

  “Yeah,” Beck says, backing away. “Not enough ass for my lap, anyway.”

  My mouth pops open to defend her…but I realize, with a mental groan, that I said practically the same thing to her once. Hypocrite bangs around my head as I lead him back to the tables.

  My night is officially on frustrate. I’d planned to ride the high, not let anything bother me, but I’m feeling like it’s better to end the night earlier rather than later. Before my mood really takes a dive for the trenches. And I end up punching one of my teammates.

  Hell, besides, every time I try to make amends with Arian, I just end up fucking things up worse. And I really do try. I mean, I go in with the best of intentions, an apology ready on my tongue—but then her hot little body draws me in. And I’m all over her, unable not to touch her.

  My breathing is ramped just thinking about her body pressed to mine. I release a strained breath. We need a fresh start. A do-over. Fuck, we need something.

  And I need to make it abundantly clear to Beck and the rest of them to steer clear. I stare at the glass of Coke, wary, as if the bartender somehow gave me the wrong drink. I don’t feel intoxicated, but I’m looking for a reason, any excuse, to blame for my abruptly brimming anger.

  I need to go cool off outside.

  Raising my hand, I signal the waitress to cash out my tab. While I’m waiting, hoping I can escape this scene before it gets ugly, I stare blankly at Marissa as she swivels her hips, rocking into James.

  A high-pitched yelp snags my attention. My gaze is drawn to the bar top where Arian is waving her hands frantically. She bounces off the stool and pulls her soaked shirt away from her body.

  What the…?

  The laughter pulls me out of my confusion, and I turn around. Five of my guys covering their faces, trying and failing not to burst into laughter. As Arian’s annoyed voice rises above the low music, all of them at once lose it and crack up.

  “Hey,” Beck says, shaking his head at me and shrugging sheepishly. “She makes it too easy, bro.” The others clap him on the back.

  Then I’m walking toward Arian, lava in my veins. What the hell now?

  “This your idea of a joke?” She stops ringing her shirt—that probably cost more than my old Jeep—to reach for a straw. She’s covered in what looks like cranberry juice. Then she uses the straw to pick something off the bar top. A condom. “It was in my drink.”

  I see it now. Her putting the drink to her lips, seeing the floating condom, and then dumping the drink on herself. If it were any other snotty chick, I’d probably laugh; say she deserved it. But as I’m watching Arian get fired up with outrage, I note her shaking hands. The tremble of her lips. The hurt she’s trying to conceal. The humiliation etched on her face steals all the air from my lungs. I have nothing to laugh with.

  And shit. Beck got the bartender in on this? My head whips around to see him still in the throes of laughter, slapping his large leg. These guys could get away with murder in this town.

  When I look at Arian again, taking in her indignant posture, shoulders rolled back, head held high, and the unsure quake rolling through her body that contradicts it all—I realize how far off I’ve been about her. She might have money, but that’s where my assumptions end.

  I should apologize on my guys’ behalf. Right now. But while I’m contemplating the best way, trying to think of words that won’t dig me in further, I think my mouth actually hangs open, my brain trying to formulate these elusive words. Those damn words that always come out all wrong around her.

  “So, you don’t deny it. Good.” She chucks the condom on the bar top.

  “Whoa, wait.” Finally, I can articulate a thought. But it’s too late. Her friend is grabbing their jackets, her face drawn in a sour expression that makes my stomach clench.

  “That was uncalled for,” her friend says. “Tell your buddies…” She trails off with a hard sigh. “Never mind.” Then she’s draping Arian with a green jacket and walking her toward the door.

  Fucking hell.

  I storm over to the table, my chest heavy and breaths constricted. “I thought I said no one fucks with her.”

  Their animated faces drop into tight frowns. “It was a joke, Ryde. Just fucking around,” Beck says. “Besides, she’s a bitch.”

  Anger flares hot and violent in my veins. I breathe in, out. In. Out. Taking measured breaths to calm myself before I blow up at him. Bracing my hands on the table, I lean over them and say, “I hope getting one over on her felt good. I hope it was worth it.” I glance around the table. “Because we’re doing squats until your legs want to kick the shit out of you tomorrow.”

  Mumbled groans travel around the tables.

  My guys know this shit isn’t cool. And they’ll move on after this. Probably even feel like the shits that they are and apologize to her. Ultimately, I wish it hadn’t gone this far. For Arian’s sake, and all the others…I should’ve spoken up a long time ago. I don’t have a real excuse other than cowardice. As long as things go easy, I don’t make ripples. But since Arian came along—with her obnoxious beacon shining a light right on my shameful past—easygoing Ryder is done.

