What an odd pair.
I didn’t have time to get involved in whatever situation they had going. I had a basketball season to get ready for, and apparently, a libido to keep in check.
Loud laughter echoed down the hall as I exited the elevator and walked toward my apartment. Coach allowed me to live off campus with two of the other starters as long as we avoided any bad press. We were typically discreet, although I suspected I’d hear about today sooner rather than later.
“Wassup, Priest Steele?” Ashton yelled the moment I opened the door. “Looks like Demetri and me are going to be the only two getting any * this season!” He doubled over in fits of laughter before bolting upright and shouting, “Shit! You made me mess up my season.”
“I can win your NBA 2K season while you’re busy with all the *, Denube,” I tossed back, and slumped down into the leather chair opposite the couch where he and our teammate from down the hall, Alex, sat.
“Where’s D?” I asked.
“He had to go to the tutoring center. Coach laid into him this morning because he hasn’t shown up to his stats class all trimester.”
“Fuck, what the hell is wrong with him?”
“Same thing that’s wrong with you. He’s a cocky son-of-a-bitch,” Alex shot back, dreads flying as his long fingers worked the game controller.
“Slam dunk!” Ashton called out, his fist punching the air in celebration of his video game win. “Oh, I’m sorry to mention that . . . since you won’t be getting any slam dunks, my man.”
I flipped him the bird. I was doing a lot of that today.
“Shit, I don’t know why I even agreed to do the stupid show. I’m an idiot. Big-time,” I muttered as I made my way back to my room. I slammed the door and fell onto my bed, snatching my phone out of my pocket.
Ninety-five notifications waited for me. Texts and tweets about my dare, and an e-mail from Coach Conley.
Superb.
I scrolled through Twitter.
@HaftonFan101:
Move along girls, @BallerSteele has sworn off s$x while on the air with @SonnyB_KnocknBoots #findanewman #Steeleisoffmarket
@CollegeBBallFan:
Just in: Across my feed, @BallerSteele confirms Hafton gunning for the ’ship & says no nooky allowed #Steeleisoffmarket
@HaftonSweetiePie:
Hey, @HaftonFan101 Hearts breaking around campus, especially mine - I thought you were mine @BallerSteele? I don’t want to #findanewman
I switched to my text messages, and they were about the same. Then I e-mailed Coach.
I was to report to his office first thing in the morning. Duh.
Catie
It was late, after midnight, but I felt grimy so I went to shower.
The bathroom was deserted, which came as no surprise considering it was a Thursday night. Most of the women on my floor had showered and gone on the prowl. I guess I could call them girls and not women, but being a women’s studies major, it had been drilled into me to refer to the female of our species as women.
At the end of the day, we were still girls with a lot to learn. Look at how I’d been sucked into calling my boss, who was nothing more than another student, Mr. Boots.
I undressed, peed, flushed, and flip-flopped toward the shower with my extra-large towel tucked tight around my body. Since I was apparently the only one home on the quiet dorm floor, I placed my phone on the shelf outside the shower and set it to play Tori Amos.
No big surprise there, right?
Tori’s rich voice singing melancholy tunes filled the silence while warm water sluiced over my hair and back. I didn’t bother to rush since there was no one to save warm water for, and I needed time to deal with my embarrassment and outrage.
Of course, it was all my own doing. The absurd fiasco was entirely my fault. I was the one who insisted the fifth-year senior shock jock vouch for me.
All I wanted was to have my own radio call-in show, one where women could pick up the phone and anonymously put out in the open what happened behind closed doors. A place where they could rage against the glass ceiling, or the ridiculousness of the government trying to decide what they could or couldn’t do with their bodies. Basically, an on-air support group.
Maybe they were being demoralized at work?
Like me.
Or they didn’t feel loved by anyone.
Sort of like me, but that isn’t essential for happiness. Or is it?
I fantasized about SiriusXM picking up my show and broadcasting it nationwide. I did have a warm and inviting voice, or so I’d been told. That’s about the only compliment I ever received.
I poured some cheap mango-infused shampoo—seduction in a bottle—into my palm and scrunched it through my thick curls, my only decent feature.