by Sara Hubbard
“Don’t be a dick,” Blue Jersey guys says. He takes a seat beside me. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks, but you weren’t the one who was exposed this morning.”
Ryan pushes all the dirty clothes to the floor. “Would you feel better if I showed you mine?”
“I’d love to see your vagina,” another guy says to Ryan, earning him some laughter from the rest of the team. This seems to shut him up, at least for a little while.
“I think I’m okay now. I should go.”
Ozzie frowns before saying, “Ah…sure…maybe you want to hang back and wait for me. I’ll be five minutes.”
I nod, fighting a smile. I can’t help myself. “Sure. If you want.”
Most of the crowd is gone when I return to the exit doors by the ice. This includes my friends. I pull out my phone from my back pocket and see Emily’s left me a text message. My phone didn’t even ring, and when I turn my phone to the side and examine it, I find I somehow managed to put it on vibrate, though I can’t remember doing it.
Going to Brad’s. Thought you’d have someone big & strong to walk you home. Call if you need me. E
I want to be mad at her for leaving me, but I can’t. She means well. This is a setup. She knows I won’t walk home alone at night on campus after there were a couple of reports of girls getting grabbed over the last year. She’s forcing me to ask Ozzie to walk with me. Because she knows I won’t ask, and if he offered, I would probably refuse. This is relationship starter stuff, not reporter/subject stuff. It feels too intimate. Too far from what I’m supposed to be doing.
“Hey,” someone says, and I spin around to find Blue Jersey Guy.
“Hey. Thanks for all your help,” I say. “I can’t believe I didn’t get your name.”
He holds out a hand. Like Ozzie’s, it envelops mine. He might be a half-foot taller than Ozzie.
“Michael. Michael Cross.”
“Charlie. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same.”
He starts to leave, his massive hockey bag slung over his shoulder and his stick in his left hand, but then he turns. He looks like he wants to say something, but he opens his mouth and then snaps it shut before waving and leaving through the doors to the parking lot.
A string of other players comes through before Ozzie. Most of them carry the stench of sweat and dirty clothes, but not Ozzie. Ozzie smells fresh, like he’s just showered, and I try not to make my smelling him obvious, but his scent stirs a burning desire deep in my gut that makes me want to pull him closer.
“Thanks for waiting,” he says sweetly.
“Well, I kind of owe you my life,” I say, teasing—something I didn’t realize I knew how to do.
He smiles. “You do. And you can pay me back by letting me walk you home.”
“With all your stuff?”
He shrugs. “It’s not that heavy.”
I hold out a hand to test his bag, and he chuckles. He doesn’t give it up right away, but I shake my hand to encourage him and he holds it out.
The second I take it and he lets go, it drops to the floor. “How do you lug this stuff around all the time? What the hell do you have in it? Weights?”
He takes it back, slinging it over his shoulder like it’s made of feathers. “You get used to it. I’ve been playing hockey since I was four.”
“Four! That’s crazy.” Mental note: Started at age four. I’ll put that in my day-timer later.
He shrugs and turns to the door, waiting for me to follow. “I loved it from the first time I got on the ice. Fell a handful of times and then never again. My mom told me I was born to skate, and she wasn’t wrong. It always came natural to me.”
“Did she skate?”
He scratches his chin and considers this before pushing open the door and holding it for me to walk through. A gentleman. His list of positive traits continues to build, and it saddens me a little, because this will end soon, and I find myself not wanting that. I can’t keep my secret from him much longer. The longer I wait, the worse it will be. He’s never going to talk to me again as it is.
“She did, but not well. My dad was the skater. And he was fast. I could never catch him.”
Was. He refers to both of his parents in past tense. “What happened to them?”
We walk through the field toward my dorm on the hill, the big stone one that was once a convent and, up until recently, only housed females and was still run by nuns. It’s only been in the last ten years that males are allowed on the floors.
“I don’t really like to talk about it,” he says.
“Sure. I understand.” And I do. But I’m also conflicted because I need him to talk. I’m not sure I can push him without feeling like a jerk.
He slows to a stop and reaches out to touch my shoulder, encouraging me to stop, too. With his hand still on me, he frowns. His eyes are sad, but they’re big and bright and they sparkle in the moonlight. “Don’t be offended, okay? I don’t talk about them with anyone.”
“Because it hurts?” Immediately, I want to take my words back because he flinches.
He turns away from me. With slow, steady steps he trudges forward, and I follow alongside of him. I don’t know what possesses me, but I dare to take his hand, and though I worry it’s not welcome, he squeezes it, and I’m certain he has no intention of letting it go anytime soon. My nerves fade like they did earlier. I need to tell him. Before this goes too far. Before I develop feelings for him that I can’t take back.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, quietly.
He sighs and looks up at the sky. “I like you, Charlie. And I’m pretty sure I noticed you long before you noticed me.”
Didn’t he hear me?
“You noticed me? You…like me?”
He laughs. “You’re in my English Lit class.”
“But you’re in fourth year, right?”
“Yeah, but I had a free elective. It didn’t matter the course level.”
“English?”
