Hard Stick

by Paige North

  “This sport has just gotten so…intense,” my mother frets.

  “It really has. I almost think it’s not for ladies anymore!” Mrs. Harrison jokes, tittering; my mother laughs back. I force a smile, even though I think doing so might be setting feminism back fifty years.

  “My dad thinks they should go back to small helmets and leather pads, don’t you, Dad?” Chandler says.

  Buck nods, then speaks only to my father. “I’m just thinking that when these boys know they can tackle that hard, they get reckless. Take that away and they’ll all hold back a little more. Probably for the best. And it’d make the game a lot more inventive, like it used to be instead of just a bunch of animals smashing into one another like those mountain goat things.”

  “It’d also make the game a lot more boring,” Chandler says, eyes sparkling at me. I smile again, unsure who I agree with. It does seem like crashing into that many people over and over is a bad idea, but it’s also the thing that’s making me so very aware of how strong and hard and unmovable Gabe is…which is something, I’m surprised to find, I really like thinking about.

  Chapter 5

  Harton wins— of course Harton wins. I see that #Thorniest is trending, a combination of Finn Thorne, the quarterback, and Gabe Forest’s names. It’s often used in conjunction with the hashtag #Horniest4Thorniest, which makes me laugh, which makes Chandler want to see my phone to know what’s so funny…

  “Nothing. A cat video,” I say swiftly.

  “You girls. You all love cat videos,” he says, shaking his head and chuckling a little. “Are you three coming to the party tonight?” Chandler asks, raising his voice so my parents can here.

  “Nothing’s on our schedule!” my dad says. “Whose party?”

  “The alumni association’s,” Buck Harrison says. “You know, you three really should come. We had to know you were true Harton fans first, but after watching how Lucy there stared at that game, I think you pass the test.” Everyone laughs.

  “Great, great— it’s at seven or so. Cocktail attire,” Mrs. Harrison says, more to me and my mother than Dad. “It’s really a nice little event— at the Wright house over in Ansley Park, are you familiar?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not,” I say.

  “I’ll text you directions. Here, let me get your number,” Chandler says swiftly. Before I can offer my own phone number, my dad swoops in and begins punching it into Chandler’s phone.

  “I had some studying to do tonight. I didn’t know this would be an all day thing,” I mumble to my mom under my breath.

  “Oh, honey, come on. I bet there are lots of potential donors at the party that your father would like to meet. And you know he loves it when you attend functions with him,” she says.

  “I know,” I say, trying not to sound too miserable about it. I grew up learning that there is a very big different between a “function” and a “party”. A party is a place where you relax and have fun with friends in a dress you got at Target. A function is a place where you eat expensive hor d’oeuvres and carefully guard everything you say, making certain each word is both deliberate and ambitious. I’m good at going to functions— naturally, given how long my dad’s been in the Senate— but that doesn’t mean it’s how I want to spend my Saturday night. I really did want to study.

  “Can I give you a ride to the party?” Chandler asks, appearing beside me.

  “Oh— yeah. Sure, thanks,” I say. I don’t need a ride to the party— my parents paid a dear price for me to have a parking spot on campus— but Chandler looks so sincere and hopeful that I hate to turn him down. Besides, I can tell that my father is pumped about the idea of Chandler and I being couple-y. I’m sure it means that Buck Harrison’s money is as good as deposited into dad’s re-election campaign.

  The Harrisons head off in a flurry of handshakes and polite hugs and “we must do this again sometime”s. My parents and I walk back toward the campus, strolling leisurely along with the crowd. The mass exodus from the stadium means we’re being shuffled along a bit like cattle, but it also means that no one is noticing the senator in their midst, which is a nice sort of anonymity.

  “What will you be wearing tonight to the party, Lucy?” my dad asks as we move along.

  “Cocktail attire? Probably that black dress from the capital gala,” I say, shrugging.

  My father frowns. “I bet a lot of the same people will be there tonight, though. Wasn’t Chandler at that ball?”

