The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(33)
Apparently philosophy class is over, which I’m happy about because I’m not prepared to respond to anything he just said.
Instead, I let him take the bag. We walk in silence for a few steps before I’m compelled to ask, “Does nothing shake you?”
He nods solemnly as he hitches the bag higher onto his shoulder. Anyone else would look slightly ridiculous with a backpack strapped to his back and a messenger bag hanging off his shoulder, but somehow, probably because of his massive chest and height, he pulls it off.
“Yeah, all kinds of things, but I try not to let them get me down. It’s a waste of energy.”
“Just name one,” I beg. “One embarrassing thing. One flaw. One thing that bothers you.”
“You not calling me back bothers me.”
“That’s self-effacing, not embarrassing.”
“You’ve turned me down. Twice,” he reminds me. “How is admitting that it bothers me self-effacing?”
“Because we had good sex, so you know I’d sleep with you again under different circumstances,” I argue.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I acknowledge that this conversation is reaching ludicrous levels. I’m arguing with a guy I slept with about how I can’t sleep with him again because he’s too good in bed. My life is officially a farce.
“What’s a normal circumstance for you?” he asks curiously, matching his long stride with my shorter one.
“I don’t know. I can’t see that far ahead.”
He pulls to a stop right before the entrance of Carver Hall. “Bullshit.”
“What?”
“Bullshit. You know exactly where you want to be in probably fifty years, not just the next five.”
My cheeks heat up, because he’s right.
“Listen. Here’s how it is.” Tucker reaches out and grabs a stray lock of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers before tucking it behind my ear. “I enjoyed sleeping with you. I enjoyed hearing those sexy little moans you made when I sucked on your clit, and I enjoyed feeling you shake like a leaf when you came apart underneath me.” His dirty words are in stark contrast to his matter-of-fact tone and the steady way he stares into my eyes. “But I didn’t like the way your dad—”
“Stepdad,” I correct.
“—Stepdad treated you. I hated it, actually. I hate that you live with that and I’m glad you’re making your way out of it, because that’s what you’re doing, right? You’re killing yourself to get perfect grades, top scores, admission to the best schools, all so you can escape.”
His thumb drags along the apple of my cheek. “I don’t want to be a distraction, but I do want you. I think there’s something here, but I’m a patient guy and I’ll take what you have right now. I’m not here to add pressure on you or make things harder. I want to ease your load.”
My heart thumps loudly in the space between us, the space that he closes with one step.
“My dad died when I was three,” he says gruffly. “It was a car accident. I have almost no memory of him. I do remember waking up hearing my mom cry at night, though. I remember seeing her face when she couldn’t get me a new pair of skates or a new video game. I remember how she got angry with me when I was roughhousing in the living room once and I put a lamp through the television. She reamed me out good for that.” His expression is rueful rather than angry. “She worked two jobs to make sure I could play hockey, and when I graduate this spring I’m going to take her away from all that hard work. But I also know I want someone to share my life with. My mom’s lonely. I don’t want that for me. And I don’t want that for you either.”
When he kisses me, it’s not anything like our previous encounters. Those were rough, hot, and sexually charged. This kiss is petal-soft and sweet as the syrup he ladles onto his words. It feels like he’s pouring tenderness over my head by the gallon. With each press of his lips against mine, he’s repeating his promise to give me nothing more than what I ask for.
And it’s this kiss. This sweet, tender, thoughtful kiss that scares me more than anything I’ve ever felt.
11
Tucker
A couple days after my talk with Sabrina in the quad, I heave myself off Fitzy’s couch and get ready for a brutally early morning practice. I didn’t plan on crashing at his place last night, but our video game session lasted until two a.m. and there was no point in driving home when we had to wake up at five-thirty for a six o’clock practice.
Fitzy lives alone in a shoebox-sized apartment in Hastings. His “bedroom” is separated from the living room by a curtain he hung from the ceiling. Getting to the tiny bathroom pretty much requires me to climb over his bed.
The big tattooed hockey player is sprawled on his stomach, sleeping like the dead, so I not so nicely smack his ass as I head for the bathroom.
“Wake up, dude. Practice,” I grunt.
He mumbles something unintelligible and rolls over.
I find a spare toothbrush in a drawer next to the sink and tear it open. As I brush my teeth, I scroll through my phone to see if Sabrina texted when my phone was on silent last night.
She didn’t. Damn. I was hoping my speech—and that amazing fucking kiss—might’ve changed her mind about going out with me, but I guess it didn’t.