He chuckles. “This is what you’re focusing on?”
“No, of course not.”
“You didn’t know I was in your class, did you?” he asks.
I try to remember seeing him in my class, but I’m at a loss. How is it possible that I missed him? But the reason is obvious. “I sit up front and I pay attention. Like, intently. I’m kind of a nerd.” I laugh, my cheeks burning. Like my confession is a big old secret. If he’s in my class and he noticed me, of course, he knows I’m a nerd. And yet he still likes me...
“You are so passionate about everything you talk about in that class. Everyone else is falling asleep, but you sit straight up. Your hand is always in the air, and you fight with the professor about pretty much everything. He interprets a passage from a book and he’s so confident he’s right, and then you tell him, with complete confidence, that he’s wrong. It’s very entertaining. I’m getting an A in that class because I pay attention to you, not Professor Brinks. And I don’t even like English Lit. I thought it would be an easy A because I’d read the course material in high school.”
I try and process what he’s saying. Not only did he notice me, but he’s noticed me all year? And instead of being one of the many people that roll their eyes at me and humor me, he finds me entertaining?
“This is surprising…and nice…and wow. I don’t know what to say, except…did you hear what I said? That I have something to tell you?”
He nods, but he won’t meet my eyes. “Is it bad?”
I tuck the fallen strand of hair behind my ears before nodding. “Yeah.”
“And you want to tell me?”
I hitch a shoulder. “I think I should.”
“Hmm. Will I want to stay away from you?”
“I think so.”
“Hmm.” He lets go of a sigh. “Then don’t tell me. Not yet. I’m not ready to stay away from you yet.”
I open my mouth and snap it shut. This guy...oh, my heart. Everything he says has me questioning m
yself and what I’m doing. This has gotten complicated very quickly. I wanted to tell him the truth, but I know that if I had, I would never have gotten to see this side of him or know what I’d be missing. In this case, ignorance would have been bliss. Because I’m letting myself care for him only to risk him never speaking to me again when he finds out I lied to him.
“When can I tell you?” I ask, serious.
He chuckles before letting out a groan. “The fact that you want to tell me is enough. Look, I just want to get to know you. Stuff from your past doesn’t concern me, and I hope you feel the same.”
“But what if it isn’t in my past?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
I laugh. “No. Definitely not.”
“Do you torture small animals?”
“No, just big ones,” I say, my voice even.
It takes him a moment before he laughs, like he wasn’t expecting me to toss out a comeback.
“Then I don’t want to know,” he says with a shrug.
“You say that now, but you’ll feel different when you know…”
He stops and drops his bag. I keep walking but am tugged back by our joined hands. He forces me to face him, his hands sliding up my arms, giving me chills. They stop to lightly massage my shoulders. “I’ve waited a long time to get to know you. Don’t ruin this for me.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. He touches the cut on my cheek. “Don’t think so much.”
Usually, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from overthinking things, but under the stars with his big, blue eyes staring down and into mine, I can’t even remember what I want to say. He leans in, stopping inches before his lips touch mine. I hold my breath, excited by the delicious tension in all the muscles of my body. Then I close my eyes and pray he goes the extra few inches. I feel his breath on my face. My hair ruffles around my ears, and his hand cups the back of my neck. I lick my lips, but he stops me with a soft kiss. I melt into him, my hands pressing against his chest as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me in, the warmth of his body reminding me of the chill in the air where his body isn’t touching mine. He moves his mouth, exploring my lips before breaking away.
“You taste like strawberries,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Strawberry shortcake lip gloss,” I say.
“Strawberry shortcake lip gloss,” he repeats.
I open my eyes to see him smirking.
As he leans back, his eyes open and he smiles wide. A beautiful smile that makes me feel giddy, like I’ve just had the first and best kiss of my life. I heave a sigh of relief as I take in the mint scent of his breath and the earthy scent of his cologne.
I would have told him the truth. I would have told him everything. But now...after that...toe curling, butterfly-inducing kiss, I have no idea how I’ll ever be able to tell him. This, right now, feels so good. I don’t remember ever feeling this satisfied. But I have to ask myself if the promise of what’s to come between us is enough to give up a path I’ve been walking since I was fourteen years old. My head says, “Not a chance.” But as I touch my freshly kissed lips, my heart is singing a completely different story.
Chapter Six
Emily told me stories about how she initiates sex. How she practically pounces on guys when she gets horny and does what she needs to do to get off. You have to have a huge amount of confidence to do this, and she has it in spades. I couldn’t even pretend to do what she does. God, I wish I could. Just now, in this very moment, as Ozzie and I stand outside my dorm room door. But around guys, I’m the girl from high school who had an awful photograph of herself posted on her locker with pig ears drawn on her head. When will that feeling ever go away?
Awkwardly, I stand with my hand on my door, him saying nothing, me saying exactly the same.
Only when people start coming home from the game do I start to panic and want to either get him in my room or ask him to leave. Sam lives down the hall, and I don’t want to feel her laser eyes on my face.
Too late.
She turns the corner and stops dead in her tracks. Piper slams into her, almost mowing her over.