  I almost laugh out loud. “You really think anyone will remember what I wore to a ball six months ago? Besides, even if Chandler Harrison was there, I never saw him.”

  “Well, still. June, do you suppose there’s time to get something new sent over?” he asks my mom. “The Harrisons vet everything about everybody— if Lucy wears the same dress twice, I bet they’ll notice.”

  My mom considers this, then nods. “I think we could have someone swing by Phipps and pick something out. You haven’t lost your size six, have you?” she asks me, surveying my waist as she does so.

  “I don’t think so,” I answer. “But really? What I have is fine.”

  “Just to be safe. This could be a big deal, this party, and I’m a little antsy that we didn’t get an invitation initially. Why do you suppose that is?” my dad says, the question posed to his own anxious mind rather than my mother and I.

  “Besides, it’s always nice to get a new dress. I’ll tell Charice to get you something a little sexy,” Mom says, nudging me with a smile. “Chandler won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

  “Yeah…”

  “You don’t like Chandler?” my dad asks, springing back to the conversation. He looks worried.

  “He’s fine. He’s nice, as a friend,” I say cautiously.

  My father’s eyes widen. “A friend? What’s wrong with the boy? He’s in a good school, he has good grades, he—”

  “Darling,” Mom says cautiously.

  Dad clears his throat. “Just please give him a chance, Lucy. I don’t want you to date someone you don’t like. But he’s a nice boy, and his father is a good man. A man we need for the campaign. So unless there’s a reason for you to be uninterested in him, why not give him a shot to impress you tonight?”

  I can tell that this is not what my father is really thinking. What he’s really thinking is, Just do this for me, Lucy, and then break up with him after we have his dad’s money, okay?

  And what I’m really thinking is, There is a reason for me to be uninterested in him. A reason that I’m still totally confused about. A reason named Gabe Forest.

  But what can I say? “Sure, Dad. I’ll give him a shot.”

  The dress arrives at an hour before the party, by way of my Dad’s office assistant, Charice. Charice, as far as I’m concerned, is an actual wizard. She can conjure up tickets to sold out shows, and clear paths through rush hour practice, and get red sauce stains out of purity ball dresses using only hand soap, paper towels, and a full moon. I’m not surprised at all that she’s picked out a dress I love, despite my initial reluctance to wear something new.

  The dress she got me is excellent— black and cocktail appropriate, but also flowy and forgiving enough that there’s no need to wear any sort of awful shape wear underneath it. I shower, listening like an antennae for Gabe in the room next door, but he never comes back. I suspect game days are all day affairs for players.

  By seven o’clock, I’ve curled my hair, burnt myself three times on the hair wand thing that I still can’t use without injury, and applied makeup with a few layers of setting spray (essential for functions— you can’t look sweaty or have smudged eyeliner at these things, even if you’ve been there for hours and hours already).

  “Wow,” Chandler says when I meet him in the dorm lobby. “Lucy, you look amazing.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and give a little playful twirl. Chandler looks good too— a darker suit, his hair a little more styled, and his fingernails professionally manicured. But he looks good in a very�
��intentional way. I can’t help but think of Gabe, sweaty from practice, shirtless and drinking a beer, looking good in a very unintentional way.

  We arrive at the party, held at an enormous white house in Ansley Park— the old money area of Atlanta. This particular house belongs to a Harton alum, who doesn’t even live in it but rather uses it on game days or when the school needs a place for someone important to stay. The lawn glow with professional landscape lighting, the hum of polite conversation spills out the door, and the Atlanta skyline glows gold and blue behind us.

  “Want to find our parents?” Chandler asks as we enter the house. It wouldn’t be hard— while the house is certainly crowded, it’s far from packed. The room we’ve entered, a sweeping foyer, gives way to a large living space with an old fireplace on one wall. The kitchen and dining area is ahead, all done up with immaculate, expensive finishings. Beyond that, French doors spill open into a backyard lit with hanging lights. Their glow bounces off the cool water of a saltwater pool, making the teak furniture surrounding it look cinnamon-warm.

  “In a bit— let me grab something to drink, first?” I say.

