And the worst part? She didn’t even fucking come.
I clench my teeth at the reminder. There’d been a lot of moaning, sure, but I’m ninety-nine percent certain that she didn’t have an orgasm despite her telling me that she had. Or rather, lying to me that she had. Because when a woman drops a noncommittal “Uh-huh” after you ask if she had an orgasm, then that’s called lying.
And that half-assed “yeah, sure, me too” she gave me about whether she had fun? Talk about bruising a guy’s ego. Not only did she not come, but my company didn’t do it for her, either?
I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I don’t live in a magical bubble where orgasms fall from the sky and land in a woman’s bed every time she has sex. I know they fake it sometimes.
But I’m fairly confident I speak for most guys when I say that I like to think they don’t fake it with me.
Damn it. I should’ve gotten her number. Why the hell didn’t I get her number?
I know the answer to that, though. This past month, I haven’t cared enough to ask for a girl’s number after a hook-up. Or rather, I’ve been too wasted before, during and after the hook-up to remember to ask.
The thud of footsteps from the corridor snaps me out of my thoughts, and I glance up in time to see Garrett stride into the kitchen.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.” I shove a spoonful of cereal into my mouth and do my best to ignore the instant jolt of discomfort, while at the same time hating myself for even feeling it.
Garrett Graham is my best friend. For chrissake, I’m not supposed to feel uncomfortable around him.
“So what’d you end up doing last night?” He grabs a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer, and joins me at the counter.
I chew before answering. “I hung out with this girl. Watched a movie.”
“Cool. Anyone I know?”
“Naah, I just met her yesterday.” And will probably never see her again because I’m a selfish lover and bad company, apparently.
Garrett dumps some cereal into his bowl and reaches for the milk carton I left out. “Hey, so did you call that agent yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Why not?”
Because there’s no point.
“Because I haven’t gotten around to it.” My tone is harsher than I mean for it to be, and Garrett’s gray eyes flicker with hurt.
“You don’t have to bite my head off. It was just a question.”
“Sorry. I…sorry.” Real articulate. Stifling a sigh, I take another bite of cereal.
A short silence settles between us, until Garrett finally clears his throat. “Look, I get it, okay? You didn’t get drafted and it sucks. But it’s not like you’re out of options. You’re a free agent now, and you’re not locked in with a team, which means you can sign with anyone if they want you. And they’re totally going to want you.”
He’s right. I’m sure there are lots of teams that would want me to play for them. I’m sure one of them would’ve even drafted me—if I’d entered the draft.
But Garrett doesn’t know that. He thinks I’ve been passed over these past two years, and—have I mentioned what an asshole friend I am?—I’ve been letting him think it. Because fucked up as it sounds, having my best friend believe I didn’t get picked bums me out a helluva lot less than admitting that I’m never going to play for the pros.
See, Garrett had a choice about not opting in. He wanted to earn his degree without the temptation that comes with being drafted. A lot of college players choose to ditch school the moment a team holds the rights to them—it’s hard not to when you’ve got a pro team pulling out all the stops to coax you into leaving college early. But Garrett’s a smart guy. He knows he’d lose his NCAA eligibility if he did that, and he also knows that signing a contract with a team doesn’t guarantee instant success, or even playing time.
Hell, we both saw what happened to Chris Little, our teammate in freshman year. Dude gets drafted, goes pro, plays for half a season, and then? A career-ending injury takes him out. Permanently. Not only will Little never step foot on the ice again, but he spent every dime of his signing contract on his medical expenses, and last I heard, he went back to school to learn a trade. Welding, or some shit.
So yup, Garrett’s playing it smart. Me? I knew from the start I wouldn’t be going pro.
“I mean, Gretzky went undrafted, and look at everything he accomplished. The guy’s a legend. Arguably the best player in hockey history.”
Garrett is still talking, still trying to “reassure” me, and I’m torn between snapping at him to shut up, and hugging the living shit out of the guy for being such an amazing friend.
I do neither, choosing to placate him instead. “I’ll call the agent on Monday,” I lie.
He offers a pleased nod. “Good.”
The silence returns. We cart our empty bowls over to the dishwasher.
“Hey, we’re going to Malone’s tonight,” Garrett says. “Me, Wellsy, Tuck and maybe Danny. You in?”
“Can’t. I’ve gotta start studying for exams.”
It’s sad, but I’m starting to lose count of all the things I’m lying to my best friend about.
*
Grace
“I’m sorry—can you repeat that?” Ramona stares at me in utter disbelief, her eyes so wide they look like two dark saucers.
I shrug as if what I’ve just told her is no biggie. “John Logan came over last night.”
“John Logan came over last night,” she echoes.
“Yes.”
“He came to our dorm.”
“Yes.”
“You were in this room, and he walked in, and then both of you were here. In this room.”
“Yes.”
“So John Logan showed up at our door, and walked inside, and was here. With you. Here.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Yes, Ramona. We’ve established that he was here. In this room.”
Her mouth falls open. Then slams shut. Then opens again to release a shriek that’s so earsplitting I’m surprised the water in my glass doesn’t jiggle Jurassic Park-style.
“Oh my God!” She runs over to my bed and flops down. “Tell me everything!”
She’s still wearing her party clothes from last night, a teeny minidress that rides up her thighs when she sits, and silver stilettos that she kicks away in an excited blur of legs.
When Ramona had walked into our room, I’d lasted all of three seconds before spilling the news, but now, with her staring excitedly at me, reluctance jams in my throat. I’m suddenly embarrassed to tell her what happened last night, because…well…I’m just going to say it: because it was underwhelming.
I had fun watching the movie with him. And I loved fooling around with him—at least until those final moments—but the guy got off and then left. Who does that?