by Danica Avet
“Can I borrow a pen?”
It takes a minute for my brain to catch up with his words, leaving me staring at him like a surprised giraffe. He didn’t say that, or even imply it, but the way his forehead slowly wrinkles is indication enough that I’m acting like a huge, long-legged dork. Definitely no sweeping off the feet happening here.
“S-Sure,” I stammer and turn away from him to dig around in my Rocket Raccoon backpack.
Yeah, it’s a little juvenile for a college student, but I’m a big fan of Guardians of the Galaxy and I couldn’t resist it when I saw it. Finding a pen I know I’ll never get back, I turn to the Viking to see him eyeing my backpack with curiosity. My face is so hot I’m pretty sure I have to look like a neon sign, but he just smiles and accepts the pen, his callused fingers brushing mine and sending a shot of electricity up my arm.
“Thanks,” he says with a smile before facing forward again.
My heart’s pounding like I did something stupid, like attempt to run up bleachers. Turning back to see Ms. Frost handing out the syllabus, I tell myself that’ll probably be the only time I ever speak to him. He’ll probably move to another seat next class, glad to get away from the weird girl who stared at him like he had a second head.
Biting back a groan of misery, I slump in my seat and try to pay attention to the class. But my stupid fingers tingle the entire hour.
Anders
“Again!” Coach Steady barks, blowing the whistle.
I drop to a squat, brace my hands on the ground, kick my feet out behind me and then reverse the actions until I’m standing again.
“Again!”
Rinse and repeat for eight more sets, then a one-minute cool off before we do another ten sets. Fucking joy.
Conditioning drills are my least favorite part of football. I’m a big guy and only lots of fucking practice make it so I can do lightning fast burpees with the smaller players. I need to stay in top shape. I need to play. I need to keep my scholarship because going back to Otterberg, Wisconsin with my tail between my legs isn’t an option.
Coach blows the whistle, bringing the drill to a halt and I bend over to catch my breath. Not going to think about failure. As far as I’m concerned, that word isn’t even in my vocabulary. Instead, I think about the cutie I sat next to in Frosty’s class this morning. It isn’t often I come across a girl who can almost look me in the eye, yet who’s also curvy and thick, just the way a woman should be.
What can I say? I’m a big guy. Part of the reason I haven’t had sex yet is fear of crushing, smothering, splattering, splitting, and/or breaking the girls who see me as a consolation prize when Tight and Savage are taken. I’ve had way too much experience with accidentally hurting people I care about to want to do damage to a little woman with my weight, or my dick. Yeah, there’s another reason I’ve only made out with girls.
The blonde in my class looked like the perfect height and weight for me. Plus she’s cute as hell with big, brown eyes, a short little nose, full, pink lips and a sexy beauty mark right next to her mouth. I’d ignored some of my fellow players motioning for me to sit with them in order to take the seat right beside her, and got a whiff of peaches and vanilla. Made me think of pies. And all I could fucking do was ask to borrow a pen.
Someone shoves my shoulder. “Root, get your fucking head out of the clouds.”
I glance over to see Tight giving me a funny look. We all picked up nicknames last season when we started playing together. I started out as De Groot—my last name, which was shortened to Groot—fucking Guardians of the Galaxy—and when I glared at enough people who shouted, “I am Groot!” to me everywhere I went, it was shortened again to Root. I can live with that. But it’d be nice for someone other than my ma to call me Anders, which she only did when she was drunk. Most of the time, it was “ungrateful bastard”, but that’s another story.
Wondering if the blonde cutie with the Rocket Raccoon backpack would call me Anders or Root, like everyone else, I did another ten burpees without even thinking about it. The good thing about most conditioning drills is after a while they become second nature. My body just does what it’s told without me needing to command it anymore. It’s effortless. Which is kind of a shame since, unlike the majority of my teammates, I have no aspirations of becoming a professional football player.
