“Bless you.”
The rest of the night is terrible. I don't spend even one solid minute sleeping. Every time close my eyes I see him, dick in hand. I hear the thud as his knees hit the floor and then the cool air followed by his hot breath when he pulls down my panties. My entire body is one big throbbing ache.
The three guys I've had sex with have been okay, but I have never, ever been so turned on. And what does Masters do? He walks away.
I don’t even care that I’m witnessing some extraordinary discipline and what it could mean in the sack. I’m wired and pissed off.
I rub myself, but the relief I get is fleeting. My only solace—and it’s a small one—is that he has to be in as much pain as I am.
“Didn’t sleep well,” Riley notes in the morning. I’m eating her chocolate-covered cereal. It seemed like the right thing to do when I got up frustrated, horny, and upset.
“No. I wish you actually had a high-powered vibrator in your room instead of the sewing machine. I can’t hump that, can I?”
She stares at me wide-eyed and a little fearful. “Um, no. Please don’t do that to my sewing machine.”
I close my eyes and try to gather a little patience. “I’m not, but God, I’d like to punch him in the nuts.”
“I thought you wanted those nuts to do something to you.”
I wave my hand. “I can't even with him.”
“Or odd?” she jokes.
“This is how terrible he is,” I huff. “He’s driven me to using Tumblr words in real life.”
“You should seduce him. He's clearly interested. Put on a sexy dress and make sure he can’t say no.”
I set down my fork. “Riley, you are a fucking genius. I’ll do it after the game on Sunday.”
“Why wait?”
“He’ll be more susceptible after the game. They have so much adrenaline from a win and they need to expend it somewhere.” I grin wickedly at her.
She laughs. “And that somewhere is all over you?”
“Exactly.”
Masters wants me. That much I do know. I need to convince him to let go. And remember to call him Knox.
Masters—I mean Knox—texts me during the sociology class.
Knox: You mad at me?
Me: Why would I be mad?
Knox: So, really mad.
Me: No idea what you’re talking about. Good luck on the game this weekend.
Knox: Is this your way of saying I’m not seeing you this week?
Me: You’re so bright.
Knox: I do have your schedule now…
Me: I can report you to campus police.
Knox: I’ll see you next week.
Me: Or after the game.
Knox: Keep talking.
Me: After you win this week. Maybe I’ll see you around.
Knox: All right.
22
Knox
Post Game: Warriors 2-0
It's standing room only at The Gas Station by the time Matty, Hammer, and I roll in. Two games down and ten to go. We cheerfully accept the back slaps and high fives as we navigate our way to the bar. This time we deserve the congratulations. The team fired on all cylinders. We played fantastic defense, getting four sacks, generating two fumbles. Campbell caught two touchdown passes. Ace threw the ball like Peyton Manning.
More importantly, we played with intensity. Today everyone was hungry—and not just Ace and I showed it on the field. After the game, when game balls got handed out to the players, Coach talked about building off this win and making sure that our best games were ahead of us. This second game was just the start. Then he told us that we had no curfew, but he didn’t want to read about our names in the papers tomorrow unless it had something to do with scoring on the field or saving a busload of old ladies on their way to bingo. Then we were excused.
Now we’re here, basking in the praise and adulation of our classmates.
Or some of us are. Hammer heads straight for the bar to do shots. He doesn’t have his name just because of the hits on the field. Matty already has some Alpha Phi hooked to his hip. She has half her body pressed against his arm while he gestures for the bartender for another drink. I think she’s either trying to assimilate into Matty’s body or absorb him. Later tonight I’ll find some half man, half sorority sister passed out on my living room floor.
Someone presses a bottle into my hands. What the hell? But I might need to get lit tonight if Ellie doesn’t show up. I find a place off the edge of the bar where I can see the door.
I’m not certain she’ll be here. According to Jack, she doesn’t go to the games. The starting whistle blew before I had time to question him further. Postgame, I asked again. He gave me a look that said I was being obvious, but what did I care? The punk. If I wasn’t so fucking happy at his play, I might have punched him in the mouth.