“I don’t think you should have given up your closing position to her,” he tells me as he pockets his ID.
No money for Ace. He doesn’t need to buy a drink on this campus. Everyone else is happy to buy it for him.
“She’s better at it than I am.” Or at least that’s what I believed after hearing her audition. I’m having second thoughts.
“"Meh, you’re smarter than her.”
“You haven’t even seen her in action.” And smarter doesn’t mean better. The debacle of my freshman year pretty much proves I suck at closing argument. “Besides, it was a condition of her joining the team. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the better of the team.”
He snorts. “Making selfless sacrifices means you get left behind.”
Classic Ace. Always looking out for himself, but maybe I should take a page from his playbook. After all, my mock trial team can’t make it out of Regionals and Ace took his team to the National Championship game. “Well, on that depressing note, you should go or my inspirational closing argument that I’m writing for Heather will be full of negativity, and I doubt we’ll win any points for that.”
Gratefully Ace accepts that. “Are we still up for the movie this Thursday?” he asks.
“What movie is that?”
“The Expendables 3.”
I make a face. A bunch of aging action stars running around making jokes I don’t get because I never watched the original movies to understand the references? No. “I close the Brew House on Thursday.”
“Not to worry. Movie’s over at four forty-five. Besides, you promised,” he reminds me.
“I’m sure I was drunk.”
“Drunk or sober, you said you’d go. I’ll see you on Thursday at two p.m. sharp.” Hand on the door, Ace calls back. “Stay away from Iverson. He’s bad news.”
“I don’t have any reason to see him,” I reassure Ace.
11
Matty
“Son of a bitch!” The curse words greet me as I open the door to Jack Cameron’s pad. Flash, as we like to call him, offered up a half-full bottle of whiskey when we ran out of booze at our place.
We rock, paper, scissored it and I lost, which is why I ran three houses down to fetch the liquor. The pleasant buzz I’d fostered at the Gas Station is wearing off, and that needs to be remedied as quickly as possible.
Jack said the booze is in a cabinet next to the refrigerator and I make a beeline there.
“Honey, I’m home,” I yell out just in case someone’s having fun in the kitchen. In these houses, you never know. Being an athlete on a team that’s expected to compete for the National title every year carries a lot of stress. Most of us forego heavy drinking during the season, which leaves us few options as an outlet for that pent-up stress. Sex is the easiest, and most fun, way to burn off that mental pressure.
I don’t find anyone making out in the kitchen. Instead I find something better: Lucy Watson, complete with an apron tied around her waist. Her hair is tied up and with the apron on? She looks like a page from the fables my mom read to me when I was a kid. Goldilocks. Unfortunately, Goldilocks has had an accident and if she actually gets the butter out of the wrapper onto her fingers, it’ll only make the burn worse.
My pants get tight as my dick tries to rise up and greet her. Why does she have to have long legs in addition to a nice rack? Why? I tell my traitorous equipment to settle down as I stalk over to the kitchen sink.
She spins around, her lips forming a perfect “O” of surprise. “Matty!—uh, Matt—Matthew,” she sputters, and I try not to laugh. The fact that she went with the nickname first says a lot. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to grab booze.” I twist the faucet. With the cold water on blast, I beckon for Goldie to come closer.
“I thought you were supposed to put butter on burns,” she says warily.
“Old wives’ tale.” I tug her over to the sink and plunge her fingers under the water.
She flinches at the shock of the cold, and I briskly run my fingers over hers in an effort to warm her up a little. Or at least my intention is to be brisk, but the minute I make contact with her, my touch slows down.
Her fingers are slender, elegant. The middle finger has a slight callus as if her pen or pencil has been pressed there one too many times. I rub the tip of my finger over it once and then again. I have my own calluses from lifting, from slapping the tackling dummy a hundred times on the right, and then a hundred times on the left and repeat. My calluses say my hands are my weapons. Her callus shows her skill is with the pen.
She doesn’t make a sound. Not a complaint that the water is too cold or that I’m standing too close to her. Our faces are only inches apart. If I leaned just to my right, I could rub my cheek against hers, like a big cat seeking a scratch behind his ears—among other places.
I try to focus on the water, but I don’t see it. All I can focus on is her hand in mine. All I can hear is how her breathing has changed. How it catches and releases faster than is normal.
I rub her fingers again, slower still. My finger traces the curves between each digit. I fall down the tiny valley and climb up to the tip only to take the same exhilarating trip all over again. The cushion of her palm makes me imagine other tender, plump places on her body.
I turn my head and her eyes lock onto mine. Her lips are parted slightly and she stares at me with disbelief. I can’t believe it either.