Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
A large, firm hand clamps down on my shoulder, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“Showtime, man, do my eyes deceive me, or did you bring a date tonight?” Liam Tielke, a teammate, asks at the same time he refills my cup with the pitcher of beer.
I avoid answering his question by giving him one of my famous non-committed shrugs.
“Come on, man, fess up. Legitimate date or blowjob artist?”
I give Liam a glare when Abby gasps, eyes growing wide and face getting red, but seize the opportunity to wrap my hand around her waist, keeping it occupied—you know, just in case I’m tempted to put it through Liam’s already fucked-up face. He really can’t afford to lose one more tooth.
Abby clears her throat and gamely replies, “Um. Legitimate d-date.”
Jenna, who is standing nearby, loudly adds, “She’s too pretty to give blow jobs, don’t you think? Everyone knows only ugly girl need to suck –“
“Jenna! Please!” Molly shrieks. “Good Lord, what am I going to do with you?”
Liam holds the pitcher of beer aloft like a prop, gesturing with it. “No, no, she’s right. Ugly girls do need to suck cock more often.” He looks down at Abby from his six-foot-two stature, his gaze lingering on her breasts. “You are a dime piece. I don’t suppose you do anal?”
“Dude, too far.” Cubby gives a low whistle from nearby. “Even I know better than to say shit like that.”
“Know what we should do, Showtime? Change your nickname from Showtime to Preacher, on account of your vow of celibacy.”
This kid has a death wish. I seriously want to punch him.
Lucky for Liam, he has the attention span of a toddler and abruptly turns his back to shout insults at Blaze and the team’s forward, a great guy named Malcolm ‘The Enforcer’ Schwartz.
No matter. I’ll make sure he gets what he has coming to him at practice next week—and it won’t be pretty.
“What is up with that guy?” Jenna asks with a laugh, her long gold earrings dangling down to her shoulders. “What a pig.”
Beside her, Molly snorts. “You little brat! You were encouraging him, so don’t even start.”
“Maybe.” She takes a drink from her beer, shooting me a wink above the brim. “But you have to admit, I do have a point about them BJs.” I feel heat rising up my neck and shift on my heels, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken.
Cubby wraps his arm around Jenna’s waist. “You’re not really celibate, are you, Showtime?”
I give him a rigid stare.
“Enough. Leave him alone before he walks out of here,” Weston interjects.
Cubby has the nerve to look affronted. “It was an innocent question! I really wanted to know!”
“Yeah right, d-bag. Go grab the pitcher from Foreskin over there and get Showtime’s cup filled up.”
Abby
All in all, the night went well—despite the continuous interference from our friends, who just cannot seem to stop themselves from embarrassing us. For example, at one point in the evening, Miles sent out a Tweet that said:
@LoneRangersMadison Stop by and take a #Selfie with #BadgerHockey goalie @CLockhart33 and his #lover @WalkofShame
So, yeah. We basically spent the entire rest of the evening fending off hockey fans and puck bunnies wanting to take selfies and pictures with Caleb, while his teammates laughed their butts off from the side. As in side-splitting, bent-over, gut-holding laughter while they watched Caleb ward off strangers.
Some friends he has.
Poor Caleb.
Despite how far out of my comfort zone I was earlier, I actually laughed harder tonight than I have in my entire life. Sure, there were some cringe-worthy moments, like when a touchy-feely blonde came over, wanting to pose with Caleb as she cupped his, uh, package. That pissed him off. He started yelling at Miles, shouting obscenities about the “fucking Twitterverse,” and the blonde walked off crying—sans selfie.
But for the most part, tonight was awesome. I normally wouldn’t admit it, but my friends help me not take life too seriously.
Just go with it.
Cecelia’s advice has been resonating with me a lot lately. I’m normally so regimented. It’s the only way I know how to behave, planning things down to the smallest detail and organizing my week, day in and day out. Studying constantly. Tirelessly.
Here I am at the tender age of twenty-one, almost having all but forgotten what it means to be uninhibited and have fun. I’ve never had a boyfriend, never had sex, rarely go out.
Caleb and I gravitate toward each other because we have those things in common.
“So, tonight was…” Caleb starts beside me, his sentence trailing off in the dark cab of his pick-up truck as we drive toward my house. He stops at a red light, waiting patiently for it to turn green, in silence.
It’s late, and I give the clock on the dash one more glance: one thirty in the morning.