“What the hell?” Piper says, until her eyes lock first onto mine and then wash over the length of Ozzie.
Sam’s face heats, and she folds her arms across her chest before going into her room and slamming her door shut. Piper scowls at me before going after her, closing the door with as much, if not more, force, than Sam.
Shit.
I hang my head. “I knew this was a bad idea.” One I will hear about tomorrow because Sam doesn’t let things go. Although she’s not a good friend—or really a friend at all—she’ll claim I betrayed her. The floor will take her side. All the girls except for one—Emily.
Ozzie touches my arm and squeezes it lightly, just enough to give me comfort, and I’m sucked back into his orbit again. “Don’t worry about her,” he says.
“That’s easy for you to say. She doesn’t live down the hall from you.”
“You want me to talk to her?” He takes a step back and points over his shoulder.
Nothing good will come from this so I grab him and pull him back, perhaps a little too close. He stares down at me and licks his lips before offering a small smile. Then his hand reaches up, and he hesitates before tucking my hair behind one of my ears.
“Should I go?” he whispers.
Yes, he definitely should. But I have a story to write. At least, that’s what I try to convince myself of. I want him to stay for the story. If I’m honest, my story doesn’t feel quite so important right now.
“No,” I say. I swallow a building lump in my throat. My voice comes out a little husky; I barely recognize it.
I fiddle with the handle, not bothering to look where my hand is. I manage to get it open and walk inside, Ozzie close at my back. I can feel the heat of him, his scent still surrounding me. I need space from him. To think. I make for my desk and pull out the chair, sitting on it with one leg tucked under me. He closes the door. The single-bulb reading lamp on my desk is on and gives us just enough golden light to see in the dark. He searches the wall and flicks on the light. His eyes roam the room, and I cringe at the laundry that Emily still hasn’t washed. The pile has gotten larger since this morning, which makes no sense. She’s worn one thing all day except for the clothes she changed into tonight. But then I realize all the clothes she tried on to go out tonight are now piled in a heap on top of it. A couple of bras sit on the floor so I jump up and throw them in the closet, earning me a quiet chuckle.
The room is small, enough for him to walk a half-dozen steps around the furniture so he can take in the space. He fingers the row of National Geographic’s on my desk, taking one out and flipping through it before putting it back. I could tell him that my dad has an article in that issue, and it’s on page twenty-four. Or that his picture is at the end of the article on page twenty-six. But I don’t. I don’t often bring him up. I’m not even sure why. Clayton’s eyes roam the walls. My side of the room is mostly bare. The only thing I have on the walls are a few posters of superheroes and my whiteboard calendar with my schedule written on it: blue marker for classes, red for labs, and green for extracurricular, which for me means personal appointments. There is a single pink mark on the board for my step-sister’s engagement party next weekend.
He studies the calendar, smiling as he shakes his head. “Color coded?”
I shrug, the heat in my cheeks returning, but now I feel heat in my neck and along my collar bone. He points to the bed. It’s neatly made, hospital corners and all, the top folded over to the same measurement in the middle and the sides. He waits for permission to sit.
“Sure. Of course,” I say.
He keeps looking. “Wonder Woman?”
I grin at him. “She’s strong and beautiful and she can kick any man’s ass. Even Superman’s. I’m sure of it.”
He laughs out loud. “I’ll bet.” He turns his attention to Emily’s half of the room. “Big diffe
rence between this side of the room and the other.”
“My roommate, Emily, and I have a rule. She can keep her side however she wants as long as it doesn’t spill over to my side. But she can’t keep food in here to rot. She has to change the garbage. I throw all my garbage out in the bathroom except for paper and stuff.”
He’s smiling. Laughing at me?
“Okay, I’m a freak.”
He laughs. “Not at all. You’re everything I expected.”
“And that’s not bad?”
He shakes his head. “I like…quirky. And you’ve got it in spades.”
“I’ve got it in spades, all right. And it drives my roommate crazy,” I say.
“She can’t hate it that much, or she would’ve moved out.” He unzips his jacket and slides the sleeves down over his muscular arms. The black shirt he has on is a little tight, just enough to fit him like a second skin, and the curve of his chest is pronounced. Earlier, when I touched his chest, it was firm but soft enough to be comfortable against. What would it feel like to touch him when it was bare? To run my hands over his chiseled body. The sensitive spot between my legs tingles, and I shift in my seat, thanking God he can’t read my thoughts.
“We’ve been friends since kindergarten,” I say, trying to keep my mind on anything other than his body, “so she’s basically family.”
“Where’d you grow up?”
“Hebbville. It’s about an hour away from here. Small town. We don’t even have street lights. Do you know it?”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”
“I met Emily at the park. She’d just moved to the area. Her father got a job at a window manufacturing plant there.”
“What about your dad? Did he work there, too?”
“God, no! I can just imagine my father working in a factory. It’s laughable. No, my real dad is a photojournalist. He travels to all these cool locations and comes home with amazing stories and photos. He’s not the kind of guy that would work a nine-to-five, Monday to Friday job, and live in the same town and the same house for more than a year at a time.”