Sometimes being an athlete really blows. Especially during the fall season when we’re in full training mode. It pisses me off that I can’t be out drinking and screwing every night like most other red-blooded college sophomores.
No, not me. Not right now anyway. This morning I’m out running with my roommates and fellow soccer players, Dean, Tim and Jonesy. We have two-a-days in the fall. We run most mornings and then after class, spend about four hours at practice, if you figure in the time it takes to tape us up, get through practice and then get iced down or have other treatment after. Not to mention the two games a week and all the traveling that goes along with them.
It’s grueling.
But it keeps my dad off my ass about joining some lame group like Student Government, so it’s worth it. And it doesn’t hurt that it keeps my body well-conditioned for my extra-curricular activities—when I find the time for them.
“Hey, did you get a load of Eugene’s new girlfriend?” Tim asks, earning him a stab in the ribs from Jonesy, who as Eugene Jones, much prefers his nickname.
“What, really?” I say. “You settling down, my friend?”
We slow to a fast walk while we’re talking. Dean says, “Shit, I’d be surprised if he didn’t have a ring on Marcie’s finger by the end of the year.”
“Whoa,” I say. “Where was I when all this was happening?”
Jonesy says, “Where else? With Karen and the sorority brigade. Don’t you ever get sick of being around all those pretentious chicks?”
“Not when said chicks keep me in a fresh supply of tail, I don’t,” I say. “Anyway, I’ve learned to pretty much tune them out. I wear headphones a lot.” We all laugh. I look at Jonesy. “So, Marcie, huh?”
He smiles. Damn. I can tell by his smile that he’s already whipped. One more bites the dust. “It’s just you and me, Dean,” I say. “With Jonesy off the market, and Tim chained to his woman, that simply means more pickings for us.”
“You know it,” he says, giving me a fist bump.
We’re running down South Road, over by the Bell Tower; the same route we take every Tuesday and Thursday. As we come up on the library, I notice someone struggling to descend the stairs out front. The person looks disabled and as we get closer, I think about stopping to help. Then I see a familiar face run out of the library and throw her things down as she makes her way over to the woman who looks like she’s going to topple down the stairs any second. Baylor puts her arm around the woman’s waist and takes her books from her, allowing the lady to grip the hand rail. She carefully helps her down the steps and then hands the grateful woman her books.
As we pass the building, I turn around and pace myself in a backwards jog, watching Baylor joyfully hop back up the steps of the library. When she leans over to pick up the bag that she threw onto the concrete, she glances over and our eyes meet. Even from this distance, I can see crimson come up her face. She gives me a shy smile and then turns to walk in the other direction. I watch her every step and assess her appearance. She has on jeans today, and they do everything to flatter her nicely shaped ass. The bright-red Dr. Seuss shirt she wore at orientation has been replaced by a green tank top that makes me long to see how those incredible eyes look against it.
Her hair is down this time, flowing around her shoulders in cascades of light-brown waves. I have the sudden urge to run over to her and push the hair blowing in her face behind her ear. Then, as if reading my mind, she tucks a strand behind an ear right before disappearing into the massive library.
Holy Mother of God, what’s happening to me? I realize I’ve stopped moving altogether when my teammates all shout at me to hurry the hell up.
I spend the rest of my run wondering about Baylor. How long has she been dating that asswipe, Chris, and are they serious? What dorm does she live in? Where’s she from? And why the hell does she have me wondering about all these things, anyway?
The following Tuesday and Thursday, when we pass the library on our run, I find myself willing her to emerge from the front doors once again, just so I can catch a glimpse of her.
Soon after my Thursday run, I realize that I didn’t even bother bringing a girl home from the party I went to Saturday night. Shit. I’ve got to turn my game on when we’re over at Clemson this weekend.
I see Baylor again on Friday afternoon on my way to the stadium to catch the bus for our away game. I stop dead in my tracks to watch her. She’s walking with friends towards the student union. They’re all laughing and having a good time. It’s hot today and she’s wearing shorts that show off her shapely legs that I briefly imagine wrapping around my head. I can’t hear what they are saying, they’re too far away, but someone must say something really funny because one of her friends spits a mouthful of soda all over Baylor’s shirt.
Now, this would have most girls frowning and running for home to swap it for a new, clean shirt. Well, most girls I know anyway. But not Baylor. She simply looks down at her soda-soaked shirt and shrugs her shoulders while continuing to laugh with her friends as they reach the doors of the building. While Baylor is holding the door open for her friends, she looks over and catches me watching her. Again. As that adorable blush comes over her face, her eyes dance with the beginning of a smile. Then the asswipe comes out of the building and puts an arm around her. She accompanies him inside without so much as a glance back at me. But I don’t miss how she pulls away from him a little, and that small gesture has my mind swimming with all kinds of possibilities.
