by Sara Ney
She hates my “costume” and I’ve only been in her apartment three minutes.
“Thanks Tessa. Good seeing you, too.”
“I’m just being honest. Don’t you want me to be honest?” She’s always been brutally honest, but tonight, I’m not in the mood. “What are you even supposed to be?”
Nothing? I’m dressed as nothing.
“I’m getting over a cold, Tessa, and trying not to get sick all over again.” I couch dramatically into the crook of my elbow for good measure. “I told you that when you invited me out.”
My voice takes on a low croak and I mentally pat myself on the back for how authentically ill I sound.
I’m not changing my clothes.
Not tonight.
“Can you at least take the scarf off? I want to have fun, not cart around my grandma. Or a bear.”
I forgot what a brat she can be.
Fingering the gray, cable knit length around my neck, I breathe in the merino wool that’s the only thing keeping my neck warm. “My scarf? What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it—but we’re going to the baseball house. You know—on Jock Row.”
When she says Jock Row, her voice changes. Fills with this weird wistful and playful giddiness—like we’re heading to some magical place when we’re not.
Jock Row: the off-campus housing block where student athletes live and party. Similar to Greek Row, each sport has its own designated apartment or house, spanning an entire city block. They study together, play together, live together. Hell, they even eat together in a special cafeteria I’ve only heard whispers about, with super special, healthy jock food.
How nice for them.
I remember listening to her talk about it in the dorms when we were new students; she’d talk for hours about wanting to date an athlete. Wondering what it was like but never having the lady balls to go to one of the parties.
Well, a lot must have changed in the year since we last saw each other, because she would have never had the courage to go to one of these parties.
She still has the same stars in her eyes when she talks about it; still has that same breathiness in her voice.
In a way, I don’t blame her because the guys on Jock Row?
They aren’t boys—they’re a different breed of student body altogether.
These boys don’t compare to the guys from back home that I’m used to flirting with: the gangly, juvenile, boys I grew up with who went to college but still haven’t matured, are nothing like the boys of Jock Row.
Not physically.
Not mentally.
These guys? They’re men, with actual responsibilities and obligations. They work hard and play hard.
Bigger.
Brawny.
In peak physical condition—probably the best shape they’ll ever be in their lives.
Cocky.
Quick.
I’ve seen them in action on the baseball field; I know the team is good. And damn—they look good, too.
Smell good.
How do I know? I got close to one once, rooting around for a beverage at the football house one weekend awhile back. A big, burly player cut me off in line at the keg, leaning over to grab the beer tap with his meaty fingers and I accidentally caught a whiff. A long, deep whiff—one that ended with an internal ‘ahhh’ that only comes when we appreciate something truly delicious.
Obviously, I couldn’t not check out his upper torso, muscular forearms, and thick neck in the process—like every female in the room with a set of functioning eyes had been doing.
Every female—like Tessa and her roommate, Cameron, who’s still in their bathroom primping.
I know what these two want: they’re hoping to sink their hot pink talons into some unsuspecting athlete. They’re older, wiser, and more confident. Wearing less clothes.
Tonight, Tessa has been prattling on about the baseball team’s catcher—she bumped into him earlier this week on campus and has been social media stalking him since. Discovered that if she timed it just right, he’d be walking out of the science building at the same time she’d be walking out of the international studies building.
Guess I can’t fault her; I’ve laid eyes on the guy a few times myself, and really don’t blame her for fawning over him; he’s dark, broody and extremely good looking. Latino to boot.
“Please just trust me,” Tessa is saying. “I’m no nursing major, but I know this: if you wear that thing to the party, you’re going to have a stroke. And there won’t be anyone there to revive you.”
“You don’t think there will be any pre-med students there?”
“Pfft, nooo—they’re probably studying right now.”
“Thank god—saving lives takes some learn-ed learning.”
She isn’t picking up on my sarcasm, so I airily forge on, trying a new tactic to stop her nagging. “Let’s silver lining this argument, shall we? The good news is, if I’m wearing this bulky sweater, he’s going to assume I’m your DUFF and won’t look at me twice. See? No competition.”
“That’s probably true.” Her dark blonde head tilts as she considers it, puckering her hot pink mouth. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Trust me.
Her blue eyes—the color of Ocean breeze contact lenses—rake up and down my body for the second time.
Even so, Tessa is not ready to give up, loathing the thought of an evening next to me while I’m wearing a sweater at a college Halloween party in lieu of the traditional co-ed costume. i.e. let’s see who can wear the skimpiest outfit and claim it’s a costume. “It might be freezing outside, but it’s not going to be cold inside the house.”
I wrap the scarf tighter, giving her arm a gentle pat. “We’re walking, and I was sick—it’s and I’m not jeopardizing my health for one party.”
I forgot how judgmental her blue eyes could be, and I’m surprised she can blink with all the mascara clumped on her lashes. “What about your sniffles?”
“The worst of my cold is over.” I fake another cough. “Can we go? I kind of want to get home a little early and read.”
“You’ve turned into such a nerd since you got your own apartment.”