  “I’ll get it for you. What would you like?” Chandler says.

  “Er— something light. No alcohol— I’m under twenty-one,” I say with a smile, knowing this is child-of-rich-person code for get me something that isn’t obviously spiked.

  “One Sprite it is,” Chandler says with a nod, and goes off to retrieve beverages that will certainly contain high-end alcohol. The truth is, I don’t usually let guys get me drinks, and I never let them bring me drinks that I didn’t see get made. But I’m not really planning to drink that much of this one anyway, so much as hold it, and given my dad’s need for me to flirt with Chandler, I’m willing to let this one slide.

  It’s a bad idea to stand around too long at functions, so I meander through the living room, smiling and nodding at people, then make my way out to the backyard. It’s beautiful out here, and an impressively large space given that it’s in the middle of the city. I can just barely see the tips of Atlanta’s tallest buildings, and am admiring them when my phone buzzes with a text.

  Who’s the douchebag?

  I frown. It’s a number I don’t know, from an area code I don’t recognize. I look around, wondering who the douchebag in question is, but I’m alone in this part of the yard, shielded from sight by the shadow of a jasmine arbor.

  I text back, Who is this? I think you have the wrong number.

  There’s a pause, then the little ellipses appear, indicating the stranger is responding.

  The asshole who stole your dorm room. This is the right number.

  I blink. Gabe? I spin around, but his hulking form would surely be impossible to miss out here. I do, however, realize that there are a handful of football players present— tricky to see at first, as they’re wearing suits just like the rest of the crowd, but now their height and size makes them obvious. Gabe probably is here. Somewhere. The fact that I can’t find him both frustrates and excites me. I smooth my dress and turn around, then text him back.

  How did you get my number?

  There’s a pause; I keep scanning the yard, looking for the glow of a phone, listening for the chime of a text— my text to him— being received. Nothing.

  He answers. Football players always get whatever we want, remember?

  I lick my lips, shake my head at the words, able to imagine them perfectly in Gabe’s laughing, arrogant voice. I ready my fingers to start typing back when Chandler emerges from the open French doors, drinks in his hands. He spots me immediately; it’s only after we’ve made eye contact that I find myself wanting to skirt away and avoid him. Too late for that, I suppose.

  “You vanished,” he says, grinning. Unlike Gabe’s smile, Chandler’s is sleek and…practiced? Yes, practiced. Gabe’s isn’t quite symmetrical, and his teeth aren’t flawlessly straight. Chandler’s scream “regular professional whitening,” just like mine do, I suspect.

  “It’s stuffy in there,” I lie.

  “You mean the people, or the air?” he asks, and I laugh— genuinely— at that one.

  “Both,” I answer, and we take sips of our drinks. Mine is, as I expected, Sprite spiked with nice vodka, though not enough that it worries me. Though then again, with a single beer last night I allowed Gabe to half-undress me…

  I take a longer drink, not sure if I’m actually thirsty or just trying to quench the fire in my chest that thinking about Gabe continuously draws up, especially knowing that he’s here, somewhere. I take a small step away from Chandler, suddenly wary for Gabe to see me too close to him. I don’t want Gabe thinking I want Chandler like that, not the way I want him—

  My eyebrows lift. I want Gabe Forest. I don’t just enjoy the memory of him, or like to think about him. I actually want him again. The firmness of the realization makes me smile.

  “You should really visit it sometime,” Chandler says, and I’m suddenly aware that he’s been talking to me the entire time.

  “That’d be wonderful,” I say, hoping I’m not taking too broad a stab in the dark. Chandler grins, though, so it looks like my answer wasn’t too far off base. My phone chimes with a new text.

  Who. Is. The. Douchebag.

  I smile and text back; Chandler, to his credit, politely turns his head away. He’s no one.

  Gabe’s answer comes back almost immediately. Ditch him.

  I press my lips together, try to keep my smile from turning sly and excited. Why would I do that?

  He answers. Because I want to see how you like my tongue in your pussy.

  I nearly drop my phone in shock.

