Dalt
I’m going over. Everyone’s gone for the break and Nik’s home alone. I’ve got her favorite pizza. She won’t be able to resist it, even if she can resist me.
When I knock on her door I hear the muffled steps of her coming down the stairs, but she doesn’t open it. I’m sure she peered through the peephole and is standing on the other side trying to decide whether or not she should ignore me. I hammer on the door. I refuse to be ignored any longer. I have to get her back. I’m nothing without her.
The lock on the door clicks and it swings open a crack. “What?” she says as she peers out from the barely opened door.
Nice greeting.
“I…, uh, I ordered pizza,” I stutter out like a kid asking a girl out on a first date.
She doesn’t say anything or move to open the door.
“I thought you might be hungry. I got your favorite.” I hold out the boxes to let her get a good whiff of the deliciousness. One sure thing about the girls living in this little blue house, they love their food. Whoever came up with the saying about food being the quickest way to a man’s heart never met these girls.
“Uh, that’s a hard no.” She tries to close the door in my face, but I push the pizza toward her, using it to hold the door open.
“It’s Capriciossa. Olives, artichokes, the whole deal. Your favorite.”
She hesitates a second then says, “I was going for a run.” At the same time she opens the door wider and takes a big sniff.
I’m struck even more dumb by her beauty. Her long hair is wrapped up on her head in a messy bun, loose strands and shaggy blue bangs framing her sexy angel face. Her cut off Popeye tank top is exposing a hint of her toned ab muscles. The inked soccer ball on her right upper arm is taunting me, reminding me of the times I traced it with my tongue. I’d like to be kissing a path down her arm right now, but she barely wants to talk to me, let alone let me touch her.
She opens the door all the way and steps back to let me in. I finally get my Nikki-intoxicated brain to connect with my mouth.
“There’s a Stanley Cup match on. Bruins and Senators. You want to watch it?”
She glares at me through narrowed eyes before breaking her silence with an exasperated shrug. “What do you want, Dalt?”
“Um…I have pizza and there’s a Bruin’s game on?”
Didn’t I just say that?
But Nikki’s not dumb. We were together long enough and watched enough television while eating pizza for her to know it usually ended with my licking the sauce from her lips and the sweetness of her strawberry scent from her pussy.
“Whatever. Put it on. I’ll get some plates.”
As she walks toward the kitchen, her tiny gym shorts accentuate the view of her perfect round ass. Man, what I’d like to do to that ass. My cock twitches in remembrance. It’s going to be hard to keep my hands off her. Hard being the obvious word here.
She stops on her way to the kitchen and turns back toward me. “I’m not fucking you just because you brought me pizza,” she states and continues out of the room.
“Jesus, Nik.” I’m somewhat shocked, but more amused.
Of course I don’t expect her to fuck me because I brought her pizza. But it would be okay with me if she wants to fuck my brains out because she’s totally in love with me and can’t keep her hands off me.
“I would hope not!” I call out to her. “At least hold out for filet mignon,” I mumble under my breath. I don’t think she’d appreciate the joke, even though playful sarcasm was our thing when we were together. My smile caused by her current sass quickly drops when I remember the crushing fact that I’m not the one she’s teasing and fucking anymore.
I have to get a grip. First thing’s first. Keep my mind off all things involving a naked Nikki. I don’t want to ruin this. She’s at least agreed to have pizza and watch a game with me. It’s closer than I’ve gotten in a long time.
Trace suggested I talk to her and I’ll be able to fix everything between us. Yet Nikki made it clear she’s not interested in talking to me about our past. I won’t press her tonight for any answers as to why she ran from me, even though I think I deserve an explanation. I’ll just take it one step at a time, let her get comfortable with the idea of us hanging out together before getting into a serious conversation.
She comes back in the room with plates and two Dogfish Head beers, the Romantic Chemistry for her and the IPA for me. It’s the same beer we drank when we were together. Hmm, very interesting she still keeps my favorite in her fridge since I know neither Dak nor Trace like it, unless, of course, dickhead Cliff drinks it. If so, I’m switching to a different beer. She places the beer and plates on the coffee table and flops down next to me with a big exhale.
“Any score?” She’s the only girl I’ve ever been with who enjoys watching sports on television. I mean actually likes it, not just pretends she likes it to spend time with me. I’m not interested in spending casual time watching television with any girl but Nikki.
