“D’Andre is at Malone’s and I said I’d meet him there,” Hope tells me. “It’s like a two-minute drive, so we should be fine.”
“Really? Malone’s? That’s a hockey bar,” I whine. “What’s D’Andre doing there?”
“Drinking and waiting for me. Besides, you need to get laid and athletes are your favorite type.”
Carin snorts. “Her only type.”
“Hey, I have a very good reason for preferring athletes,” I argue.
“I know. We’ve heard it.” She rolls her eyes. “If you want a stats question answered, go to the math geeks. If you want a physical need met, go to an athlete. Bodies are the tools of an elite athlete. They take care of it, know how to push its limits, yada yada.” Carin makes a yapping gesture with her left hand.
I flick up my middle finger.
“But sex with someone you like is so much better.” This comes from Hope, who’s been with D’Andre, her football player boyfriend, since freshman year.
“I like them,” I protest. “…for the hour or so I use them.”
We share a giggle over that, until Carin brings up a guy who brought down the average.
“Do you remember Ten-Second Greg, though?”
I shudder. “First, thank you very little for bringing that bad memory up, and second, I’m not saying there aren’t duds. Just that the odds are better with an athlete.”
“And the hockey players are duds?” Carin asks.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t ax them from my list of potentials because of their performance in the sack, but because they’re hyper-privileged jerks who get special favors from the profs.”
“Sabrina, girl, you got to let that go,” Hope urges.
“Nope. Hockey players don’t make the cut.”
“God, but look at what you’re missing out on.” Carin licks her lips with exaggerated lasciviousness. “That one guy on the team with the beard? I want to know what that feels like. Beards are on my bucket list.”
“Go on then. My boycott against hockey players just means more for you.”
“I’m on board with this, but…” She smirks. “Need I remind you that you hooked up with the manslut Di Laurentis?”
Ugh. That’s a reminder I never need to hear.
“First, I was totally drunk,” I grumble. “Second, that was sophomore year. And third, he’s the reason I’ve sworn off hockey players.”
Even though Briar University has a championship-winning football team, it’s known as a hockey college. The guys who wear skates are treated like gods. Case in point—Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis. He’s a poli sci major like me, so we’ve had several classes together, including Statistics in our sophomore year. That course was hard as fuck. Everyone struggled.
Everyone but Dean, who was screwing the TA.
And—shocker!—she gave him an A, which he absolutely did not deserve. I know this for a fact, because we were paired together for the final assignment, and I saw the garbage he turned in.
When I found out he aced it, I wanted to chop his dick off. It was so unfair. I worked my butt off in that course. Hell, I work my butt off for everything. My every accomplishment is stained with my blood, sweat and tears. Meanwhile, some asshole gets the world handed to him on a platter? Fuck. That.
“She’s getting mad again,” Hope stage-whispers to Carin.
“She’s thinking about how Di Laurentis got an A in that one class,” Carin shout-whispers back. “She really does need to get laid. How long has it been?”
I start to flip her off again when it occurs to me that I can’t remember my last hookup.
“There was, um, Meyer? The lacrosse guy. That was in September. And after that was Beau…” I brighten up. “Ha! See? It’s only been a little over a month. Hardly a national emergency.”
“Girl, someone with your schedule isn’t allowed to go a month without sex,” Hope counters. “You’re a walking ball of stress, which means you need a good dicking at least…daily,” she decides.
“Every other day,” Carin argues. “Give her lady garden some time to rest.”
Hope nods. “Fine. But no rest for the pussy tonight—”
I snort in laughter.
“You hear that, B? You’ve been fed, you had an afternoon nap, and now you need some sexy times,” Carin declares.
“But Malone’s?” I repeat warily. “We just established that the place is crawling with hockey players.”
“Not exclusively. I bet Beau is there. Want me to ask D’Andre?” Hope holds up her phone, but I shake my head.
“Beau’s too much of a time commitment. Like he wanted to talk during sex. I want to do the deed and leave.”
“Oooh, talking! Scary.”
“Shut it.”
“Make me.” Hope tosses her head, her long braids smacking against my coat, and then exits Professor Gibson’s house.