Misadventures of a College Girl (Misadventures #9)(40)

I crumple, but Tyler’s got me. He holds me up even as his dick ripples inside me with what feels to me like a huge orgasm for him.

Finally, we collapse onto the bed together, both of us gasping for air.

I pull the vibrating dildo out of me. Turn it off and toss it onto the bed. “Holy fuck,” I say.

“Thank you, God,” he whispers. He gulps at the air for a moment. “Thank you, Zooey Cartwright.”

We rearrange ourselves until we’re both lying on our sides, facing each other, our chests heaving. “You seemed to enjoy doing that just a little bit,” I say, smiling.

“Holy shit. That was my first time. Amazing.”

My eyes widen. “Seriously?”

He nods. “You de-virginized me, Zooey Cartwright.”

I smile broadly. “Does that mean I’m a lifelong memory now?”

Tyler strokes my hair for a moment, looking deep in thought. He gently stretches a coiled strand of my hair taut, releases it, and watches it go boing. “You already were.”





Chapter Twenty-Four





It’s Sunday afternoon. And for the third week in a row, I’m hanging out with Tyler at his place following a postgame sleepover. I glance up from the paper I’m editing on my laptop and peek at Tyler across the room. His T-shirt on this particular day reads Greatness. He’s staring at his economics textbook and mouthing the words to the current song from his “all-time favorites” playlist, “Flagpole Sitta” by Harvey Danger. I watch him for a moment, chuckling to myself about the quirky lyrics of the song and how adorable Tyler is singing along to it. He’s so sweet and funny. And gentle. It blows my mind he’s the same guy who hurls himself at opponents like a missile on Saturdays.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask.

Tyler looks up from his book.

“How do you get yourself psyched up to be such a savage beast on the field? You’re always such a sweetheart off it.”

Tyler makes a face like I’ve said something patently stupid. “I’m not always a sweetheart off the field. I’m a sweetheart around you because you’ve cast some sort of Zooey Cartwright spell on me.” He smiles. “But to answer your underlying question, I don’t know how I turn into that madman you see on the playing field. I guess football unleashes something primal inside me. Or, actually, maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe I’m innately a madman and football helps me keep myself in check the rest of the week? It definitely helps me release all my pent-up rage, that’s for sure.”

Fascinating. I would have expected Tyler to say football helps him release his stress. But his pent-up rage? That’s a mighty strong choice of words, especially for a person I’ve come to regard as incredibly easygoing. “What’s the source of your pent-up rage?” I ask, closing my laptop.

Tyler’s features noticeably tighten. “Oh, just life’s assorted fiascos and catastrophes. Nothing specific.” He smiles and looks down at his book again, his body language stiff.

He’s not telling me something. Obviously. Out of nowhere, something Tyler once said to me pops into my head. My dad and sister always text me before games. At the time, I assumed his mom wasn’t included in that statement for an innocuous reason. Like, maybe she simply prefers calling her son on game days. But suddenly I’m wondering if maybe there’s a different explanation for his mother’s absence from that pregame ritual—like maybe his mother is absent from his life for some reason? Is he estranged from her? Did she abandon him?

I’m still turning the idea over in my head when the playlist blaring through the room switches to “Careless Whisper” by George Michael…and the song instantly transforms Tyler. Immediately, he’s no longer stiff and brooding. He’s light and bright. “Best song ever,” Tyler declares. He begins serenading me with gusto, apparently not the least bit concerned he can’t carry a tune. Oh, my God. He’s absolutely adorable. “Sing with me, Zooey!” Tyler commands when the chorus arrives.

I sing as best I can, although I don’t know the words nearly as well as Tyler does.

In the middle of the song, when a sax solo begins, Tyler pulls me off the bed and twirls me around the small room. He dips me. Kisses me. Literally sweeps me off my feet. And then he serenades me again in the final chorus like his heart is breaking every bit as much as George’s. Finally, when the song ends, we return to Tyler’s bed, laughing.

“It’s official,” I say. “You’re the weirdo, not me.”

“I told you I sing that song better than George.”

“That’s honestly what you think?”

“Not just me. It’s what everyone says when I sing it. They say I put George to shame.”

“And you wonder if the halo effect is real?”

He laughs. “You’re implying I’m not genuinely brilliant at something?”

“I would never imply such blasphemy about the great Tyler Caldwell. I’m saying it outright. You suck.” I beam a huge smile at him. “But you’re wonderful, too. I absolutely love hearing you sing, Tyler.”

He chuckles. “You’ve got a fantastic voice, by the way. Wow.”

“That? Oh, gosh.” I swat at the air. “I was just playing around. That’s not how I actually sing.”