Other girls have been…well…I’ve enjoyed other kinds of leisure time with other chicks. Not quite as many as the other guys in the house, Wolfe holds the record there. I found out two years ago there’s only one girl for me. The few fan-girls I’ve been with since Nik left me have only been a poor attempt to fuck her out of my mind. It hasn’t worked. She’s embedded in my soul. The one in my thoughts when I fall asleep, the one I dream about, the one I wake up thinking about, the one I fantasize about to the point of extreme genital discomfort and self-fulfilling release. She’s my Stanley Cup. She’s everything I want.
“Earth to Dalt. You in there?” She shoves my shoulder and snaps me out of my thoughts. Just in time before I do something stupid like climb on top of her and beg her for what’s mine, or at least what used to be mine.
No dammit. It’s still mine; she’s still mine.
I just have to make her remember, and when she does she’ll be screaming my name so loud she’ll never remember any other guy’s name.
“Huh? Oh yeah. One-minute left in the first period. Bruins up by one.”
We eat our pizza and watch the game in silence for a few minutes. I can’t even get excited when Krug digs the puck out of the corner passes it off to Backes, who takes the perfect shot on goal and scores. The only thing I can think about is the girl sitting next to me with her toned legs stretched out across the corner of the coffee table.
Fuck.
I want to run my hands up those legs. Better yet, get down on my knees between them. I remember how it drove her crazy when my scruff would brush along the silky skin on the inside of her thighs.
“This game is so inept.” Nikki interrupts my fantasies once more.
“What? What do you mean?”
“In-ept. You know, tactless. No finesse, like soccer has.”
“What’re you talking about? It’s the Bruins,” I remind her in disbelief at her absurd statement. How could the Bruins ever be tactless?
“No, I don’t mean just this game, I mean hockey in general. There’s no finesse,” she states matter-of-factly, like it’s an obvious point.
I choke on the swallow of beer making its way down my throat. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nope. In soccer there’s all this control and artistry. We maneuver the ball down the field with skill. But in hockey the puck’s just all over the place. Like I said, no finesse.”
“Bull. Shit. Might I remind you we’re gliding on razor edges on slick, hard-as-fuck ice, while maneuvering a small rubber disc with a six-foot long stick? Meanwhile, you’re running on flat feet on soft grass, kicking around a huge leather ball. And we still manage to control the shit out of the puck with just as much finesse as a soccer player does a ball!”
“While slamming each other into the boards,” she adds in between swallows of beer.
“Oh right. And unlike soccer players, we don’t lay down on the ice and whine and cry when someone trips us or runs into us.”
“Geez. Defensive much? I’m not interested in arguing with you. I was just stating the facts.” She presses her lips onto the lip of her beer bottle like she’s trying to hold back a grin. Of course. I’m such a fool. It’s exactly what she’s trying to do, start an argument and chase me away. Not so fast.
“As I recall, soccer girl, you use to love hockey almost more than me. Never missed a Bruins game, watched every playoff game, threw things at the screen when the Bruins got sloppy. Never missed one of our home games. Hollered out some pretty creative profanities when we made what you thought were mistakes and cheered and whistled louder than anyone else in the stands when we scored.”
“Whatever. A girl can have an opinion.” She shrugs one smooth bare shoulder. The one I want to bite right now and mark as mine for the whole world to see.
“And a guy can call bullshit.” I chuckle and suck down the last of my beer. I don’t tell her Coach De Luca agreed with her about a few of those mistakes we made during some of our games.
“You want another beer?”
This is good. At least we’re talking…well, bantering. But she hasn’t thrown me out yet and she even offered me another beer.
“Sure,” I say, “if you have another IPA. You know they’re my favorite.”
“Um, ya think? It’s the reas…I mean, how could I forget, dipshit? You had cases of it at your house and it’s what you drank whenever we were out.”
I love the way she says whatever’s on her mind. No games. Straightforward. Always upfront, even if she won’t admit she’s kept my favorite beer stocked for me.
Her frankness is another one of about a million reasons why I fell in love with her. I’m in love with Nikki. Turns out it’s not so difficult to explain what I’m feeling for her, after all. Now I just have to tell Nikki and remind her she’s in love with me too. Maybe not today, but soon. I’ll find a way to get her back, soon.
***
Nikki
Dalt stops on his way out the door. “I’m going for a run around nine in the morning tomorrow. You want to come with?”
He didn’t touch me once the whole time we watched the game and polished off two pizzas.
Even though I told him not to, should I be happy about that? No. Of course not. I want him to miss me as much as I miss him. I want him to forget how to breathe when he’s near me. I want him to love me as much as I frickin’ love him. I want to tell him about Chloe and see his eyes fill with tears of joy, tell me how all he wants in the world is for us to be a happy little family. I want a lot of things. All fucked up fantasies, because what he wants from me is a pizza sharing running buddy. The wife and family he wants is back home in California with a rich girl.
