by Ali Dean
“It’s ridiculous to me that he put his number down my dress and left. That whole thing was ridiculous,” I reflect, my cheeks heating just thinking about it. “Does he carry his number around on a napkin all the time just in case he sees a girl he wants to call him? It was all so weird.”
“Maybe he had been watching you beforehand and he knew he’d want to give it to you once he approached because he knew he had to be somewhere and couldn’t spend more time with you.” I can see Kick’s eyes lighting up as she moves around the kitchen, sliding food on plates. “Shay, this might actually be more romantic than just any old booty call. He might want to take you on a real date and stuff!”
The way she says it, like a guy taking a girl on a real date is super romantic, makes me a little sad. Kick might not be a girl who wants to be wined and dined, and college might not be a place where that happens, but I’m still hoping that maybe after college, in the real adult world, guys still take girls on dates.
“How much longer are you going to harass me about calling this dude before you let it go?” My tone is light, but my question is serious.
She hands me a plate full of food. “I won’t withhold food, because you get so intolerable when I do that, but I’m going to harass you for at least another day, maybe even a week.”
With that, she pushes the button for the blender, drowning out any retort from me.
She hadn’t called. It was almost ten PM and I was feeling pretty confident it wasn’t going to happen. Maybe she lost the number? She probably thought I was a total douchebag. That was a cocky asshole move I made last night, and girls like Shay Spark don’t get off on that. The leaving the number shit and walking away, not the dancing. That was off the charts. Magnetic. Sparks-flying kind of hotness right there.
The thing was, I couldn’t stick around after dancing, and leaving my number was the best I could do. To start, I was about five seconds away from blowing my load right there in the middle of the club. But it was also Anthony’s birthday party and I didn’t want to ditch out. If I stayed any longer with Shay, I knew I wasn’t going to make it back to the VIP room. And I knew even more she wouldn’t give me her number. So I left mine and bounced… and haven’t stopped wondering when she’ll call ever since. At this point I was just wondering if she’d call.
I felt like a damn chick checking my phone every few minutes, disappointment hitting each time I find text messages from dudes on the team, or girls whom I never should have given my number to, but nothing from Shay Spark. I’d spotted her from the VIP room on the second floor and I’d been watching like a creeper for almost an hour before going down there. She sent out a vibe like she didn’t want guys dancing with her, but I was willing to test it. Grabbed a pen and a napkin from a passing cocktail waitress in VIP and scribbled down my number before going down to the main floor just in case there was an opportunity to give it to Shay. And then she shocked the hell out of me when she molded to my body without hesitation. Like we’d known each other for ages.
I leaned back on my bed with my hands behind my head and pictured the first time I saw her two weeks ago. She was getting out of the pool after practice. I’d wanted to get in a few laps to loosen up after a tough workout, and I hadn’t realized the swim team would still be in there. It had just been her shoulders and back at first, pulling herself up from the deep end. Sun-kissed and strong, no mistaking she was an athlete. When she climbed all the way out I saw a tiny waist and long, lean legs. I’d always admired athletic chicks, loved it when a woman’s softness was shaped by muscles. Shay Spark definitely had the strong and sexy body. Then she turned around at the same time she pulled off her swim cap, shaking out a mass of white-blonde hair. She was gorgeous. But it was more than that. Soft and hard at all once. A calmness about her that contradicted the intensity I also felt coming off her in waves. Sweet and intimidating. Easy-going yet determined. How the hell I saw all that from one glimpse, no fucking clue. But it hit me hard and it didn’t shake loose. I’d been making excuses to wander past the pool every day since, hoping to catch a glimpse. I always seemed to miss her.
It wasn’t hard to figure out who she was. She was one of those few girls on campus most dudes talked smack about because, well, did I mention she was fucking gorgeous? And her name was all over the record board prominently displayed in the pool complex. It didn’t hurt she had a hot twin sister, either. I was sure most guys on campus had fantasized about one of them, if not both. So yeah, before Mirage, I’d been unable to get Shay Spark out of my system. And now? I was fucked. I wanted her, but had no clue how to get her.
