by Sara H Ney
“Cecelia?”
I chuckle. “Yes.”
Mitchell nods. “What are you two doing? Talking about what to do tonight?”
I blink at him, suppressing a smile. “How old are you, Mitchell?”
“Eleven.”
“Well, Mitchell, my conversation with your coach is kind of private.”
A kid after my own heart, he rolls his eyes. “So he wasn’t about to ask you out? That’s lame.” He readjusts his glasses (yet again) and peers up at us, looking just like that character Squints, the nerdy kid with the glasses from the movie, The Sandlot.
You know the one.
Or maybe you don’t - in which case, you’re killing me, Smalls.
I tilt my head and study Mitchell. “You sure seem awfully curious about what your coach has going on.”
Undeterred, the kid pushes on with a shrug. “I have three older sisters, so I kind of know what’s going down.”
Now Matthew is rolling his eyes. “You should probably go wait over by the doors for Stewart and his mom - it’s rude for you to make them wait if they’re giving you a ride home.”
Instead, Mitchell looks me up and down and says, “It’s pizza night at my house if you wanna come. My mom’s new boyfriend works at Little Caesars.”
Unable to stop myself, I ruffle my fingers through his hair, tussling it, and grin down at him. “Awww, that’s okay sweetie. I do have plans later, but thank you for asking.”
He hefts his bag up onto his bony shoulder. “Can’t knock a guy for tryin.” In the distance, a beat up Buick pulls up to the building. “Oh shit, there’s Stu’s mom. Gotta go.” Mitchell takes off on his white little bird legs, sprinting as fast as only a scrawny kid can sprint while dragging a heavy duffle by the strap across the pavement.
“Language Mitchell!” Matthew yells after him.
“Sorry Coach!”
Silently, we watch him run off and climb into the back seat of Stewart’s mom’s car.
“So... big plans tonight, huh?” Matthew asks.
Um, yeah. If you count trying to find out what happens next between Lady Mary Crawley and Matthew Crawley on Season Two of Downton Abbey as having plans, then yeah; I have plans. But let’s just keep that little tidbit to ourselves, shall we?
I shuffle my feet on the ground and fiddle with the empty coffee cup still clutched between my hands (that I forgot to toss in the trash) as we stand next to my car. “Er... kind of.”
Kind of, but not really.
My neck gets hot and I pull at my scarf: I am such a bad liar.
Matthew studies me intently before slowly nodding, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his fleece vest. “Oh, sure. Yeah. Okay, that’s too bad.”
He’s rambling.
Crap. Was he going to ask me out?
Maybe if he reacted in his usual way - you know - like a dick who couldn’t care less one way or another if we hung out - I wouldn’t feel so bad lying about having plans. Instead, he looks disappointed and rather... dejected.
However, my pride won’t let me admit I have a date with the couch tonight. So I say, “Well... Thanks for inviting me today. The boys are absolutely adorable. Especially that little Mitchell. What a character.”
“Oh god, don’t ever let them hear you calling them adorable. Or cute. Boys hate that.” He winks at me. “You know, this was the first game they’ve won all season.... Who knows - maybe you’re their lucky charm.”
“Oh brother. Don’t tell me you’re superstitious.”
“Aren’t all athletes?”
I look down at his feet. “I don’t know, you tell me. How long has it been since you washed your game socks?”
Matthew scratches his head and pretends to think about it. “Hmm. A few years at least.”
I laugh, and clear my throat. “That’s what I thought: superstitious.”
“I’m just kidding - of course I wash my socks. Now, my jock on the other hand....”
Oh lord - He did not just make a reference to his jock strap.
Let me be honest here for a second: I’m a visual person. And by visual I mean.... you say a random word I haven’t heard in a while and I’m going to promptly conjure up a visual in my head of that word.
Or, depending on where I am and how much time I have, I’ll even start a daydream.
For example, I hear the word jock and immediately think “strap.” The phrase jock strap immediately makes me think of Matthew, skating towards me in the center of an ice rink wearing nothing but his white athletic supporter, tightly hugging his man bits and hard ass.