Despite knowing all that, I miss his friendship and companionship as much as his hot as fuck body. How can I be so stupid? Let me count the ways. What Dalt did is not the act of a lover or a friend. And he did it when I was four months pregnant, the most fucked up thing of all. Although he didn’t know I was pregnant at the time.
I was planning on telling him, I just hadn’t found the right time. I wanted the mood to be perfect, possibly when we were on the camping trip after he got back from Boston. We planned to camp on one of the islands out past the harbor for the weekend, just the two of us. Our version of Naked and Afraid, or not afraid, in our case, because we loved naked. Correction. I loved naked with him. He, apparently, played, cheated, and fucked it over, with me.
After his dad paid me the unexpected visit and told me Dalt was engaged to someone else, a romantic trip to an island was further away from my mind than the newly discovered Crater 2 galaxy. I ran out of the student lounge, puked on the grass, and kept apologizing to the tiny human inside of me for having been so careless with his or her future. The panicked thought occurred to me if Dalt found out I was pregnant, he might try to make me get rid of the baby or even worse, my greatest fear, try to take the baby away from me. My stomach convulsed into dry heaving. I decided then and there I could never tell him about the baby.
“It’s not a trick question, Nik. Since you missed your run tonight, you want to go with me in the morning?”
He’s leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest waiting for my answer. The position accentuates his muscled arms and the intricate tattoo he has running down one of them. It depicts crossed hockey sticks inside flames with a puck between them. A recurring thought pops into my head, if he loves hockey enough to have it branded on his body, why isn’t he pursuing it professionally instead of going to work for his father in some high-profile movie studio job.
I glance up from his arms and one glimpse of those eyes, the ones which would make Vestal virgins spread their legs, makes me want to grab onto those biceps and climb him like a tree.
Damn. I think I just licked my lips.
Yup. By the way he’s giving me his let’s fuck grin, I’m pretty sure I did, and he noticed.
“Unless there’s something else you’d like to do for exercise?” He sucks in his plump bottom lip like he’s trying to hold back a smile. Can I suck on that lip…right before I punch it?
“No, I have to run earlier. I have a lot of work to get done before heading home for the break.”
“Okay. We can go at eight then.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I have to avert my ravenous eyes from his when I turn him down or else my determined vagina’s answer might be, Skip the run, just carry me upstairs and fuck me into unconsciousness.
“Sure it is. Not only is it good for the cardiovascular system, it helps build endurance and makes you a better more artistic soccer player.” He chuckles.
“Huh?”
“Run-ning,” he emphasizes like he can read my heated thoughts. “You said it wasn’t a good idea. I was just explaining why it’s a great idea.”
“Oh. Right. Running. Yeah, that’s a good idea but—”
“Great. I’ll be over at eight. I’ll even spring for breakfast after at the little hole in the wall you like so much with the gigantic blueberry pancakes.”
“Dalt, I need to tel—”
“Tomorrow, soccer girl. I had a good time tonight. Thanks. I’ve missed our nights together.” He steps closer to me and I’m sure he’s going to kiss me.
Please kiss me. I mean, no, don’t kiss me.
Dammit. I want him as much as I ever have but I can’t let him use me as a cum bucket until he’s back with his Malibu Barbie fiancé.
No worries. Instead of kissing me he kisses his own fingers and places them on my cheek with a soft touch. The corners of his mouth tip up in a leg-trembling smile before he turns and walks away. I have to hold myself back from running after him and throwing myself into his arms.
What the hell is wrong with me? I had this guy’s baby, ran away without telling him, and have kept her a secret for two years because his father offered me money to get out of his life. And now I want to beg him to fuck me? I. Am. Pathetic. Am I really such a shallow floozy that a pair of thick arms, a porno-size cock, and a pizza—two pizzas with artichokes—cause me to throw away all self-respect? Yes. Apparently, I am. It’s a good thing he didn’t bring me brownies too or I would have spread my legs before the Bruins scored their first goal. Ugh. Stupid, shallow, floozy.
Why did I even agree to go running with him tomorrow? Wait. I didn’t agree. He made the decision for me, controlling the conversation just like he controlled our relationship. He decided when it started, when it ended, and now when he thinks it should start all over. Not this time. It’s my turn. I’ll go running with him tomorrow and then I’m going to lay the biggest surprise on him he’s ever had in his life.