  “Everything okay?” Chandler asks.

  “Yeah, fine, I just— wow, okay,” I stammer, trying to keep my face calm and the flush rising up my chest from spreading too far up my throat. I look at the message again to be sure Gabe said what I think he said. Its so direct, so dirty, so…unlike anything anyone has ever said to me.

  Wine cellar, Gabe texts.

  “I need to go, sorry— I need to go call a friend. Girl stuff,” I say hurriedly to Chandler before practically tossing my drink into his hands.

  “Okay, I’ll—“ Chandler starts, but I don’t hear him finish, because I’m already race walking into the house, using every ounce of willpower I have not to move at a straight up run. Wine cellar, wine cellar— I need to find the door leading downstairs without it being too obvious that I’m straying from the party. I smile at a few people as I pass by, then come to the main hallway with three doors. I open the first one— it’s a closet.

  “Looking for the powder room, hon?” an older lady with a thick Southern accent asks.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “Right there— that door,” she says, and points. I smile in gratitude, and the minute her back is turned grab for the last door— it has to be the one to the basement level, where the wine cellar would be. I’m right. I slip inside and shut it behind me, then hurry down the steps. At the bottom is a warm wooden glow; the sconces on the walls are meant to look old fashioned and bronzed.

  I hit the bottom step and practically burst through the wine cellar door, blasted by the cool, dry air. It’s a huge room, rows and rows and rows of fine wine, but Gabe is nowhere to be seen. I feel my stomach clenching in want and move down the rows. There’s a tasting room toward the back, one with leather couches and a fancy mahogany table, and—

  Gabe. Sitting on one of the couches, relaxed, like he’s been waiting for me a very long time. My breath shakes a bit and I force myself to slow down. I open the door into the tasting room and let myself in, shutting it behind my back. I realize my fingers are shaking.

  “Lucy,” he says, with a tip of his head.

  “Gabe,” I answer, a smile toying at my mouth.

  “That’s a lovely dress,” he says, letting his eyes roam my body. I turn in it, wanting him to get a good look, enjoying how long his gaze stays at my breasts and hips. Gabe is wearing a suit, like everyone else
here, but his isn’t custom fitted. It’s Men’s Warehouse, at best, but it doesn’t matter – he looks devastatingly handsome and in control. “Why did you come down here?” he asks.

  I blanch. “I…um. I got your text?”

  He smiles daringly. “And what did it say?”

  I take a breath and find he’s locked my eyes on his. “That you want to…put your tongue in my pussy?” I don’t mean for the words to come out as a question, but saying them was such a challenge that I let myself off the hook.

  “Has anyone touched you there before, Lucy? With his hands? With his mouth?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. I shake my head. Gabe smiles, looking pleased. “Come over here, then.”

  I walk toward him on shaky baby deer legs. When I stop in front of him, he sits up. Even when he’s sitting on the couch and I’m standing, he can almost look at me dead on— he’s so damn tall. He reaches forward and grabs the hem of my dress, then uses it to guide me closer, spreading his knees out so I’m trapped between his thighs. I feel myself getting wet— I feel my pussy getting wet, I think, a word I’d have never even thought of using until Gabe made it so hot.

  “You look beautiful,” Gabe says, dropping the edge of my dress. He wraps his hands around my thighs, then behind to slide his palms up, until he’s nearly cupping my ass. Whatever he sees on my face pleases him, clearly. He squeezes my thighs gently, then curves his thumbs upward a bit, so they’re playing at the edge of my panties. I whimper and sway. Gabe grins. “Oh, Lucy, baby. This is going to be fun.”

  Chapter 6

  Gabe hooks a finger through the crotch of my panties and tugs them down easily. He then reaches forward with his other hand and wraps it around my waist, spinning me around and down onto the couch like some sort of wild dance move. I’ve barely gotten my bearings when he lifts my dress up, exposing me from the waist down. I’m nervous— no, I’m terrified— but the feeling is one of many swirling around in my chests, a small part of the desperate need I feel for his hands, his mouth, his—