We’re at a party, celebrating our win at a Clemson underground club. We kicked ass today. It was a complete shutout and to top it off, I scored two goals myself. We’re all still riding high hours later.
“Oh, hell, yeah.” Dean pats me on the back. “Check this out. Twins.” He nods over to the blonde look-a-likes that just walked through the door. He turns to Jonesy and Tim. “Too bad for you, you’re whipped, or you might get in on this action. Twins,” he says again in disbelief. It’s obvious he’s picturing himself with them.
“Dude, I’m not getting into some kind of twisted orgy with you. Just pick one and I’ll take the other,” I say, assessing their identical looks. “Doesn’t look like it makes much of a difference.”
Turns out, we don’t even have to make an effort. They see us checking them out and bee-line over to where we’re standing. “Can we get you ladies a drink?” I ask.
They look at each other and giggle, to which Dean mouths at me, “Come on, man.”
I laugh and shake my head at him. “Hi, I’m Gavin and this is Dean.” I reach out to shake both their hands.
“Mandy,” one says.
“Mindy,” the other one says at the same time.
I almost roll my eyes at how easy it is for us to pick up girls. Granted, we’re both blessed in the good looks department. Dean with his black hair and rugged motorcycle-guy looks. Me with my dirty-blonde mess of a mop that the girls love to tug on when they’re screaming under me. To the displeasure of my coach, I refuse to cut it too short for that very reason.
Tim and Jonesy shake their heads at us as we take Mandy and Mindy over to get them some drinks. Not that they need to get liquored up. They look all-too-eager to spread their sober legs for us.
Not an hour later, I’ve got Mindy, or possibly Mandy, pressed up against a wall over by the bathrooms. We’re going at it, all hot and heavy through our clothes, when she suggests we change venues. Then she pulls me into the ladies bathroom handicap stall.
She sits on the lid of the toilet, pulling me by my belt loops so that I’m standing in front of her. I get the feeling this is not her first rodeo. She reaches down the front of my pants and grabs my dick, rubbing it up and down in strokes that are far too long and slow for my liking. I’m trying to enjoy the feeling spreading through my body when I look down at the top of her head and see her blonde curls bouncing about as she struggles to unbutton my pants while licking her lips.
Holy Shit! She’s gonna blow me right here.
Part of my brain is sending out a mental high-five to my friends. The other part—the part I don’t want to listen to, but I have no choice, as it’s the part reducing my previously rock-hard dick down to a flaccid good-for-nothing joke—that part is thinking I don’t want this blonde sucking on my dick. It knows there’s only one girl I really want to do anything with right now. She’s a brunette. And she very well may be squirming under that asswipe, Chris, right this very second.
Fuck!
I zip up my pants and apologize to Mindy, or Mandy, whose name I purposefully fumble so she doesn’t know I don’t know which one she is. I tell her I’ve had too much to drink and need to go home to sleep it off. I text my friends before walking out of the party to go back to the hotel. Alone. I know I’ll probably never live this down.
A week later, I realize I never did get the ribbing I thought I would get from Dean. Not since my leaving sent Mindy/Mandy hunting for her sister, only to come upon her with Dean in a compromising position that she was all too ready to participate in. Needless to say, rather than being ribbed by him, I think he’ll kiss my goddamn feet for life on the memory of those twins.
“At the same time?” Tim asks him again, as we all try to wrap our heads around the incredulous picture Dean has been trying to paint for us during our morning run.
“Face it, gentlemen,” Dean says, “I’m a god in bed.”
The three of us smack him on the back of the head as we run past him.
I guess I can’t complain. It was my choice to leave the party when Mindy/Mandy was obviously too horny for her own good. It wasn’t so long ago that I would have been up for a threesome myself.
Damn Baylor.
I don’t even know her last name, but she’s got me all messed up in the head. She’s distracting me. From soccer. From school. From life. This doesn’t happen. Gavin McBride doesn’t get distracted.
As we run and the guys continue to talk about what a sex god Dean is, my mind wanders to the petite chameleon-eyed girl who makes nightly appearances in my dreams. I dream of how soft her hair will feel under my touch. I dream of pulling that soft hair out of her ponytail and letting it fall around her face as she hovers over me, encapsulating us with her hair as she rides me. What gets me, though, is that I don’t just dream about sex, I dream about stupid shit like long walks, endless texting conversations and her watching me play soccer.
I’ve dreamed about a lot of girls in my life. But until now, the girls were nameless . . . faceless even. I’m not sure why I’m inexplicably drawn to her. I’ve tried to ignore it, turn it off, move on. I can’t. Hell, I can’t even get myself to screw her out of my system.
There’s only one way that I know to get around this. I have to get her to go out with me. There’s just one problem I see with this plan. And his name is Asswipe.