No, I’m good at the game and my athletic scholarship plus my academic scholarship helped to get me to Sauvage State University, which is approximately twelve hundred miles away from Otterberg, the last place I ever want to return to. So while most of my teammates are fucking around doing stupid shit most of the time that could get them benched or expelled from school, I’m at the library or up in my dorm studying my ass off. But I’m not a complete monk. I hang out and party with my friends now and then, make out with pretty girls who don’t want to go any further when they see what I’m packing, but college isn’t about fun for me. It’s about survival and my future.
“Okay, that’s it,” Coach Steady calls out when we’re all panting for breath and one of the freshmen rolls out of formation to puke. “Hit the showers and make sure you check the rosters for weight training, which starts at six a.m. tomorrow morning. But remember, your asses had better be studying this semester. If you’re not sure what I’m talking about, check out your student handbooks.” Coach’s dark eyes encompass the whole of the offensive unit before he smiles. “Now get your asses out of here.”
Dismissed, most of the newbies stumble for the locker rooms, probably hoping the water’ll help hide their tears. I was there last year, new to the program and Coach’s expectations of us, but now I’m stronger and faster than ever, with increased stamina.
I stroll across the field at a slower pace with Tight and Savage. We’re the handful of offensive players left after the seniors graduated last year, although Tight’ll be leaving us as soon as he graduates, something I try not to think about.
“Y’all going out tonight?” Savage asks as he wipes his face with a towel. The boy is pretty. I’m comfortable enough in my manhood to admit as much, and if I hadn’t known that, the way the girls threw themselves at him would’ve been indication enough.
“Nah, not tonight. It’s my mom’s birthday and we’re going out to dinner, then a movie,” Tight replies, completely comfortable with the fact most of the other guys would say he’s a mama’s boy. “Root, you decided if you’re comin’ or not?”
I shrug. It was only the first day of classes and I’d already completed my assignments. My plans for the night had included reading ahead for Chemistry 258, jacking off to thoughts of the blonde from class, doing some advanced problems Professor Gillian had given me for Calculus, and jacking off some more to thoughts of the blonde. The extra classwork was for shits and giggles. The jacking off was for fun and to retain my sanity. Mentally rearranging my schedule to include only a couple of Calculus problems, but keeping two jacking off sessions, I nod.
“Sure, I’ll go.” I like Tight’s mom anyway. And his little brother, Cuba or Cube, is goofy, but cool. “Is that Crash guy going too?”
“Nah, he’s got some practice for Jazz Band or some shit tonight.”
I nod, but don’t say anything else. It isn’t that I don’t like Crash, but he’s got a chip on his shoulder that I want to knock off with my fists. In a friendly way. I don’t get pissed or angry because I don’t have time for useless emotions. But he could use an attitude adjustment, and it’s an attitude I see a lot more of since he’s Tight and Cube’s roommate.
“Guess I’ll have to entertain the ladies on my own,” Savage says with a smile that suggests he only asked us out of obligation and he really wanted the women all to himself. “Missing out though. They’re big Spartan football supporters. All members of the Alumni Association.”
Which means MILFs who probably go to his family’s fancy dinner parties, are on charity committees with his mom, and are mothers to some of his childhood friends.
Savage really is a savage, I think and shak
e my head with a chuckle.
Six hours later, I carefully make my way to the table where Tight’s sitting with his brother and mom. I’ve never been to The Medallion before. It’s a little out of my price range, but it’s for a special occasion, so I don’t mind paying an arm and a leg for a meal that won’t fill me up. Driving over, I made a mental note of a few fast food joints where I can pick up something to tide me over until the morning.
“Root,” Ms. Moody greets me with a brilliant smile. She stands and holds her arms out for a hug, which I give her, careful with my strength. When she pulls away, it’s to grab my biceps and look me over. “You look so handsome, honey!”
Tight’s snickering behind his mom as my face heats up. “Thanks,” I mumble. “Happy Birthday.”
Giving my arms a squeeze, she lets go of me and Tight tucks her back into her seat. “I’ve had so many birthdays, it’s just another day to me, but it means a lot that you decided to join us tonight.”