“Nerd Alert!” I tease, pointing a finger at myself. “I just bought a new book—I’ve been waiting for it to release for nine months. Nine! That’s a damn eternity in romance novel years. You’re lucky I dragged myself off the couch.” I protest, head rearing toward their bathroom. “What is taking Cameron so long?”
“One of her hair extensions was loose. She had to add extra adhesive.”
“Ah,” I nod knowingly—as if that makes any sense.
Lucky for me, Cameron—Tessa’s roommate—chooses that moment to come sashaying down the hallway as if she’s on a fashion runway, thumbing a long strand of platinum blonde hair, curls sprayed into submission. The rest of them lay in silky waves, and I briefly wonder how she’s going to walk the entire way on those four inch heels.
Dark eyes, glossy lips, and black whiskers draw on her face, our girl Cam is ready to hit the Row—dressed like a cat—the least original thing to wear.
Finally.
She halts when she sees me, pointing an accusatory finger at my boots. Practically hisses. “You’re not wearing that outfit. It’s butt ugly.”
Tessa pipes up. “Save your breath—she’s agreed to play DUFF tonight.”
Cameron scoffs, bless her soul. “Scarlett will never be anyone’s DUFF, even in that ugly thing.”
That sounded oddly like a compliment. “Aww, you are too sweet.”
I wrap an arm around her slim waist, squeezing her in a side hug. “I kind of missed you weirdos.”
Oh shit.
They were right—this outfit was a terrible idea.
Why didn’t they try harder to make me change into something new? I swear, they’re abysmal friends.
I’m dying.
It’s hot as hades in this house, the hundred bodies overcrowding the small space is creat
ing a blasted inferno—slutty nurses, shirtless fireman, and slutty devils of every variety—despite the freezing temperatures outdoors.
I have no choice but to loosen the scarf clinging to my perspiring neck, a second skin, damp with my sweat.
Jerking at the end of it with my left hand, I pull it slack, lifting it over my head, relieving myself of one round, mohair loop, then another. Stuff the entire thing in my purse—which is more of a cumbersome tote—all the while holding a red cup in my right.
No beer for me tonight, just a copious amounts of water disguised as alcohol.
And can I just say, finding a liquid in this house that wasn’t beer was damn near impossible. I’d had to leave Tessa and Cam to their own devices to scavenge the kitchen, raiding the fridge.
There was a note taped to the door that said, “Off Limits,” but it was old, and faded, and I was way too parched to care.
Inside, a treasure trove of water, juice, and power beverages. Protein shakes.
Snagging two bottles of ice cold water (one for now and one for later) I’d stuffed them into my tote, grateful I had a purse along and wondering why they don’t have water at the makeshift bar in their living room.
Is it stealing if the fridge was open?
I meander from room to room, searching for two familiar blonde heads, their kitty cat and bunny ears lost in the sea of sameness, both Tessa and Cameron have gone astray in the short amount of time it took for me to find two water bottles. I fidget, unwinding my scarf, airing myself out by tugging at my sweater, and taking a few refreshing sips of my pilfered beverage.
Delicious.
I fan myself idly, standing off to one side of the living room, doing my best not to die from heat stroke. A melodramatic statement, even for me; but if I manage not to pass out from heat stroke, it will be a damn miracle.
I’ll never admit it, but Tessa and Cameron were right—I shouldn’t have worn this. I should have changed when I had the chance.
Three more sweeps of the room and I locate them near the front windows, my upper torso suddenly unbelievably itchy.
Stupid and scorching.
I’m sweaty and irritable and oh my freaking god why am I freaking wearing this!
I slide a finger inside the furry collar to alleviate my skin; lower my body temperature, giving it yet another tug. But it’s no use—I’m sweltering in this godforsaken potato sack.
I need the porch, porch, porch.
No one hears my loud sigh over the music; how could they? It’s turned up so loud the windows shake with the base, floor quaking with tiny vibrating.
Hating myself just a lil bit, I join the girls; they’re both having more fun and better luck tonight than I, cloistered in a huddle and chatting it up with two handsome young men.
Tessa is batting her lash extensions at a tall, dark-haired but lanky guy I can only assume is the star of her fantasies; he looks exactly like the pictures of him she’d shown me back at her apartment.
He’s cute.
Kind of cheesy, though, laughing a lot too loud; smile just a tad too forced.
“Hey guys—thought I lost you.” I raise my water and take a long, refreshing drag. “What did I miss?”
“Scar, this is Derek and Ben,” Tessa says, introducing me. “They’re both on the team. Guys, this is Scarlett.”
“I’m sorry—which team are we talking ‘bout?”
“The baseball team,” the dark-haired guy mutters, running his brown gaze up and down my outfit.
“We were just about to take a selfie,” Cameron adds. “Scar, will you take it for us?” She unceremoniously thrusts her phone at me.
I fiddle with the flash, then flip the camera toward me. “You do realize it’s not a selfie if someone else takes it, right?”
Holding the phone up, I turn my back and snap a rapid succession of photographs, four irritated expressions reflected on the cell phone screen in my hand.
“Would you quit screwing around?” Tessa is still posing, mouth puckered.
“Oh relax, I’m kidding. You can delete those.” I thumb through the pictures before turning the camera back on my friends. “Well not this one—I look adorable. Can you text it to me?”
