The End Zone

“I’ll turn it into a ‘yes’ before the end of the semester.” He stands up, curling his fists as he stretches and yawns. His black shirt rides up and the prominent V leading to his crotch is on full display. In a last-ditch effort to save my panties, I avert my gaze, my eyes hard on the MacBook screen, and furrow my brows as the words in my lit essay slip from my vision. I decided to major in English lit because I’m good with words, but whenever he’s around, I’m nothing but a blubbery mess. He continues, “No girl has ever said no to me yet, and I’ll be damned if the one who does is the chick I care about the most.”

“But that’s exactly why I’m saying no,” I snap, my head shooting up from the essay, annoyed he’d joke about our friendship.

“Why?”

Why? “Why?” I look up, huffing. Yep, I’m actually huffing. And huffers are my pet peeve, but boy, does Sage make me want to huff lately. “Do you really want to throw away ten years of friendship for a quick lay?”

He smirks. “First of all, it’s not going to be quick. I know what I’m doing in the sack. We’re talking a minimum of twenty-five minutes, lady, and I’m being humble here, because I might be a little on the excited side when I finally get you in my bed.” He cups his groin and winks, and I would roll my eyes if it weren’t for the fact that his room is down the hall, and the thin walls confirm his statement. All the girls he brings home (roughly twenty percent of the US female population) do moan and scream for an average of forty minutes. “And second of all, I will not be ruining anything. You have one-night stands. I have one-night stands. We can have them together and still keep our friendship intact. We’re not fucking twelve, dude.”

I guess I can kill this conversation by pointing out that (A) twelve-year-olds don’t usually have sexual intercourse, and (B) I’m not a dude. But there’s something else I need to make clear.

“I don’t engage in one-night stands.” I pick up a pen and choke it to death to keep myself from punching Sage’s gorgeous, cocky face. I know my fist is going to be hurt more than his nose. The guy is seemingly built of steel, bronze, and copper.

“Of course you do. What about that Brandon dude?”

“That Brandon dude was my boyfriend for seven months,” I deadpan. Funny he should mention it, since Brandon and I broke up last year because he was adamant that there was something going on between Sage and me. Which was insane, inaccurate, and incredibly annoying. But what was even more disheartening was the fact that Sage did everything he could to nurture this false assumption by constantly touching and calling me whenever I hung out with Brandon like he was trying to sabotage our relationship. Sage was only a few weeks short of pissing on my leg to claim his ownership, which was kind of rich, considering how Sage’s dick has been passed around like community property. I’m surprised he’s not partly funded by the government.

“That douche was never your boyfriend, JoJo.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but he really was.”

“Well, he didn’t know that. I still want to kick that guy’s ass.”

“What? Why?”

“Because—sorry to disappoint,” he mimics my tone, and pretty accurately, too (the bastard), “but he was banging a Kappa Alpha Slutta whatever chick named Nadia. I saw them hanging out at parties at least twice, but I kind of thought you’d never actually seriously dated the dickbag, yeah?” He runs his huge palm over his sandy blond hair and messes it to tousled perfection. I swallow, feeling my nostrils flare. Goddamn Brandon. “So I never thought I should mention it to you. You know I always got your back.”

I smile tightly, stand up, and walk to the kitchen with Sage following behind me. I want him gone, so I can cry myself to sleep, or call my bestie, Chelsea, to talk so much shit about Brandon his ears catch on fire and burn down his whole apartment block. I feel played, and stupid, and about as desirable as a bowl of stale broccoli even though it’s been months.

“Come with me,” Sage coaxes again, his husky voice seeping into my body and melting my lady parts into warm goo. What’s wrong with me? This is my best friend we’re talking about. Countless times I watched him go home with other girls, puking in national parks, and experiencing meltdowns. Crying happily when his parents got divorced, weeping sadly when his father died of liver failure after years of alcohol abuse, and roaring triumphantly when he got a full scholarship for college.

“I have an exam, remember?” I open the fridge and take out a carton of OJ. I slam the door and when I turn around, he is caging me in, bracing the counter from each side of my waist, his mouth so close to mine I can see the dimple in the center of his full lower lip. He stares me down predatorily.

My heart is in my throat.

My soul is most probably in my eyes.

And I am scared. Completely, utterly, and desperately frightened of what he can do to me if I let my guard down. If I let him.

“Wasn’t talking about the party, Jo. Let’s go to my room. Forget about Brandon. About people. About all the bullshit. I want to make you feel good.”

“Sage,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes. “Please don’t make this an issue. I’d hate to move to another apartment, but I will, if that’s what it takes to save our friendship.”

And my heart.

He throws his head back and shakes it, staring at the ceiling, exasperated. Then he pushes off the counter and I’m left to stand here, watching his tight ass walking toward the hallway. What’s with this dude? Did he actually not know I had lady bits before he saw me naked? I refuse to sacrifice our friendship because he suddenly sees me as a convenient fuck. He’s been acting so strange lately.