The End Zone
“I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you that you’re the only girl for the job. I have a Christmas fundraising thing happening in New York next month and I need someone on my arm. You’re the only girl, other than my mama, I’d like to take with me. The only one I trust not to let me down. And my mama can’t get time off work, so that leaves me with you. Say yes.”
I swallow, not really sure how this is different from all the other times I accompanied Sage to his football events. There’s something desperate and utterly determined in the way he looks at me. Like there are so many words on the tip of his tongue that he’s biting down, afraid to use.
“I don’t need to be your fake girlfriend for that.”
“You do. It’s important. Everyone at school needs to know that we’re a thing.”
“But why?”
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. Now, I’m pretty sure I’d be a top in jail, not a bottom, but still—not really into dudes. So, yes?”
Ugh with this man. “Ugh with you. What do I get out of this?”
Before you throw rotten tomatoes at me (understandable), accompanied by a collective ‘boo’ (reasonable)—let me explain why I ask: there’s definitely something Sage is gaining from this, no doubt at all, and I’m trying to figure out whether it’s a bet, or if he’s gotten himself into some kind of woman trouble—a stage five clinger or something. Sage scans me through his signature droopy, ink blue eyes, and I swear my ovaries are singing a cappella at the sight of his jaw of steel. He should come with a book-long warning label. I’m half-tempted to Google a question about getting pregnant just by looking at him. Sage grabs the tip of my blanket, unplasters it from my body, and yanks me by the pajamas to straddle him. It happens so fast the oxygen leaves my lungs in a short whoosh. I’m panting now, on top of him, and his hands are on my ass, and I’m not stopping him. Why am I not stopping him? I know I should. He will break my heart and I’ll have no one to blame but myself. I’ve seen it happen countless times before. By the time we finished high school, eighty percent of the girls broke out in hives just from hearing his name.
“You’ll still get free rent, but for as long as you’re my fake girlfriend, I’ll also pay the bills. You’ll get free access to my truck—anytime you want. Last but not least: you’ll get me. All of me. No other women. No distractions. No games. Just you and me, JoJo. Because it’s always been the two of us, and it’s time we act this way, even if only for a little while.”
He smells of wood and mint and a real Christmas tree. Like a sweet memory I want to cling onto. My limbs are lax and I know I’m making a huge mistake, but I’m done resisting. Believe me, I’ve tried. It brought me nowhere but to square one, salivating over my best friend.
I nod slowly. “Okay. What’s the deadline?”
“End of May,” he shoots, letting out a long sigh and placing his forehead to mine. It’s intimate. So much more intimate than anything I’d ever done with the Brandons of the world, and I never stopped and debated whether I should date them. May is graduation month. Sage is offering me a free ride till the end of school. And let’s not kid ourselves—I could use my waiting money for other things. Paying my student loan debt, getting a faster laptop. That kind of stuff.
We sit like this for a long minute before he cups my ass again and squeezes. It’s so playful and friendly, I don’t bark at him to stop.
“Welcome to couplehood, bae. We’ve got this.”
“Hey, man, bad news.”
For you, not for me, I’m tempted to add. Fucking fantastic news for me. I still can’t believe she said yes. Then again, I’m not entirely sure she knew what this would entail. When I told JoJo I wanted to be her fake boyfriend, I meant it. We’ll be doing things couples do. In bed, and the kitchen, and the bathroom, and even the fucking stairway, if we can’t help ourselves.
“What’s up?” Mark lifts his head, a towel wrapped around his waist. He slams his blue locker shut and uses a second towel to rub his black hair dry. Even though he’s on my team, he’s been riding the bench for the last year-and-a-half. I can’t help but internally curse him. Who the hell does he think he is, checking out my JoJo? Whoa. My JoJo? She’s not mine. Only that’s not entirely true. She feels a lot like something no one else can ever have, so who the hell says she’s not mine?
And if she isn’t, I’m going to make her mine.
Because I’m done fucking around after what happened last month.
Done messing with a bunch of time-wasters while the Marks of the world are making moves on. My. Girl.
“So, Jolie and I are kind of together.” I prop my shoulder against my own locker, looking down at him. God bless my late father. He gave me the height to tower over most motherfuckers who aren’t signed with NBA teams.
Mark’s eyes widen in disbelief before he schools his features and clears his throat like the good, rich boy that he is. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yep.” I pop the P out with a grin.
“Let me get this straight. You slept with her this weekend, after I asked you for the one-hundredth time to sniff around for me?”
“Look,” I say cuttingly, evading the question, “I’ve known this girl since we were ten.” Since she promised me I’d always be a huge chunk of her world and I blossomed in her friendship, set roots in our companionship, and grew up to be someone strong. “This shit is not going away, so I suggest you move on.”