Water swirls around me as I push off the wall with a powerful surge. With my arms held in front of me and my body aligned in a tight streamline position, the familiar burn roars through my legs. One more lap and the workout will be over. My arms break the surface and protest in fatigue as I attempt to find a rhythm. More than any other stroke, butterfly demands rhythm. The best butterfliers don’t muscle their way through it, but rely instead on tempo and flow, treating it more like a dance than a battle of strength. I know this. But on the last lap of a set requiring 2,000 yards of butterfly, dancing over the water is impossible. I’m doing my best to keep from dragging, but my shoulders, back, arms, everything burns and it’s all I can do to pull through one stroke after another.
The set is ten by 200 yards choice stroke – meaning any stroke but freestyle. Tori Silbert, a backstroker, is ahead of me and reaches the wall first. A moment later, I collapse at the wall after her, resting on the side of the pool and sucking in air. Sometimes, I wish I was a backstroker. They can breathe the whole time except at flip turns. So unfair.
Beatrice isn’t far behind me, the other top butterflier on our team. Her face is red as she settles her head next to mine. We stare at each other, proud of ourselves for getting through the workout and too exhausted to speak. Kick’s the last one in our lane to reach the end, and she lets out a dramatic “Whooop!” as soon as she slides her hands to the wall. Kick’s best event is the IM – individual medley – which is all four strokes. Breaststroke is her best individual stroke though, and that’s usually what she does when we have a tough stroke set like this. It’s the slowest stroke, which means she gets less rest between intervals.
If there’s any rule Kick lives by, it’s “work hard, play hard.” So the tougher the workout, the more she wants to party. By the time we cool down and hit the showers, she’s already talking about her plans for the night. It’s Friday, nearly a week since our birthday and since Jett Decker messed with my head. Or my body. However you want to look at it I guess.
I’m looking forward to getting in my pajamas and binging on Netflix. While we shower, Beatrice chatters about a band that just made a last-minute announcement they’d be doing a local concert. Kick loves live music, and loves musicians almost as much, so she’s already snagged tickets. A few others on the team want to join them. They don’t bother pressing me – they got me to a club last Saturday, and that was a feat. Usually if I feel like doing something, I do, and if I don’t, well, peer pressure doesn’t really do much for me.
I’m sliding a shirt over my head when I hear Kick’s phone ringing. She takes a look at it and hits ignore. Mine buzzes a second later and I know who it is before I see “Mom” flash across the screen.
Sighing, I answer it, stuffing my feet in my shoes before wandering out of the locker room.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Shay, how are classes?”
Translation: what are your grades and are you going to continue maintaining a 4.0 this semester? I give her the answer she’s looking for: “All A’s so far. I got a couple of A-minuses on quizzes in international finance, but that professor never gives A’s.”
“Well, I’m sure if you did extra credit or spoke with the professor about how you could get that A, you’d find a way.”
“I did. And I’m working on a research project for her,” I report dutifully.
“Good. That’s good. And you’ve submitte
d the summer internship applications?”
“Mom, it’s too early. I need to wait at least another month. If I do it this early, the applications will probably get lost.”
She lets out one of her disapproving “hummms” and says, “I don’t know about that,” but doesn’t push it. We went over this already when she called last week.
Switching tactics, she dives into an update about all the amazing people she’s met and the incredible things they’re accomplishing, or that their children are accomplishing. I know she’s a people person and likes to share things she finds interesting, but I always feel as if she’s just sending me the passive-aggressive message that I could be achieving more. That if I only worked harder, I could be just as amazing as the people she tells me about.
“I’m on my way home from a ‘women in technology’ function and I ran into Claudia Lehman. You remember her daughter, Megan?”=
“Yes. She was a grade ahead of us,” I prompt, leaning against the hallway door and preparing myself for the onslaught.
