Chapter Four
Beck
Some people swam, some ran, some liked to get all Zen and do yoga or meditation. I preferred slamming guys into walls. I checked my defender, and when he was sliding down the glass of the hockey rink, I hit the puck and skated after it, heading toward the goal.
This was my place where everything else disappeared. Classes got boring and my mind tended to drift, and I rarely liked where it went these days. I guess if you put off dealing with things long enough, they simply came after you when you least wanted them to.
I swung my hockey stick back, aimed to the left of the goalie, and hit for everything I was worth. Charlie tried to catch it, but he missed, and it soared in.
I threw my hands up as my teammates barreled into me. Then Coach called practice and we headed toward the locker room. Just as I was about to leave, I remembered Lyla and her damn goals. I got where she was coming from, and I thought loosening up a bit might be good for her, but she was also sweet and naïve enough to get herself into trouble, and I was determined to make sure the trouble didn’t get out of control, even if that’s what she thought she wanted.
“Hey, any of you know if there’s a party going on this weekend?”
“My frat’s having one,” Daniel said.
A big hell no to that. Frat boys and Lyla screamed bad idea. Daniel wasn’t a bad guy, but most of the other dudes he lived with were pricks who cared about name brand clothing, fancy cars, and girls who looked like Victoria’s Secret models.
Carson slammed his locker door. “There’s one at the Quad. There’s guaranteed to be lots of beer and pretty girls.”
“What about guys?” I asked, and Carson looked at me like I’d sprouted a unicorn horn. “Not for me, dumbass. I’ve got a friend, and she’s looking to party.”
“Send her to me, and I’ll take good care of her.”
Another hell no. He slept with more girls than I did. Honestly, though, that wasn’t even that hard, despite what people tended to assume about me. Sex usually led to attachments, which was why I lived in a constant state of frustration, only closing the deal with girls I knew wouldn’t constantly call and follow me around. Not that I hadn’t misjudged before, but I tried. Carson promised girls they were special and then treated them like shit. He wasn’t going near Lyla.
But the party at the Quad was probably the better pick of the two. I’d keep asking, just in case something better came up. I don’t know what more I was looking for—keg stand opportunities were a dime a dozen. Hopefully we could knock out Lyla’s first two items at once, and then she could get it out of her system and go back to being happy. Seemed like she’d been sadder the past few months, ever since she and her boyfriend broke up, immediately followed by dealing with finals. I’d chalked it up to stress, but maybe there was more going on.
“Text me the details,” I said, then headed out of the locker room. As I walked to my Land Rover, I checked my phone. There was a text from Monica saying she wanted to meet up tonight—apparently I’d been forgiven.
Just as I was about to text back and tell her to meet me at my place, my phone rang. It was Lyla, so I answered. “Yeah?”
“I was hoping you could come pick me up so we could go to the mall. I really need to get moving on my first item.”
For a moment I thought about telling her I was serious about the no shopping thing. The whole point of moving into an apartment by myself and keeping my schedule filled with weight training, hockey practices, and games was so that I didn’t have to deal with people unless it was on my terms. So that no one saw when the past rose up and got the best of me. And if I went, this would be the second time I let her get between me and getting laid. Monica was a no-strings-attached girl, and they weren’t exactly easy to find. I couldn’t imagine choosing shopping when sex was an option.
But then I pictured Lyla’s sad face, and thought of all the times she’d cheered me up when I was having a shit day. “I’ve got to shower and change. Give me like thirty or forty.”
…
“What about this?” Lyla asked, moving aside the pink and purple scarf she had on and holding a black shirt over her white sweater. “Or is it too boring? I usually wear a lot of colors, but maybe that’s too much? Maybe I should just go with one solid color. Or do I go black? Do guys care either way?”
I glanced at the uniform-colored tops. I’d never thought much about it, but they did seem plain next to Lyla’s usual outfits—funny since “plain” was apparently the problem she was trying to fix. I’d never seen anyone wear as many layers as she did, rain or shine. She had a scarf in every combination of colors, and nearly all of her skirts and dresses were wild prints with lots of color. “So no more hippie style?”
“Hippie?” She stuck out her lower lip in a way that made me think I’d said the wrong thing. “I’d call it more bohemian chic. A little more artsy and less peace, free love, and no showering?”
I just stared at her for a moment. “Oh. Pardon me.” Come to think of it, she did look more like she should be an art student than a hardcore chemistry nerd. But I supposed I looked like a dumb jock, and I preferred to let people assume that was all there was to me. Less questions that way. “I’m the wrong person for this, Ly. You need someone who knows more about fashion.”
“Okay, no pressure and all, but you’re kinda one of my only friends here. And I don’t need someone who knows fashion—I need a guy’s opinion. I want to know what guys prefer for girls to wear, versus what they hate. Like, turtlenecks, or whatever.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Yeah, turtlenecks are a no.”
“See,” she said. “You know the important stuff. And if I try on something that guys usually like, but I can’t pull off, I need you to tell me that, too. You always give it to me straight.”
Not turning that “give it to me straight” comment into an innuendo wasn’t easy, but I let it go. She’d probably be horrified or smack me, and while she was trying to act like this was totally normal, I could tell by the slight hitch in her voice and the way her eyes never landed on anything for more than a couple seconds that she was getting overwhelmed.
“It’s pretty simple, actually,” I said. “Guys like seeing girls’ bodies. Accentuate what you got, hide what you don’t. Lesser men might be intimidated by all of your layers and colors—I personally find them charming.”
“But you don’t want to date me, either.” She waved her hands. “Not that I want to date you. We’re, like, nonentities to each other. I get that, and that’s what’s so great about us. I’m just saying that I’m glad you find them charming, but I want to see if I can make a guy stop and stare here and there. I want to use what I got.”
I exhaled, feeling totally out of my league. The foreboding prickling sensation warned me I was getting sucked into a conversation where I’d inevitably say the wrong thing. “Well, what do you got, then?”
She took a step toward me. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
Honestly, I’d never looked at her like that. I mean, of course there was the general noticing that she had nice ivory skin, a cute little nose, and a really great smile. There was also something hot-librarian about when she wore her glasses and had her hair in a bun. But she wasn’t a hookup type of girl, and when I’d met her, she’d talked about Miles. A lot. It was one reason I hadn’t hesitated to have her over to study at my place.
One day she noticed The Hangover DVD on my entertainment center, remarked that she hadn’t seen it, and I insisted we watch it. The next week she suggested a movie, and even brought over a carton of ice cream. From there, we started our Sunday night ritual. For so long, she’d been a—as she put it—“nonentity,” that I hadn’t thought about what kind of body she was hiding underneath her many layers of clothes since I’d first met her.
I grabbed a few short skirts and skimpy tops and thrust them at her. “Put these on and we’ll see.”
She glanced at what I’d grabbed, changed the sizes out, and headed to the dressing room.
My phone rang, and I pulled it out of my pocket, thinking it was Monica, and already trying to come up with an excuse for why I’d blown her off.
But it wasn’t Monica. It was the only other girl on the planet I’d ever let drag me to a mall.