Bare thighs. Bare chest.
Bare... everything. All over.
Naked.
Speaking of bare, I bet he has just a light dusting of hair on his inner thighs. And okay, in addition to being entirely naked except for his jock, he might also be wearing skates and firmly clutching his stick. His hockey stick, not his... you know. Stick stick.
Do you see what I mean about my vivid imagination?! Are you getting the picture here? Ugh, I’m terrible...
So the last thing I need as we stand side-by-side in a virtually empty parking lot is a visual of his, um, junk swirling precariously through my head, making me hot and itchy.
And the fact that I haven’t had sex in months? Yeah, that’s totally not helping. I lick my lips, desperately trying hard not glace down and check out his denim clad, um... package.
Great. That makes like, five or six references to his penis in less then ten seconds. Oops. I just said penis.
Make that count seven.
Or eight.
Shit. I’m losing count.
Swallowing hard, I force my eyes briefly towards the ice arena as an attempt to refocus. Get your mind out of the gutter, get your mind out of the gutter, get your mind out of the gutter.
Would someone please slap me!?
I look back at Matthew, and sure enough he’s watching me, eyes wide and inquisitive with a strange expression across his face. “So, on that note... maybe I should get going? Thanks again for coming today. The guys loved it.”
He takes a step forward as if he’s about to hug me, but then halts, stopping himself short with his arms half raised (so awkwardly) before shoving them in the back pockets of his jeans.
Hello, disappointment? I’m Cece! Nice to meet you!
My lonely arms hang lifelessly at my side. Although... oh my god, can you imagine if he had hugged me? It’s entirely possible I would have not only wrapped my arms around him, but rubbed my body up and down him a bit, because I want to climb him like a tree.
Wrap myself around that hard, hot body - like a pretzel, actually. You know - act like the hussies he’s used to. Oh god. Shit. I have no idea what he just said to me.
Oh yeah, that’s right - he has to get going...
“I had a good time, too. So... I guess I’ll talk to you later?”
“I’ll be around.” He winks at me again with a rueful chuckle. “Probably just on my couch.”
Oh my god, I am such a soul crusher.
“Bye Cecelia.”
He gives a sad little wave before turning and walking across the parking lot back to his Tahoe, his confident gait slow but purposeful.
My eyes slide down to his firm ass.
Biting my lip, I rock back on my heels, debating. If I call him back, is that weak? I do not chase boys - ever. On the other hand, if I let him walk away, I’m completely denying us both what we want: to spend the rest of the afternoon together. I mean... it’s not like he was asking me to marry him. Or asking me on a date.
I don’t think.
Well. Technically, he didn’t really ask me to do anything. I kind of shot him down before he could even get to that part. Maybe he was just being polite by asking if I had plans later today. Right? Right.
Ugh, why is this so hard? Why do girls over think every damn thing? I hate myself and my gender right now - I hate my hormones!
I let him get halfway to his Tahoe.
“Matthew!” I h
alf shout.
He turns, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Wait.”
Chapter Seventeen
Matthew
“Just shut up and put it in.” - Overheard (and misunderstood) at Galaxy Golf World on the fifth hole.
“I swear, I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.” Cecelia grumbles, crouched over a miniature golf putter, eyeballing the hole at the end of the long astroturf course like she’s Tiger Woods during a PGA Tour.
“Like you were going to say no to all this,” I say, confidently showcasing my manly physique with one of my forefingers like a model from the Price is Right, then propping my leg on a fake boulder before flexing my biceps ala Mr. Universe.
“You’re one sick individual, did you know that,” she deadpans.
“Just hit the ball would you, and stop complaining.”
“I’m only complaining because I suck at this. You brought me here because you wanted to show off.”
“Hmm. You may have a point there...” I poke her in the thigh with the butt end of my golf putter. “Take the shot. There’s a group coming up behind us.”