  Nothing about this girl is going to be easy.

  But I’m being selfish, still, wondering just how much damage control I’ll now have to do to set things right between us.

  Because—suddenly and purposely—I realize I’ve been thinking of her in us stateme
nts. Hell.

  Two points her.

  9

  Arian

  Becca’s early morning call is not welcome after a night spent at a smelly bar, where I was humiliated—yet again—by the town’s football gods. Then had to walk home in the frosty night air, half wet and freezing, trying not to rage the whole way.

  Vee, I could tell, was torn. The fact that Gavin wasn’t among the others last night helped, but she still couldn’t bring herself to take up my side completely, knowing that Gavin is a member of the opposing team.

  I roll my eyes as Becca drones on through the receiver. Now I’m thinking in sports terms. Really?

  Which I guess is just as well, considering I’m now a member of the Bobcat Boosters. I’m tempted to crumple the announcement sheet in my hand, but instead, I place it on my nightstand delicately, as if it might combust if I move too quickly.

  “You know your father’s expecting you, Ari.” Becca is tapping her long, manicured nails against her cell. I can hear the click, click, click, while she waits for my response.

  “Fine,” I say, plopping onto my bed. Defeated. “I’ll go. What time?”

  The clicking stops. “Seven. And don’t worry about finding something to wear. I’ve already requested a gown be made.” A beat. “It will be ready when you arrive. We’ll go out for mani-pedis before the initial fitting.”

  My chest twinges with an annoying, sharp pain. “What size?” I ask, low, dreading her answer.

  She sighs. “I expect that by now, you’ll be able to fit into a two. But don’t go crazy,” she adds with a snide bite to her voice. “We don’t want you blowing up, either. Two is perfect. Aim for that. Carbs and exercise.”

  By the time I hang up with Becca, my insides are so twisted I can’t even think of breakfast. Which I desperately need to eat before I venture to our first booster’s meeting. Sometimes I wish I could just hook up to an IV. Pump the right amount of nutrients straight into my system and not bother with the laborious task of actually eating.

  Then the guilt punches me in the stomach. Eating is not supposed to be a chore, I recall my therapist stating. Very adamantly. But most days that’s exactly what it feels like. Especially when Becca starts in on me. When I’ve done something as stupid as sign up for a group that supports a jock whose current mission is to reduce me to a pile of writhing girl parts—from embarrassment as well as attraction.

  The fact that both are equally torturing me is just more proof of how messed up I am. I’m attracted to a guy who treats me no better than his jockstrap. But I don’t let that rule my head. I’ve admitted just how hot Ryder is—I won’t start lying to myself. I draw the line there.

  But he’s jock scum. Cocky and full of himself. Worse, he somehow thinks the more he pranks me, the more he’s wearing me down. Like I’ll just all of a sudden fall to my knees and be like, Wow! It took you making me feel like an utter loser to realize how in love with you I am. Thank you. Let me suck your cock.

  I balk at my own crudeness, shocked. Then rush to get dressed for the day. I seriously need some nourishment before I lose all capacity to think straight.

  The room door opens, and Vee enters with a towel twisted atop her head. “Hey,” she says. “Don’t look so pissy. At least you got his attention.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, because putting condoms in your cranberry and vodka is the equivalent of sending roses for a jock, right?”

  Her pretty face screws up. “Sorry. I’m all crabby today.”

  I wave it off. “No worries. But would you really prefer it if Gavin was picking on you?”

  She shrugs, and I wonder—not for the first time—if the confidence she normally exerts for the world is a mask. If she’s battling some severe insecurity beneath. “At least he’d know I exist.”

  “Oh, Vee…” But then an idea hits me, pushing every other sentimental and rational thought I was going to voice aside. “You really mean that?”

  Again, she shrugs a shoulder. She falls on her bed. Then decides sitting isn’t enough of a display of defeat and flops to her back. “Seems like the team respects someone who can get one over on them. Even if they express it all stupid. I mean, it’s football. It’s what they do.”

  “Okay.” I nod, gathering my thoughts. I planned to let this last jerk-off move of Ryder’s go, just ignore him, figuring he’d get bored and move on. But I suddenly see a way for me to get some much-needed vengeance, and for Vee to get the attention she’s dying to have from Gavin.

  “Do we have time to go into town before the booster thingy?” I ask.

  Her blond eyebrows knit together, and she rolls onto her side to face me. “We do…why?”

  I smile. For the first time all morning.