“Well, she graduated a year early from MIT and she has the most incredible job at Edward Jones.” Mom goes on to rave about Megan Lehman’s genius and world-changing position crunching numbers. “And, she’s running the New York City marathon next month. What a driven young woman!”
“Yeah, I think she was valedictorian. Didn’t know she was an athlete,” I respond, feigning interest.
“Oh, and the other day at the gym I bumped into Sydney Ratcliff. You used to babysit her younger sisters.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I’m sure you recall that she was always performing at the Mayfair Theater. Well, she just got into Juilliard for ballet and is going there next year. Such a sweet girl. And so bright. She’s really going places, that one.”
My mother rambles on for another few minutes like this, and I half listen, thinking instead about what kind of pizza I’ll order. I’ve never really committed to thin or thick crust, preferring to vary it up. I’ll probably go with thick crust tonight.
Finally, Mom runs out of interesting people to tell me about. She asks about Kick and swimming, but I can tell she’s not really paying attention to my answers. With a reminder to start working on my summer internship applications, she signs off. At least she says “goodbye.” Half the time she doesn’t even bother with that.
A slap on my ass startles me and I spin around with a yelp.
“Hey, hot stuff. Sure you don’t want to see Kings of Sound tonight?”
“Sorry, Bea, the couch is calling my name.”
Kick follows behind her, and the three of us head to the parking lot to ride back to our condo. Julian’s voice calling my name makes me turn around again before we reach the door. He’s just come out of the guys’ locker room. With two ten-lane pools plus a diving well, there’s plenty of space for both teams to practice at the same time. His cheeks are still flushed from the workout, his hair damp. He jogs toward me, and Kick and Bea tell me they’ll wait at the car.
When he reaches me, he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. I’m not sure Julian Reed has ever chased after me. Maybe once, playing around in his bedroom, I guess, but not like this. “Shay, we haven’t hung out in a while,” he starts, the confidence in his voice smothering any notion I had that he might be nervous.
I know what he means by “hang out” but I don’t correct him. “Classes and practice, you know, hard to find the time,” I reply with a shrug. He looks a little surprised by my coolness, and I guess I am too. I’ve always jumped at the attention he throws my way, always at his beck and call. But an image of a taller guy with darker features and the feel of his hard body against mine keeps distracting me, pulling me in another direction.
“You going to the show tonight?”
“The Kings of Sound concert? No, but my sister and a bunch of others on the team will be there.”
“Do you have other plans? Want to hang out?”
I think about it for a beat – something I’ve never had to think about before – and nod. “I’m only up for hanging at my place tonight, ordering pizza, if you’re down. I’m too trashed from the workout to go out.” Maybe spending time with Julian will help me forget about Jett.
He flashes me a grin and promises to come by in an hour. The usual giddiness at alone time with Julian flutters around in me, but it’s dim, just a reaction formed from habit. It’s someone else I really want alone time with, and I never thought that a guy like Julian Reed could feel like settling.
I’m sitting on the couch, a slice of pizza in hand, staring at the TV screen. Staring, because I’m hardly watching it; my mind has replayed for what feels like the hundredth time – no, thousandth – the moment I shared with Jett on my birthday. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did Google him. The images of him in his track gear, and on the dais with his medal, weigh almost as heavily in my little fantasies of him as him in his form-fitting jeans moving against me on the dance floor…
“Let’s move this to the bedroom,” Julian says, startling me. I’d almost forgotten he was here. He reaches out to put a hand on my thigh and my body goes cold. I push his hand off and scoot back a bit more into the couch.
“No, Julian. I’m too tired. I just want to watch some TV and chill.” I am tired. But more importantly, I don’t feel the urge to do anything with him. I know we’ve been hooking up, like clockwork, but it’s starting to feel like routine, and I’m over it.