Cecelia refocuses, closing one eye and chewing on her lower lip, like those two techniques combined are going to get her a hole-in-one.
Pfft. As if.
She gently takes a few practice swings, pulling back on the putter a few times but not connecting with the ball (all the while wiggling her firm ass), before tapping the small purple orb towards the hole.
It rolls forward, gaining momentum on a tiny slope before rounding a corner... ricochets into a manmade stone (as golf balls often do), and continues at a slow crawl towards the cup in the ground.
Slowly.
Slowly...
Cecelia sucks in her breath, grasping her putter to her chest as the ball continues leisurely rolling towards its final destination, before catching on the lip and plopping in.
Letting out a loud “Yes!!! Woooo hoooo!” Cecelia jumps up and down like a lunatic. She pumps her fists, shouting, “Did you see that?! Did. You. See. That?”
“Um, yeah. And everyone can hear you, too.”
Sheesh.
For several few minutes, I stand there with my arms crossed - waiting patiently - as Cecelia struts around like a rooster, leaps in the air a few more times like a cheerleader on the acrobat team, throws her arms into a ‘V’ for victory, and continues loudly ‘whooping’ for a good solid... oh, I don’t know, two or three minutes.
She is utterly ridiculous.
And completely fucking adorable.
“Wow,” is all I can say when she’s done.
“Ugh, that felt good.” She smoothes down her sweater and straightens the scarf around her neck, glancing up at me with a schooled expression. “Okay. Your turn.”
“You are nuts.”
Cecelia snorts and walks over to pat my arm. “You’re only just figuring that out? Poor guy...” As her hand makes contact with my long sleeve tee shirt, her hand lingers there a bit too long. Not only that, but I swear she just squeezed my bicep a little.
Hey - not that I’m complaining.
But now she’s staring up at me with innocent eyes and smirking - a look I’ve seen on my sister’s face a hundred times when she’s trying not to look guilty. You know the look, don’t try denying it: huge doe eyes - where you force your eyebrows up into your hairline while you give a blank stare?
Yeah. That look. Because she’s guilty.
“Did you just squeeze my muscles?”
“What?! No.” She looks away, miffed.
“Bullshit, you did too. Admit it.”
Cecelia casts a glance up at me, the big silver hoops in her ears sway as she shakes her head in denial. “Pfft, no way.”
“Why can’t you admit you were feeling me up?”
“Oh. My. God.”
I give her a long, hard look before tapping my putter on another fake rock. “Okay, fine.” I take the red ball out of my pocket, toss it in the air a few times and catch it before I drop it on the astroturf. Glancing back at her I ask, “Wanna make this interesting?”
Cecelia watches me a few heartbeats, giving me a once over from top to bottom, before taking her putter and holding it horizontally behind her head with both hands. The motion pulls the fabric of her sweater tight across her chest, and my eyes go immediately to her breasts. “Even more interesting? Please, enlighten me.”
I clear my throat, trying not to stare. Sorry, but she’s got a great rack.
“You know. Like a bet.”
“Ah, a gamblin’ man. I like it. Sure, let’s do it.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” I dip my head, pushing the hair out of my eyes before tapping the ball towards the hole.
She laughs. “Yeah, I just bet you are.”
Crap. My ball doesn’t go in.
Cecelia coughs into her hand while I walk over and tap it again, missing a second time. “Are you sure you want to do this? Seems risky on your part,” she says.
Par three.
“Yu-p,” I respond, letting the ‘p’ make a popping sound. “What kind of a damn fool doesn’t bet on a mini put-put game? In fact, I think it’s on the rules sign posted back there on the building.” I gesture behind us with my thumb, pointing towards the clubhouse. “Rule number six: Must place bets. Besides, I’m gonna win no matter what, so...”
Cecelia lets out an unladylike snort. “Didn’t you just get a par four on a par two?”
“Hello, par three. I’m a professional athlete: your lack of confidence offends me.” We walk towards the next course. “Your snorting is a real turn off too, by the way.”