I bump fists with Tight and nod at Cube. “Special day,” I mutter to her as I take my seat next to Cube, practically crowding him against the wall.
And I really believe that. Glenda Moody is the kind of mom I wish mine had been. She has this whole stern maternal thing going on, but it’s out of love for her kids. She’s amazing. Her situation isn’t much different from my mom’s. They’re both single mothers. Sort of.
Ms. G rose to the challenge of raising her kids on her own. I know, from what Tight’s told me, that she went to school, getting a Bachelor’s in Business Administration, then her Master’s in Human Resources Management, all while raising her boys and working. She eventually got a job at Sauvage State, encouraging her children to work hard for what they wanted in life. And while the brothers couldn’t be more different, they follow their mom’s example, which is cool as shit.
My mom, on the other hand, didn’t learn her lesson first with my brother’s old man or then with mine. Maybe she wanted to feel like she belonged to something, being the only child of two workaholics who moved to the U.S. from Norway and didn’t have a lot of time for her, but I know it wasn’t about love for her. No, she was infatuated with their lifestyles, probably seeing a modern-day Vikings in them. They were different men, but their mottos may as well be the same: The more beer, bikes, bar fights, and fast money, the better.
My brother Rien’s pops was a nomad who took off when my brother was six and was never heard from again. My old man came into the picture shortly after that, but somehow managed to keep Ma on the hook despite his long absences, making Ma bitter as fuck, willing to pick up other guys who lived by Dad’s credo, guys who didn’t much like a couple of towheaded boys who were nearly as big as they were, which meant fights.
Did she help us? Did she even attempt to be a good parent and protect us? Fuck no. She was too busy snorting blow, whining to go to parties, and trying to prove to my old man that someone wanted her. Rien had been the only one who seemed to give a shit about my well-being, but he also seemed determined to follow in our respective fathers’ steps, but me? I wanted out and I got the fuck out. Of course Rien demanded I do just that the last time I visited him in the pen four years ago. I took his advice and never looked back, although I miss the hell out of him.
Enough of that shit. I don’t dwell on the past because there’s nothing I can do about it. The only thing I have control over is my present and future, both of which are currently on the right track.
I want to tell Tight and Cube how lucky they are, but the less they know about the situation I’d escaped in Otterberg, the better. I don’t want anyone’s pity.
“Hi, welcome to The Medallion, I’m Lena and I’ll be your server,” a sweet, familiar voice says, drawing my attention from my thoughts to the tall girl standing next to our table.
It’s her. The blonde from Music Appreciation. Except instead of a baggy T-shirt and jeans, she’s wearing a white, button-down shirt that’s tucked into a slim-fitting, black skirt that hugs her hips, ass, and thighs. Her silky, pale hair is pulled back into a neat bun, but little curls have already escaped to brush her long neck. She’s beautiful and all I can do is stare at her.
Just like earlier when we were in class and she turned to look at me when I told her hey, my brain stopped working.
She was looking down at her pad and probably didn’t pay much attention to who was at her table until Cube suddenly says, “Hey Barbie!”
Her head snaps up, those big, brown eyes meeting mine and widening in shock before she looks at the rest of the faces around the table, lingering on Cube. Her cheeks flush a deep pink as she glances back down, shielding her eyes from us. “H-Hi, um, Cuba?”
The skinny shit chuckles. “Yeah, Cube in band.”
“Cuba, do you want to introduce us?” Ms. G says in a voice that reads all mom-meeting-a-prospective-girlfriend.
She looks thrilled and I can guess why, although I don’t like it. Cuba’s been dating his girlfriend since they were thirteen. From what Tight tells me, the girl’s bad news, but his brother won’t see reason where she’s concerned. Ms. G probably sees Lena—I really like her name by the way—as a possible savior. I just hope Ms. G’s heart isn’t broken when I steal Lena away from Cube.
“Sure, sorry, Mom, Tight, Root, this is Barbie—I mean, Lena. She plays tuba for the 300. Lena, this is my mom, brother, and Root.” Cube finishes introductions with a wave of his hand at me.
