“I know how to play Jenga,” she says with a smirk.
“I just want to make sure you choose wisely.” I point to a tile in the middle of the tower.
She eyes me suspiciously but pulls at the one I picked anyway. I try and hide the smile pulling at my lips as she reads it to herself.
“What’s it say?” someone asks, but neither Kitty or I answer.
She finally looks up and around the table and I can almost hear her weighing out her options. I step back and wait. When I’ve almost given up hope, she sighs, turns to me, stands, and says, “This doesn’t count as a date.”
There’s laughter from the table as Vanessa reads the discarded tile aloud. “Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
When we’re upstairs in Mario’s room, she finally speaks. “I’m not sure if I should be insulted or impressed that you got me in a bedroom within an hour of my arriving at the party.”
“Impressed.” I walk all the way in, hoping she’ll follow, and place the bottle of Jack I’m still carrying onto the desk. She hovers in the doorway, and I step back to her and brush her hair away from the side of her neck. Leaning in, I press a kiss just below her ear before murmuring, “Definitely impressed.”
“I’m not having sex with you,” she whispers in a shaky voice. I pull back. Indecision wars in her eyes. She wants me, I’ve always known this, but something still holds her back. Even here with no one else and no barriers between us, she’s throwing up a stop sign with the way she looks almost guilty.
Somehow, I manage to step away. Her scent follows me, and I try and find some semblance of sanity as I pick up the bottle of Jack. “We don’t have to do anything except stay in here for seven minutes.”
I settle onto Mario’s bed with the alcohol and pat for her to follow.
She looks around the space which is clean and not at all what she pictured judging by the look on her face. I’ll have to thank Vanessa for that. I see touches of her all over the room, including the bed that has been made and sheets that smell like they’ve been washed recently.
“Come on. I’ve been asking you out for five months. Throw a guy a bone.”
Or, you know, let me stick mine in you.
“Okay, but door stays open and I’m not touching that bed.”
She moves into the room and stands, arms crossed, eyes guarded.
My head is heavy, probably from the alcohol, but I wrack my brain for an idea. Anything to keep her here and all to myself. “How about we do something else to pass the time? We could get to know each other. Seven questions in heaven.” Look at me all clever. Won’t exactly be adding this one to the game though. Seven minutes in heaven shouldn’t normally be altered. Drastic times and all that.
She seems to consider this. “I can ask you anything?”
“Sure. As long as I can do the same.”
Her arms go to her sides and she moves to the bed and sits on the edge. Progress.
“Okay.”
I lob her a softball. “What’s your major?”
“Screenwriting. Yours?”
“Communications,” I answer and then fire back to keep the game going. “What made you decide to come out tonight?”
She shrugs. “Tabitha invited me out.”
“Yeah, okay, but I’ve never seen you out so why tonight and not before?”
Her lips part and her chest rises and falls before she answers. “I guess the stars just aligned. I was free and she asked. I honestly don’t get invited to that many parties. And that was two questions.”
I hold my palm out in a gesture that it’s her turn.
“How many girls have you brought up here? Ballpark.”
I’m pleased this is a question I can answer honestly and to my credit. “None.”
She narrows her gaze. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. The official Seven Minutes in Heaven room is actually the closet downstairs.”
Rolling her eyes, her stance closes off a bit. “You know what I meant.”
Yeah, of course I do.
“I don’t know. A lot. Does it matter?”
“No, I guess it doesn’t. That’s four questions.” She holds three fingers in the air with a smirk. “Why do you keep coming to the café asking me out every week? You have to know that I’m never going to say yes.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I argue. “You want to say yes. I don’t know why you keep saying no, but I know I’m not wrong about the attraction between us being mutual.”
“And you’re what? Hoping to wear me down by buying coffee?”
“Winners want the ball.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t understand how that fits this scenario. Am I the ball?”
Reaching out, I let my fingertips graze her arm – elbow to wrist. Goosebumps meet my touch, but she doesn’t pull back. “It means that I’m willing to risk you turning me down every week because there’s always a chance you’ll say yes. I might fail ninety-nine times before I succeed, but I’m going to keep trying because I want you. You’re not the ball, Kitty, you’re the goal.”
She scrunches up her nose. “The goal? You can ‘score,’” —she air quotes the word— “with any girl you want. So, I’m not sure I buy it. If I’m just a goal…”
“Don’t twist my words. You’re not just anything.”
Our eyes lock and the air shifts. I don’t dare move even though I’m dying to taste her, to show her how good we can be together.
She lets out a long breath and shakes her head. “Can I have a drink of that?”
I hand over the bottle and watch as she tips it back and proceeds to grimace as the liquor meets her tongue. She hands it back with a cough. “Thanks.”
“Lo que tu quieras hermosa.”
Her eyes widen. “You speak Spanish?”
Damn. I haven’t pulled out the Spanish on her? In all my attempts to get her to go out with me, I’d forgotten Blair’s advice that tossing out my ability to speak Spanish was the ultimate panty dropper. Admittedly it doesn’t usually come to that. My handsome mug and the body that comes with the workouts and practices of being a college athlete do practically all the work for me.
