STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

Except I barely even know how to fantasize about any of those things. I’m so inexperienced that it was only with Tyson’s touch that I could fantasize about being finger fucked— dreaming of having a cock in me, anywhere in me, feels as foreign as dreaming about flying. My eyes open gradually, my hand trails up to my stomach, across the scars from my transplants. I still feel heated and winded from the powerful orgasm I wish Tyson had actually drawn from me. But no. It’s just me. Touching myself in my bedroom. Thinking of a guy who, as far as I can tell, didn’t want to be seen with me. At a party I went to with my best friend who also, I suspect, also doesn’t really want to be seen with me anymore.

I’m responsible, steady, reasonable Anna Milhomme— same as I’ve always been. Trishelle has managed to reinvent herself in college, and shitty as that reinvention may be, I’m jealous of it.

I felt on the verge of that tonight, but it was all yanked away because of some guys with firecrackers. That girl who let an intimidating football player touch her, take over her body, make her moan…that girl is fearless. She’s not afraid of losing control. She can do anything.

But I’m not her, and it feels like I’ll never be.

Chapter 5

Since it looks like I’m stuck in my traditional responsible role, I go ahead and embrace it. It’s what I’ve always done— relished being the girl who had the best organized notes, the phone numbers of all the local safe drive companies, or the one who actually knew how to do CPR (and not just from the movies). It feels uncomfortable now, though, like putting on a favorite dress only to realize you’ve outgrown it between seasons. I wedge myself into it anyhow. What else can I do?

The audition for the theater department is coming up, and it feels less and less likely I’ll go, especially since Trishelle seems to have forgotten about it entirely. She hasn’t nagged me about studying the audition scripts in weeks, save for the occasional “You’ll be super busy once you’re in theater” she tells me when she blows off plans with me to go to some cheerleader-themed event.

I’m invited out with her less and less, until I’m not invited at all. I never wanted to go to those things to start with, of course, but when I realize she’s no longer issuing the invitations, I’m more than a little wounded.

“Are you excited?” I ask her the morning of her first game. She woke up stupid early and hot rolled her hair, then brushed it out, then sprayed it, then pulled it up, so it’s molded into a perfectly beachy-waved ponytail that barely moves when she does.

“I think I might throw up,” she says, shaking her head, but she hasn’t been able to stop grinning. She takes another bite of yogurt, ignoring the egg McMuffin I brought her to celebrate the big day. Apparently, the captains not so subtly let her take a look at the uniform order, and Trishelle wore a slightly larger size than most of the other girls. I know— and I know that Trishelle must know— that this is because her thighs and butt are pure muscle, but that hasn’t stopped her from dieting obsessively for the last few weeks. I take an unnecessarily big bite of my own egg McMuffin in protest of her new existence.

“You’ll be great. I’ll have my phone ready in case they show you on TV,” I tell her. I’m not going to the game. I said it’s because I couldn’t get tickets, which isn’t totally true. I could probably have gotten tickets, if I’d tried, but…I sort of want to sit at home, mope, and eat that second egg McMuffin. Besides, I have no idea how football works, and after all that happened— or rather, didn’t happen— with Tyson Slate, I have to admit that I don’t care to learn more about the sport.

The game starts after lunch. I turn on the television and set myself up on the couch, curled in a blanket to combat our AC, which waffles between extreme cold and extreme heat without a shred of nuance. The commentators are a series of bros wearing suits who talk about stats and players and starting lineups and expectations for a half hour before the game actually begins.

Tyson is number eight, the starting quarterback, and as we reach the end of the first quarter it’s become clear to me that he commands the field the way a general might command troops. Everything about him is calm; he jogs when others run, he doesn’t speak with his hands, he nods curtly when talking to coaches. The uniform and helmet make him totally unreadable— which, according to the commentators, is one of his strengths.