Lena shyly smiles at everyone, her gaze resting on me the longest before she looks down again. “Hi,” she whispers before visibly collecting herself. “Have y’all had time to decide if you’d like to start with an appetizer?”
Ms. G answers, picking out enough food to feed even me. I want to protest. While they do well, they aren’t rich by any means, but my tongue feels permanently glued to the roof of my mouth.
“And what would y’all like to drink?” She holds her pen up, her gaze sweeping the table again, another soft blush touching her cheeks as our eyes meet.
“I’ll have a glass of the house wine,” Ms. G says into the awkward silence, her voice full of humor.
Tight and Cuba put their orders in, her gaze going to each of them and freeing me from my temporary paralysis. There’s only one thing I drink when I’m not working out and I’m all set to order it. Until she looks at me again. That blush against her pale skin makes me want to just grab her and kiss her.
My heart pounds harder and faster than it does when I’m working out, my palms start to sweat, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. And unfortunately, I say it a lot louder than I mean to.
“Moo.”
Lena
I freeze in place with my pen poised.
Is he— Is he calling me a cow?
My gaze darts around the restaurant, hearing the muffled laughter of the customers seated at tables nearby, as well as Cuba, his brother, and mom. I was already blushing from Cuba shouting my band nickname and I haven’t stopped since I realized the Viking is sitting at a table in my section. But now, I’m pretty sure I resemble a sunburned giraffe. Or cow.
Tight must’ve kicked—Root? His name is Root?—under the table because he finally releases me from that glacial stare to look at his friend. I follow his gaze to see Tight shaking his head, his smile bright against his honey-colored skin.
“Man, you must’ve been in the sun too long today,” Tight says with a laugh. He looks at me with a wink. “He means moo juice.” I stare at him blankly. “Milk. Root only drinks milk with his meals.”
I glance back at Root to see him looking at me again, his brows lowering over his eyes. Then why didn’t he just say milk? Unless he really does think I resemble a cow. I mean, it’s something I’ve thought myself when I get dressed in the black and white restaurant uniform, but no one’s been rude enough to say it out loud.
If I were Nessie or Becca, I’d probably slap him, or throw his glass of water in his face, but I’m just Lena Leblanc and I nod, dropping my gaze back to my pad. I need this job and the possibility of
a tip.
“I’ll be right back,” I say with a smile I don’t feel and scurry away from the table.
For a moment there, when we were staring at each other before the moo comment, I thought he might recognize me from class, say something about it, or at least smile. But all he did was stare and then… I shake my head and ignore my trembling, sweaty hands as I filled their drink orders.
“You’re so lucky,” Cassie mutters as she comes to stand at the pickup station next to me.
“Why?” I ask without even caring.
Cassie’s not my favorite person at The Medallion, mostly because she’s rude to the other servers, thinks being the prettiest girl on the staff means she deserves the best tables, and won’t share her tips if someone takes over for her frequent breaks.
“You have two Spartan football players at your table,” she says as though it’s obvious. She smooths down her shirt, the top three buttons undone to gain maximum tips. “I’ll trade you for them. Give you table twenty-five.”
I glance at the table in question to see it’s a group of older men I recognize as regulars to The Medallion and notoriously good tippers. Cassie always gets their business, crowing loudly about hundred dollar tips every time the group comes in. She’s willing to give that table up for the football players? I look at her to see her eyeing Root and Tight like a cougar waiting to pounce.
Oh right. Makes sense now.
It seems cowardly to bow out because Root may have implied I was a cow, but the thought of going back to their table and waiting on them the rest of the night is torture. My life is hard enough without having some rude football player making my working hours miserable as well.
This is another one of those decisions, I think. Take the coward’s way out and avoid them at all costs, or pull up my big girl panties and finish serving them the rest of the night? I peek at Root again to see him looking at me, those blue eyes so serious and intense. Apparently, I left my big girl panties at home tonight.