“My parents wanted us to be able to communicate with our extended family in Mexico.”
She shifts so she’s sitting fully on the bed. “Did your parents grow up here or in Mexico?”
“Both. My father’s family moved here when he was a baby. My mother came over with her sister after high school.”
Whatever hesitation and block she’d been throwing up is down as she leans forward and asks the next question. “How’d they meet?”
I shake my head and click my tongue against the roof of my mouth twice. “Oh no, you’ve used up your seven questions. It’s my turn.”
She holds her hand out for the bottle.
I pass it over, watching mesmerized as she takes another small drink and hands it back. “I’m ready. Shoot.”
“Admit you’re attracted to me.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Fine. Are you attracted to me?”
Her face pinks. If I’d been doubting it, which I haven’t, I’d be certain now. Katrina is attracted to me, but I need to hear her say it. I need her to admit it to herself. She rolls her eyes. “You know you’re hot, you don’t need me to pad your ego.”
“That’s not the same thing. I asked if you were attracted to me?”
She throws her hands up, exasperation bouncing off her. “Of course, I am. I’m pretty sure the entire female population is attracted to you.” More eye rolling.
I take a drink to hide the cocky grin that is threatening to spread across my face. The burn of the alcohol and the excitement of her admission has me lightheaded.
“Final question.”
“I’m pretty sure you still have at least two left.”
That cocky grin I was trying to hide? Yep, no hiding it now. It pulls across my face and, thank you, Je
sus, this night is about to get good. Good and dirty. “I only need one.”
She arches a brow, looking at me suspiciously.
Leaning forward, I hear the intake of breath as my thumb moves to the corner of her mouth and I trace her full, bottom lip before moving up to the center of her perfect cupid’s bow. She’s coated them in a glossy, light pink, and I want to taste it and smear it in equal measures. She trembles under my touch and it’s such an honest reaction that my pulse quickens.
I drop my hand from her face to neck and thread it through her hair, watching the path and admiring the goosebumps that rise on her ivory skin. “Can I kiss you?”
When I meet her beautiful multi-colored eyes, they’re wide and dark like maybe she’s as jacked about this finally happening as I am.
“Your eyes…” Her lips part as I get closer and her gaze darts from my mouth to my eyes. “Tienes los ojos más bonitos que he visto.”
She still doesn’t respond with words but nods ever so slightly as I hover so close our breaths mingle. Her eyes stay locked on mine until our mouths meet. Lashes flutter closed and she meets my kiss tentatively. I want to fucking devour her, but I hold back, refusing to rush this moment. Her kiss is soft and unassuming like she’s trying to savor this moment too. Maybe I’m projecting.
She opens wider and I sweep my tongue in tasting the lingering liquor and a sweetness that I want to bottle up and gulp. In fact, my head spins and as my hands find her hips and dig in, the kiss turns frantic. Her moans meet mine. When did I become a moaner? I feel the blackness creeping in as I push away all questions and try to hold on to her and to the moment, not wanting it to end.
* * *
“Ojos bonitos,” I whisper the words against her neck. My hips search for contact, dick so hard it’s painful.
“Wake up, Moreno.” Something hits my face and I register the pillow and the loss of her at the same time. Without opening my eyes, I let my other senses play catch up to the situation. I’m not in my bed, or any bed. The lumpy cushion beneath me and the pillow I spoon. My pulse throbs between my eyes.
“He alive?” I hear someone ask followed by a chuckle.
“Yeah, he’s alive.” I recognize Mario’s voice this time. “Probably nursing a hangover to rival all hangovers.”
I groan in response, all I can manage without fear of my head exploding.
“Wes called looking for you. He said to tell you to get your ass moving. Practice in thirty minutes.”
Well, that’s not good news, but I’m less concerned about that than I am with what happened with Katrina last night. A vague recollection of her getting a text and insisting she needed to go is the only thing I remember after kissing her. I sit up slowly and take in myself and the situation around me. I’m passed out on the living room couch.
I check the time on the cable box underneath the TV. Assuming it’s right, I’m hella fucking late. Our usual morning practice got bumped to mid-day, hence the night of drinking. From November through April we don’t get a lot of nights to let loose. Early morning practices, afternoon workouts that sometimes go well into the evening. Then there are game tapes and oh right I’m also taking a full load of college classes.
So, when Coach moved our morning practice, Nathan and I took full advantage.
“Nathan crash here too?”
“Nah, he stumbled out last night. You were passed out in my room. Took everything I had to get your tall ass down the stairs and onto the couch.”
“And Katrina?”
“The chick you took up to my room?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t see her after you two went upstairs to do the nasty on my bed. Vanessa insisted on changing the bedding and then burning your sex sheets.”
Normally she’d be right on the money, but the way I feel right now? Something tells me there wasn’t any sex to be had.
“Sorry, man. I owe you.”