She winkles up her nose and glares at me. “Well it’s a good thing then that I wasn’t trying to turn you on.” She steps around me and places her ball on the ground. “Anyways, you’re probably just saying that because Molly’s always doing it. I think her snorting may have rubbed off on me.”
I shrug. “Yeah, maybe. But still.”
“Fine. I’ll try not to do it anymore.”
Blankly, I stare at her.
“What?” she asks, confused.
“That’s it? ‘Fine, I’ll try not to do it anymore?’”
She stares at me like I’m a moron. “Well, yeah....”
“You’re not going to argue with me?”
“Um...”
“Wow. That’s kind of awesome.”
“Well, duh - I’m kind of awesome. Now close that sexy mouth of yours so I can start kicking your ass.”
**Cecelia**
“Okay, this is it. The last. Hole.” Matthew hovers over his golf putter, tapping the ball back and forth in between, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at me.
I shake my head and roll my eyes, looking at everything but him, feigning boredom. “Would you please get on with it already?” The game, while not tied, is close (not that anyone is keeping score), and Matthew keeps stalling.
“Cool your jets, little mama. This shit takes time. And skill.” He lifts his putter and points it to the small windmill covering the last hole. “See that hole there? When I put this little baby in motion,” he says this as he takes his red ball, flippantly tossing it to the ground, “it’s going to go into that tunnel, fall into that hole, and light up that siren. Got it? Are you paying attention?”
“Uh huh.”
“Good, because this shit’s important. Now here’s where it gets dicey. I bet (he wiggles his eyebrows at me again) that you can’t make the siren go off.”
“Pfft. Please.”
“No seriously. I bet you can’t do it.”
I cross my arms definitely. “Fine. I bet you can’t do it either.”
“Fine. What will you give me if you don’t?” His question comes out husky.
What will I give him?
“I’ll....” I look around, thinking, and scrunch up my nose. Immediately, my thoughts get perverted, thinking about all the things I’d like to do to him. Suck on his neck, for one. Lick his dimple, for another. Run m
y hands all over his bare chest... Wait. Scratch that. I’d rather run my tongue all over his bare chest...
Oh god.
I’m positive as he stands there gazing at me, legs spread in a cocky stance, my cheeks get beet red and I resist the urge to run my hands down my face in frustration. I can even feel my neck and chest getting hot.
Great. Now I can’t even look at him.
Worse, I know he knows what I’m thinking: something sexual. How do I know this? Easy. The cocky grin on his face, dimple on display to torture me even further. “Well?”
“I don’t know,” I manage to croak out.
Matthew claps his large hands, rubbing them together. “Isn’t it a good thing that I’ve given this some serious thought while kicking your hot little behind?”
Now I feel my ears burning. Burying my face in my scarf and biting my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot, I force out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, this I gotta hear.” I lean on my putter.
“I think you’re really gonna like it. I’m a genius.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, spit it out already.”
“When I sink this put and light that lantern, I get to plant one on you.”
I roll my eyes. “I figured that’s what you were going to say.”
“Maybe, but there’s a catch!”
“Oh geez...”
“I get to plant one on you - at any time, in any location. And when I do, I’m going to make it a good one.”
“What the hell does that mean? Plant one on me. Any time, any location?”
“Exactly what you think it means. My mouth, all over you. You won’t know when or where it’s coming, but I promise - you’ll like it.” He laughs. “Don’t you just love the element of surprise? It will be kind of like a lion stalking its prey.”
“Ummm....” Seriously. What does a person say to that?
“Just say yes. The anticipation will be like foreplay.”
Oh dear god. “You are not getting in my pants.”
Matthew simply shrugs. “Maybe not at first.”
“Maybe not ev-er.”
He looks at me. “You don’t seriously believe that, do you? Ugh, God you’re cute.” He walks over and stands in front of me, getting so far in my personal space I can smell his minty breath. Then the bastard lifts his putter between us, lightly brushing it up against my breasts.