The End Zoneby(7)

“You’re kind of a prick, you know that, Poirier?”

Oh, I know. Grew up with one. Became one. Vicious cycle, etc.

I clutch my navy football jersey and gasp loudly and comically, flattening my back against the row of lockers. “Now I’m butthurt. Which means that the only way I’ll get over this is if you kiss my ass.”

“Well,” Mark says, his face red now, and I’m so going to find a way to kick him off of the team if he oversteps. I have that kind of power, and I’m not afraid to use it. “That’s not going to happen.”

“In that case, you better stay the fuck away from my girlfriend and me, yeah?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just walks away.

I watch his back, and for the first time in my life, the taste of victory bursts on my tongue outside the football field. I savor it, my throat bobbing with a swallow. I know I was being an irrational prick to Mark. I know that. But I couldn’t stop it.

This whole thing made me crazy, and as much as it put me low on the moral scale—because let’s admit it, I had zero reason to feel bitter about any of this—my temper won. It won, and I lost.

I lost my cool.

I lost my patience.

Then I lost my control.

Where the fuck did all this come from?

What the hell is happening?





What. The. Hell. Is. Happening?

I’m having the worst day of my life. It starts with Chelsea accidentally spilling her hot coffee on my white blouse—I don’t have time to go back home and change between classes, so the stained shirt remains. It continues with my favorite professor gathering us in class and announcing her sudden departure due to a tragedy in the family, then sometime before noon, Mark Tensely, a guy I’ve been crushing on for six months now (silently, of course. I’m so shy I almost combusted when he came in the other day to return some of Sage’s gear) came to ask Chelsea on a date, all while ignoring my existence.

By the time I get back home after a stop at the library, it’s dark and Sage is waiting for me in the living room with two slices of pizza, a Caesar salad, and beers. I’m so relieved to see the food—and him—I nearly whimper at the beauty of having both of them.

This is what heaven looks like, right?

“Sit. I’ll put some X Factor on.” He pats the tangerine sofa he’s slouched on. Clad only in gray running shorts, he is naked from the waist up, which is not surprising—Sage has a strict no-shirt policy around the house. I make my way over and plop down next to him with a sigh. He hits Play just as I take the first bite of my pizza.

“Nice blouse.” His eyes are already dead on the screen.

“Thank…” I start, but then remember it has a coffee stain the size of Mississippi and frown. “I should probably take a shower and change before dinner.” I’ve never felt too self-conscious in front of him before, but I do now.

“Bullshit. I’m your boyfriend. You don’t have to doll-up for me. I like the real you. The girl who snores when she is tired and smells of garlic every Sunday after her grandmama’s special casserole.”

“You’re my fake boyfriend,” I correct, trying to set some boundaries.

“Irrelevant. Everything that came out of my mouth was real.”

I roll my eyes and dig into my pizza and salad, internally admitting that my best friend will one day make a kick-ass real boyfriend, just probably not to me. Simon Cowell is slaying people in the auditions segment. Two girls cry and one guy threatens to sue him. Then the commercials come on and we both stretch out on the couch.

“Do your Simon Cowell impression for me.” Sage elbows my ribs, winking at me playfully.

“Maybe later. I’m exhausted.” I rub my eyes. Inhaling the pizza, salad, and beer like food is a foreign concept that’s left me in a carbma (carb coma). Sage stares me down, his face intense yet unreadable.

“You know what’ll happen if you refuse, right?”

I do. And I want it to happen. Shamefully, our tickle sessions are the most erotic thing in my life right now. I haven’t had sex in months, and I swear there’d be cobwebs all over my vajayjay had I not purchased enough sex toys to open a store.

“I do not negotiate with terrorists,” I say adamantly.

“So happy to hear, because I think I’m about done talking, anyway.”

His eyes hone in on mine and his ripped body tenses before he pounces on me, tackling me to the carpeted floor. I fall with a bang, but his huge palm is covering the back of my head as it always does. He’s on top of me. With me writhing beneath him. I’m pretending to fight him, throwing balled fists into his chest, waiting for the tickles to arrive, when…

“Stop,” he breathes, and I notice that he is not moving. His pelvic bones are rubbing against mine, his erection is digging into my groin, and it is thick, and long, and tilted to the right. My mouth waters and my eyes gloss over. Jesus H, since when did my best friend become such a man?

“What?” I croak.

He leans forward, his mouth only inches from mine. His body heavy, his hard-on tantalizing, his scent breathtaking, he mouths into my lips, “Game change: if you want me to stop whatever it is I’m going to do as your fake boyfriend, say the name Simon Cowell.”

I groan. He’s giving me safe words now. I don’t have to ink them onto my brain, because I know I’ll never use them. His hips start to move, and he is sliding up and down, grinding himself against my needy pussy. I’m on fire, seeing stars, salivating at the intense friction. Every nerve in my body is buzzing with an impending orgasm, because it’s been so long, too long, and I open my thighs for him, my denim digging into my clit and rubbing against it.