  * * *

  The team’s locker room smells like some filthy animal hunkered down for the winter and up and died. It reeks of musty sneakers and foul body odor, and something I’m not quite sure of and afraid to ask.

  I pull a face as Vee looks over at me, her lips stretched into a forced smile. “I guess that’s why the locker room project was approved.” She glances around. “Damn, wish it was my idea.”

  I laugh, following her lead as we navigate around workers installing new lockers and the old equipment being moved out. Our job, according to Cherri (our overly enthusiastic booster leader) is to help sort the good, decent, and not so good shower laundry.

  Fantastic.

  We huddle near the shower units, a pile of off-white tees, stained towels, and other miscellaneous whites piled high on a wooden table before us. Vee shrugs and reaches into her pack. She pulls out her ear buds and pops them into her ears, already drowning out the commotion of saws and hammers.

  I didn’t think to bring mine, so I try not to flinch at each loud bang, but my back seizes up with the high whir of the saw. As I sort, inspecting and folding and tossing, I inconspicuously look around for the team. Why did Vee want to be apart of this? So far, I haven’t seen a single player. They’re either at practice or a game, or somewhere else, far away from the ruckus.

  After half an hour of endless sorting, I bump my hip against Vee’s. When she pulls a bud out of her ear, I say, “You ready to hunt?”

  She gets a worried expression on her face, like she’s going to back out. I bite down on my bottom lip, stopping myself from calling the whole thing off—to give her an extra second to contemplate her part.

  I falter. “We don’t have—”

  “No. I’m in.” She nods repeatedly, as if she’s talking herself into it. “Those guys really do deserve a taste of their own medicine. And hey”—she smiles wide, fear evaporating—“he’ll definitely know my name after this, right?”

  I laugh a little nervously. “Oh, yeah. He will.”

  With deft movements, Vee reaches into her pack and pulls out a plastic bag. My knee jiggles anxiously as she tucks it under her hoodie. I feel like I’m back at camp, about to get busted for sneaking over to the boys’ side of the lake—which is pretty close to what we’re doing.

  Only we’re not crossing over to flirt—at least, I’m not. Vee’s seriously disturbed crush on Gavin is forcing her into cahoots with the outcast, and I think her brain just let go of her last reservations. By pulling a prank on Gavin, she’s basically pissing circles around the guy. Claiming him as her own.

  “Are you ready?” Vee whispers, pulling me out of my cycling thoughts.

  I brace myself. Suck in a deep, calming breath. I feel the need to count down, get ahold of the anxiety building beneath my breastbone. But I manage. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  Then we’re off. Completely suspicious and not at all covertly as we note every person on our way toward the back of the locker room. Smiling awkwardly. Waving lamely. Oh, yeah. When this shit goes down, there’s no denying we were the culprits.

  Guilty as sin.

  Best to own it now.

  The jerseys for tomorrow’s game have been cleaned and covered, hung along a temporary metal unit while the locker room project is underway. F
or a second, I think about looking for Ryder’s uniform. I just have this weird need to see it, envision him wearing it, all sweaty and ripped muscles straining against the tight fabric…but I shut down that debasing thought, and try to focus on our mission.

  “Thank God, they already had these cleaned,” Vee says, lifting the plastic tarp-like covering. “At least they don’t make us sort these things.”

  I take one last glimpse around to make sure we’re in the clear, then look at the pile of neatly stacked jockstraps. “I guess the boosters have some dignity.”

  Vee laughs. “Right, because none of them would get a thrill out of handling their heroes’ ball bras.” She arches an eyebrow as she glances my way. “There is some pretty twisted idol worship going on with these people.”

  I actually do agree. But I refrain from commenting on the fact that the reason we’re even here is because Vee has the hots for one of the Bobcats. And is, in fact, handling his ball bra at the moment.

  “We need to sneak these things out like trash. You got the bag?” I ask.

  Vee smiles and whips out a new black trash bag.

  We start tossing the clean jockstraps into the bag. When the workers move on to the shower units, we make quick work of our plan. The whole while, a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach builds until I feel like I’m about to lose my breakfast shake. I’m not sure if it’s from the actual protein drink or if it’s some kind of warning.

  We should have planned our escape routes for tomorrow, I think, as I hang my artwork in Ryder’s locker. But damn, I wish I could see his cute face go all ragey when he opens his new locker before the game.

  10

  Ryder

  “It’s about fucking time.” Beck slaps the new lockers appreciatively. The rest of the guys file into our upgraded locker room with similar remarks and nods.