“I’ll help you chill, baby.” He takes the half-eaten pizza out of my hands and rolls over so he’s lying half on top of me. “Let me iron out those kinks for you.”
“No, Julian. Get off.” I try to push him away, but he’s as solid as a brick wall. My eyes meet his and I see a flicker of something that looks like annoyance and maybe anger flash through them. What is his problem? Why won’t he move? He tilts his head so his lips can kiss my neck. At the same time, he grinds his crotch into my leg. He is ready for our usual routine of wham bam thank you ma’am, and the thought makes me ill.
“Julian, stop. I don’t feel well.” I push against him again, and this time he moves, slamming his back into the other side of the couch. With a huff, he runs his hands through his hair. He’s angry, frustrated… with me.
I take a deep breath and place a hand reassuringly on his thigh. “Julian, I’m sorry. I’m really not feeling well. I don’t know, it’s something that’s just come over me in the last few hours. Truly, if I thought I was going to be sick, I wouldn’t have invited you over.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay. Don’t sweat it. Can I get you anything?” The frustration has left his eyes and he has regained his composure to that sweet, but bland, athlete and sometimes hookup of mine that I know. For a second there I got worried. I thought he was going to force himself on me, to make me get in the mood.
“No, I’m good.”
“Okay I might head off then, I’m pretty beat myself.”
He’s barely closed the door and my mind returns to Jett, trying to work out the mystery surrounding him and our meeting. Should I call or text him?
I stare at the napkin with a number on it. No name, just the number. Blue pen scribbled messily on a cocktail napkin. I knew when Julian left tonight that whatever I had with him, it was done. That was so awkward. And kind of pathetic I had to lie, but it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I could explain. How do you tell the guy you’ve been hooking up with and have to see almost every day at the pool that you suddenly find him boring because you met someone who is totally the opposite of boring? It’s embarrassing to have to lie my way out of hooking up, but habits are hard to break for one person, and even harder when the habits are shared with another.
And that brings me to why I changed my mind about calling Jett. I want to get that feeling back I had at Mirage. It was overwhelming and scary, and totally not me, but I want to taste it again. I’ve been putting off calling because I know he can only want one thing, but what’s so wrong with that? Sure, he’s a strang
er, but we obviously have some pull to each other, and even if it’s just one time, it’d be worth it. I start to tap out his number and then change my mind. I should text. I wouldn’t even have to talk to him. Just say, ‘Hey, you slipped your number down my dress last week, remember me?’
If I wait any longer than a week... he might forget who I am. Hell, he might have already forgotten. Meanwhile, I’ve spent hours gazing at images of him online all week, the pictures of him playing on repeat in my mind as I swim up and down the pool, try to listen in class, sleep, shower… yeah, I’ve been obsessing.
But what if the number has an expiration date, and when he said he was free the next day, he meant, don’t bother trying me after that? But what do I have to lose? Rejection? And if he rejects me, then I’ll stop wondering and daydreaming and wanting him so bad. But if he rejects me, the memory of what happened on the dance floor will be ruined. Whatever, it’s just a memory, right?
Before I can change my mind, I text a message:
Hey, this is Shay. We didn’t get names at Mirage, but you gave me your number.
As soon as it’s sent, a loud bang downstairs startles me into jumping up. I glance at the clock. It’s only eleven. Too early for Kick and Bea to be back.
“Shay!” Kick yells my name at the top of her lungs. Or not.
I run down the stairs. “Kick, what the hell is going on?”
My sister stands there with a hand on her hip, looking like she should be on the cover of Vogue. Red leather pants, black ankle boots, and a see-through white tank that showcases a red bra underneath. The girl is basically every guy’s wet dream. She pulls out lipstick from her clutch and applies a deep red shade to complete the look. “Kick, what are you doing home in an outfit like that?”
Kick dresses like this when she’s on a mission to get with a hot guy. If she’s going with the lipstick too, then she’s already got one picked out ahead of time.