The End Zone

She’ll want to settle down.

Find a nice teaching job.

Get married. Have babies. Mark’s babies. No way is she having Mark’s babies. That fucker doesn’t drink keg beer and knows how to tie a tie without looking in the mirror. He’s not the type to run in the mud and rain for her. To climb on trees with her. To sit on the sidelines at school and talk shit about people in codes only she and he know.

I’m that person. I’m her person.

“I’ll deal with it tonight,” I stress again.

“Yeah, okay, man,” Mark mumbles, pupils dilating, and that’s when I realize that I’m squeezing his shoulder super fucking hard. He shakes me off, taking a step back and bumping into two girls who are yelling the latest gossip into each other’s ears over the sound of “Fetish” by Selena Gomez. They both shoot him a pissed look that softens when they notice me. “I’ll text you tomorrow.” Mark points at me. Is this a fucking threat? I don’t owe him shit. Better to get it out of the way, though, than have him approaching her on his own.

“Sure.” I shrug, raising my cup in the air and backing toward the landing. “See you Monday at practice.”

You know shit is going downhill when you find yourself listening to a pop princess and there’s no blowie to stop you from leaving. I turn around and a girl from computer science slams into my body purposely. She does the whole laughing nervously and pretending to be embarrassed charade—sweetheart, I’ve seen this show a thousand times—and introduces herself. I can take her home. Hell, I can even take her upstairs. A month ago, I would have. But tonight, all I can think about is that Jolie is hella bummed about what I told her about Brandon, and I’m bummed about that goddamn tool, Mark.

“I’m Stephanie,” she yells into my ear.

“And I’m not interested,” I yell back.

The mask of her syrupy smile falls to the floor, almost with a thud, and her eyes narrow before she sulks and leaves. I dig out my phone and send Jolie a string of semi-coherent text messages. Then I come up with a plan to eliminate Mark Tensely from the picture.

By the time I drive back home, stone-cold sober, making a stop at a gas station to get some milk, my plan is bulletproof.

Jolie is not dating anyone.

Jolie stays with me.



“We need to talk.”

Reluctantly, I crack one eye open, while still rolled between my white cotton sheets, the TV still playing the same channel I fell asleep to the night before. After Chelsea left, I watched When Harry Met Sally. Then I opened a bottle of wine, downed three glasses, and waited for the alcohol to run through my bloodstream before I willed myself to answer my male BFF’s texts.



Me: Do you think Brandon cheated on me because I’m a prude?

Me: Maybe it’s because I went to see my family every other weekend when he wanted to hang out. Although, screw him, right? So I like spending time with my grandmama and parents. Ain’t no shame in that.

Me: And yes to you bringing milk. I will need something to help the hangover tomorrow morning.

Me: And no to you and me sleeping together. I already told you, Sage. I care too much about you to lose you for a fling. Even if the feeling is obviously not mutual…

My bed dips under the weight of my quarterback guy friend and I bury my face into my pillow, inhaling the vanilla, lilac, and lavender of my body creams and shampoo. His warm hand sneaks under the covers, cupping one of my feet and tugging me away from the pillow and toward him. With my ankle on his lap, he massages my foot. And I should really get a gold medal, or maybe a simple acknowledgement, for not spreading my legs for him right here and now and giving him exactly what he has been begging for.

Because. Sage. Poirier. Is. A. God!

That’s why he’s a manwhore in the first place. There is no denying his masculine appeal, raw beauty, dirty mouth, and cocky confidence.

“What do we need to talk about?” I murmur into my arm, which I’ve thrown over my face to block the sun seeping through the thin curtains of my window. He elevates my foot and kisses just below my kneecap. Shivers run down my spine, racing down to my tummy and making it roll with delicious anticipation.

“I need a fake girlfriend,” he announces, his voice grave.

“Then go get one. Literally, you can step out of the building and every single woman with a pulse and no ring on her ring finger would gladly fill out an application,” I say, hyper-aware to my morning breath. He plucks my arm from my face and throws it on the bed, leaning into me so we are nose-to-nose.

Great. Just great. Now he can smell my dead hyena breath.

“I’m serious,” comes his dark whisper, and he no longer sounds like my Sage. I mean, Sage. He is not mine. I know that. Duh.

“So am I. Why do you need a fake girlfriend?” I speak into my cupped hand, my eyebrows crinkling.

“Want the truth?”

“No, please lie to me. But make it a spectacular lie. Something with unicorns.” I widen my blurry eyes, and he chuckles, grabbing one of the pillows I kicked in my sleep and throwing it in my face.

“Rascal,” he says.

“Wifebeater,” I groan. He stands still, stares at me. What? It was a figure of speech. I didn’t mean it like I was literally his wife.