The End Zone
I watch his back, knowing the knot in my stomach—the one I’d formed when I was ten and he moved next door—is going to tighten. As if on cue, it does. Blinking, I pour myself a glass of orange juice, spilling some on the countertop, knowing the rest of my night is a bust.
Twenty minutes later, he walks through the door clad in a navy varsity jacket, dark distressed jeans, and his I-just-fucked perfect hair, looking like the perfect sin.
Forty minutes later, Chelsea appears at my door armed with Halo Top ice cream. (I liked Brandon, but not enough to waste my Pilates body on real ice cream because of him.)
An hour later, I get a stream of text messages.
Sage: Dedication doesn’t have an off-season. Get ready for me, JoJo. Because I’m coming for you. And guess what? You’ll COME for me, too.
Sage: Please told me you got the sexual innuendo.
Sage: *tell. Not told. Don’t give me shit. I’m not drunk.
Sage: Also, we’re out of milk, but don’t worry, I’ll buy some on the way home. Notice how I don’t didn’t use any sexual innuendo even though it’s white and sticky…
“Please tell me you didn’t forget to ask her this time.”
Mark’s elbow is propped against the kitchen island I’m leaning on. The party is a bust. Even though it’s at a big-ass mansion on the outskirts of Baton Rouge, the vibe is just…off. Every fucker in my year seems to be here and I don’t know half of these people who talk to me, but everyone knows me. This chains me into a string of endless, meaningless, mundane conversations about grades and football, two things I shouldn’t be thinking about during my time off.
Mark snaps his fingers in front of my eyes and I blink, realizing that he’s been doing it for some time now. He is the tall, dark, handsome, nice-enough-not-to-fuck-his-secretary-in-twenty-years type. Congressman daddy. English teacher mommy. Three sisters. Perfect reputation. White picket fence and two dogs with adorably stupid names. Wholesome and nice. He is the exact opposite of me.
I chew on the red Solo cup that I’m holding and zone out again, letting the half-naked bodies and the heaps of alcohol melt together in my vision.
“Asked who what?” I buy time.
“Your hot roommate. Did you ask her if she’s into me?” Again, I find myself wanting to punch my own balls for downplaying my relationship with Jolie. This is all my doing, and the reason I don’t tell people how close we are is because I don’t want any cock-blocking scenarios to get in my way of a good pussy. Well, this month it backfired in my face. Not only did I experience a life-changing moment with another girl, which pretty much served as a wake-up call to who I really need to be with, but now I have to deal with my smitten teammate, too.
Ever since Mark Tensely struck up a thirty-minute-long conversation with Jolie when he swung by to pick up some football gear the other day (specifically the day before I ran into her naked in the hallway—insert fucking fist-bite) he’s been eyeing my best friend and begging for me to hook him up with her number.
Yeah. No.
Perhaps the worst part is that Mark is smart, good-looking, rich, and is actively seeking a steady girlfriend. Unlike Barf-worthy Brandon, he’s actually genuine. The whole package. Me? The only thing I have to offer is my package. I’m swimming in small endorsement deals and have a scholarship, but I’m so far from well off, I can barely fucking spell the term. Plus, Jolie knows about my antics. She constantly tells me that STD stands for Sage the Douche. We joke about it, like it doesn’t worry her and it doesn’t insult me. But the truth is, my string of one-night stands have all ended in disaster recently. Though, even before that, I was starting to get bored with the constant hopping from one strange bed to the other.
Look, I know I’m a hypocritical bastard. I fuck around, but the minute my roommate gets a suitor, I go all Jason Momoa on his ass. But I can’t control it, can I? And if it makes things slightly better, I haven’t porked anyone since Mark made that comment about JoJo. Between throwing him off, dealing with my latest disastrous fling, and jerking off to memories of Jolie’s naked body, sex with strangers is the last thing on my mind.
Thing is, I can’t really relationship-block Mark right now. What the fuck would I say to him? “Hey, listen, man, there’s nothing going on between Jolie and me, but I still don’t want her to date you?” Even I know it’s a solid ten on the Douche-O-Meter. It would be much easier to just say, “Look, bro, I’m tapping that. Why don’t you go ahead and move along to someone less attractive and, I don’t know, less Jolie?”
“Jolie! I’ve been asking you to ask her about me for weeks. Forget it.” Mark waves me off, grabbing a beer bottle from the fridge. There’s a keg right. Freaking. Here. But I guess he’s too rich for Solo cups. “I’ll just ask her out. I see her around campus every Monday at three.”
Over my dead body, bro.
“Get some chill, yeah? I got a lot on my plate this month. I’ll ask her as soon as I get home.” I clutch his shoulder and offer him the most casual smile in my arsenal. Inside, there’s a green angry monster wreaking havoc in my body. If Mark takes Jolie on a date, it wouldn’t be the first time she went out with someone else. JoJo had two serious boyfriends in high school and dated a string of douches ever since we started college. But they all seemed so temporary. Her mind was always elsewhere. School. Family. Even the Pilates classes that gave her that bangin’ body. But this is all going to change at the end of May when we graduate. I know my best friend. Know her well.