I feel for my phone in my pocket, relieved when I find it, but disappointed when I see the battery is dunzo.
I pocket it and pull my ass up off the couch. With a salute to Mario, I’m out. When I walk the two blocks to my house, the guys are already out the door as I’m heading up the sidewalk which means I’ve got shit for time. Looks like I’ll be wearing whatever rumpled, smelly clothes I left in my locker.
Wes hobbles toward me all grumpy and pissed off – his new MO. The boot on his right foot from the injury that ended his college career thunks on the pavement and echoes like a cannon in my goddamn head.
“Walk of shame? Really?”
“I hate that phrase. This is the walk of awesome. Don’t be jealous I had a good night and you probably tucked your lame ass in at eight.”
The smallest lift of his lips makes me second-guess my assumption. “Ah, you stayed in with Blair. Nice. You lock that down yet, make it official?”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. Wes’ silence tells me everything.
“Good for you. ‘Bout damn time.”
Nathan hustles forward, taking his walk to a jog and leaving us behind. I lift my head in his direction. “He was drinking Everclear last night and now look at him. He’s either got an unbelievable tolerance or…”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Wes instructs. “I’m putting in for that coaching job next year. The less I know, the better.”
“Coach Reynolds,” I try it out. “Coach Wes.” Shake my head. “Nah, how about Coach Dubya – ya know like George Dubya Bush.”
“Those all sound super weird, but if you call me Coach Dubya, your ass will be doing a lot of extra miles.”
“Cold, Dubya. Cold.”
8
Joel
“Relax, I talked to the owner. It’s cool.”
Wes looks unsure despite my words as we enter The Hideout. It’s the first time we’ve been back since he got into a bar fight with Blair’s ex-boyfriend last month. Cops were called, it was all very dramatic, but I paid for the damages – a couple broken chairs and glasses – and promised we’d be on our best behavior from now on.
Blair follows behind Wes looking just as nervous. Her gaze goes to the bar and she scans the length of it. Vanessa nudges her. “Hottie bartender doesn’t work here anymore.”
“How do you know?” Mario asks with enough bite in his tone that it makes me chuckle.
She wraps her arm through his all reassuring like. “I overheard the other bartenders talking about how he left them short-staffed right before March Madness. They’re expecting the turnout to be big with everyone following the basketball team this year.”
The five of us settle into a table near the bar. Z opted out like he typically does, and Nathan played it off like he wanted to rest up for tomorrow, but I’m pretty sure he just didn’t have the funds to cover dining out.
The Hideout is packed and it’s still early. Too early for the Saturday night drinking crowd. We’ve got an away game tomorrow, so it’ll have to be an early night for us. While we wait for someone to take our order, I look around the place weighing my options. Being the fifth wheel sucks. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t envy Wes or Mario, but they’re shit for company when their girls are here.
I wonder what Katrina is doing tonight. Did she make it home alright? What does she do on a typical Saturday night? I’m annoyed that I’m still thinking about her. Any ideas I had about fucking her out of my system are gone. I kissed her senseless last night and all I can think about is doing it again. This girl has my curiosity begging to be satisfied. My dick too.
“Yo, Blair, can I borrow your phone for a minute?”
She’s distracted by Wes, who has a hand so high up on her thigh I wonder if maybe they should just skip dinner and go bang. Godspeed and all. But it works in my favor that she’s here and distracted because she unlocks the screen and pushes it toward me without a thought.
I scroll through her contacts, holding my breath until I see her name. Katrina Philipps. Jackpot. I transfer her number to my phone and then stand.
“Be right back,�
� I announce and head toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms.
I tap out a bunch of different texts, over thinking it and finally saying screw it.
Me: Plans tonight? I want to kiss you again.
I pace, watching my phone for a reply that comes only a few minutes later.
Kitty: Who is this?
Me: How many people did you kiss last night?
Kitty: Depends on who is asking.
Me: The guy who kissed you the best.
Kitty: How did you get this number Joel Moreno?
When most people say my full name, it comes with expectations, intrigue, and guarantees that I’m about to get laid. With Katrina, however, it seems to be a barrier between us. What do I have to do to get her to see me as just Joel?
Me: Tell you what. Meet me at my place in fifteen minutes and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.
Kitty: Shouldn’t you be resting before the game tomorrow?
Me: Keeping tabs on me?
Kitty: No. It’s hard not to know the game schedule of the legendary Valley basketball team.
Me: I’ll sleep better after I’ve thoroughly kissed you. You’ll be doing the team and university a service.
Kitty: Good luck at your game tomorrow.
I growl at the phone and shove it in my pocket before rejoining the table. Looks like I’m back to square one with Katrina. Taking a drink of the water that’s appeared and picking up the menu, I try and push the girl out of my mind. I’ll just call someone else. Answer one of the many texts or DMs. Why am I not already doing that?
“Dude, you okay?” Wes asks. The whole table is staring at me. Perfect. Now they decide to notice me?
The Fadeaway: A Smart Jocks Novel Page 5