“Everyone say, Cleat Chaser!”
Just kidding, I don’t actually say that out loud—they’d seriously be so pissed—although it was on the tip of my tongue.
“Cheese!” I take another six photos before slapping the cell into Cameron’s waiting palm; she immediately starts shuffling through them, dissecting herself in every one, huge smile plastered on her pretty face.
“So, it turns out you were right about the sweater.” I give Tessa a bump with my hip. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready to get going.”
Everyone stares.
“I’m hot and itchy—but thank god it’s not a rash, ha ha.” I’m the only one that laughs.
Ben, the guy wearing plaid shirt and a cowboy hat I want to knock off his head, points a finger in my direction. “Are you for real?”
“You have no idea how hot this shirt is, buddy.” I pull a long face, emphasizing my plight. “We’ve been here a few hours already, I wouldn’t hate it if we left. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Scarlett—did I not tell you you’d regret it?” Tessa bats her sooty lashes in my direction, then up at Ben. “I told her not to wear that.”
“Guys, we came together and we should leave together.”
“Tessa here can’t leave until she helps me with my little problem,” Ben says, eyes dropping down into her cleavage.
“Little Problem?” My eyes drop down to his dick.
“My phone.” He holds his jet black cell in front of him like an offering. Tessa’s blue eyes land on the illuminated screen, her teeth raking across her bottom lip playfully. “There’s a problem with it.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Oh! I get it.” I step forward to finish the tease he’s trying his damnedest to deliver, dragging out the pick-up line in a painfully slow fashion. “There’s a problem because your number isn’t in it.”
“Huh?” Tessa wrinkles her brow, confused, while the guy stares me down, mouth set into a hard line.
It’s a test of willpower not rolling my eyes, but I manage.
“Tessa, it’s a cheeseball pick-up line. It goes: there’s something wrong with my phone—because your name isn’t in it.” My head wobbles back and forth as I deliver the moronic sentence. “Get it? I read it online, probably Buzzfeed; there was this whole long list of the world’s shittiest pick-up lines and that one topped it.” I look up at two matching sets of scowling eyes. “Don’t get mad; get better lines. Those are awful.”
My flirtatious giggle goes unappreciated. “Oh come on, I’m trying to help you!”
The guy opens his mouth. “Do you realize…you’re a fucking buzzkill? What the hell are you even dressed as?”
He gives me a strained smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Tessa’s loud, flirty laugh breaks through the tension. Gives Ben a few pats on the cheek, and diverts his attention.
“Aww, aren’t you the sweetest! Why didn’t you say you wanted my number?” She takes the phone out of his hands, tapping her number into the contacts as he shoots a distrustful glance in my direction.
I clutch my cup; it’s not my intention to offend or piss anyone off. All I want to do is, well—leave. Not create enemies.
“You know what you could do, Charlotte?” Derek intentionally butchers my name; I can it in his steely gaze. “Run along and get yourself another beer.” He’s on his tip toes, pretending to look into my red cup. “Looks like yours is half empty.”
“You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?”
“Me?” He manages to look affronted, idiotic in his costume of…who knows what the hell he’s supposed to be. A shirtless doctor? Aka: any excuse to not wear a shirt. “No! I live here. It’s my job to make sure everyone is having a good time, and you
definitely don’t seem like a good time.”
I catch his dig.
“I’m good, but thanks.” I swirl the content of my cup, peering into it with one eye closed. “Besides, this isn’t beer. It’s water with a little lemon and it’s still pretty cold.”
“Water?”
I scrunch up my nose. “Yeah—I’m not really much of a drinker, and I was just really sick. So—is it really a smart idea to get drunk?” My chin goes up a notch. “I don’t think so.”
Derek’s face contorts. “Where’d you find water around here?”
“Uh. The kitchen?”
“Where in the kitchen?”
Is this a trick question? “Uh…the fridge?”
His eyes narrow. “We keep the fridge locked during parties.”
My brows rise into my hairline. “You do?”
“Yeah. So no one takes shit.” Like you just did. “Did you miss the big sign that says OFF LIMITS?”
My cheeks are on fire. No way is he accusing me of stealing from the house; it’s just a bottle of water, from a fridge that was open. Sure, it had a lock on it—and sure, there was a sign, but it was open nonetheless.
Crap.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I didn’t realize it was supposed to be locked. It opened right up.” All I had to do was fiddle with the handle a few seconds, and presto—all the drinks for me!
He glances down his nose at me for the second time tonight, silently judging me. “Maybe instead of sucking down that stolen water, you should have a beer. Or five—”
“—You seem uptight,” Ben finishes.
“Thanks, but I’m good.” I pull at my sweater, peeling it away from my scorching skin, needing room to breathe. The room seems to be getting hotter by the second. “So—Ben. Tell us more about yourself, you seem like a super swell guy. Not at all a dickhead.”
Cameron pipes up then, resting her hand on his meaty bicep, displayed beneath a black, short sleeve shirt. Changes the topic. “Derek was telling us before how the baseball team won the College World Series last year. That’s the World Series of Baseball, but for college.”