The End Zone
“I want to come in your mouth.”
I nod silently. I’ve never given anyone oral sex. Not that I have anything against it, but I guess I never felt super comfortable enough with any of my past boyfriends. But Sage is not just a guy I went on a few dates with. He is the boy who kicked other boys’ asses when they disrespected me at school—despite my telling him that I could take care of myself—and tried (and failed) to bake me shortbread cookies every Christmas because he knew they were my favorite.
He is good enough to never mention it if I suck (not literally), and man enough to never say a word about it to anyone we know.
“Oh, fuck, so close. Jolie, my beautiful, gorgeous Jolie…”
He scoots up, slides his cock from between my tits, and shoves it into my mouth, cupping my head from behind and making me deep throat him. And I do. I fight my gag reflex and wrap my lips around his cock as he pumps the base, warm, thick liquid sliding down my throat in spurts. My hands are on his rear, and I’m squeezing hard, as if I’m the one who is milking him, and it feels dirty and wrong and so magnificently right.
When he collapses next to me, his salty taste on my lips and tongue, I close my eyes and breathe, trying to rearrange the jumbled mess that is my mind. My bra is torn, my pussy throbs and burns from the friction of the denim and the pinching, and I feel like a train wreck with smeared lipstick.
A big paw reaches across my stomach, rolls me over to my side, and embraces me into a hug. Sage kisses my temple—like a loving friend, not like a quick lay—and whispers something I cannot decipher.
“What did you say?” I murmur, allowing my head to rest on his iron pecs.
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t probe, falling asleep in the arms of the boy I pieced back together myself with a hug.
The next day, I tackle Mark to the ground in practice. My official reason? He’s a fucker. My real reason? Jolie is standing across the football field with Chelsea and a few of her other girlfriends, hugging her MacBook to her chest and laughing at something one of them said. That, in itself is not a problem. But the fact that Mark just ogled her for two straight minutes? Totally is.
“What part of ‘she’s mine’ did you not get?” I snarl in his face, nailing him to the ground. Well, this escalated quickly. Can’t help it, though. The more I think about how much of a dickbag this dude is for even suggesting he’d date my best friend, the more I want to punch him into unconsciousness. Luckily, Jolie and I have this kind of relationship where we don’t even have to fully explain ourselves to each other and she’d agreed to “date” me.
Just like I’d agreed to take care of her friend’s pet ferret for a month junior year because her grandmama was allergic and she couldn’t do it herself. We’re there for each other in big ways and little ones. Always.
“I’m not looking at Jolie, dickwad! I’m looking at Chelsea. I asked her out yesterday.” Mark pushes me off of him, and I roll on the hot, damp grass, laughing to the bright blue sky. It unburdens me from weight I didn’t know I had on my heart. Ever since I graduated from high school, I’ve always had it easy—easy with girls, easy with grades, and easy with football. The rest I didn’t really care about, frankly. And maybe that’s why I’ve never had something I was in danger of losing. I do now, and hell if it’s not a bitch to keep it from slipping between my fingers.
“Chelsea, huh? You move fast,” I note, standing to my feet and wobbling between Michael and Elliott, who are stretching on the ground.
“Said the guy who dicked the girl I wanted to date just so I couldn’t have her.” Mark picks his gear up from the grass and stomps toward the dressing room behind me. He catches up to me, and I rein in the urge to steal a glance at my fake girlfriend, who really doesn’t feel that fake at all.
“Don’t talk about her like that.” I scowl.
“Why? You talk about girls like that all the time.” He laughs.
Because she’s not a fucking girl; she’s my best friend, I’m tempted to yell, but I’m not five, nor a pussy, so I bite my lip and change the subject.
“You inviting Chelsea to that charity thing in New York?” I jerk my chin in the girls’ direction. One of my sponsors is flying me out with a plus one. I can’t wait to see Jolie in a red dress—that’s the dress code for the female attendees—and seeing everyone’s faces when this Southern belle is on my arm alone could make me shoot my load all over my tux.
“Why? Are you asking Jolie?”
“Of course, I fucking am. She’s my girl. So?” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. Maybe because I really want to hear that he’s over JoJo.
“Fuck knows, man. We haven’t even gone on one date. What’s it to you?” He frowns and stops by our blue lockers. I shrug. I know that Mark and Jolie don’t speak to each other. I’d just like to keep it that way for the remainder of our last year of college. If she finds out I cockblocked her out of this potential relationship, she is going to jerk me off with a Brillo pad.
“Just curious.”
“Hey, man, don’t take this the wrong way, but it looks like something’s eating you,” Mark says carefully, peeling his shirt off and throwing it on a bench behind us. “Is everything okay?”
Everything is not okay. I made a horrible mistake with a girl, and even though it made me realize that there’s another girl I deeply want and love, I hurt someone. A lot. But I just smile. “Couldn’t be more perfect.”