Jesse tosses me on top of the twin bed with my black comforter, fitting himself between my legs. I hook my calves behind the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer.
“Fuck,” he rasps, pushing his hips into me. I curl my fingers into the bottom of his shirt and pull upward. Jesse sits back to rip it off, his hat falling to the floor with it. Jesus, he’s beautiful. Muscular but lean. Still soft. Messy hair falling into his eyes.
“I’m not having sex with you,” I say again, just to be clear.
“You said that,” he mumbles. Leaning down, his hands slip under my shirt, and I freeze when his lips meet my stomach. He looks up at me, kissing and licking his way up each inch of my skin as he pushes my shirt higher. I reach down to thread my fingers in those dark, disheveled locks as I arch into his touch. The pulsing between my thighs is unbearable, almost painful now, and I need more.
Right when he exposes my black bra, his phone rings from his back pocket. He reaches behind to silence it, and then he’s back, unhooking the front clasp of my bra. I hold my breath as he starts to peel the fabric away from my skin, my nipples already sensitive and hard as rocks from anticipation. Jesse scrapes his teeth against the swell of my breast as my bra falls to my sides, exposing me completely. I shiver, arching into him, but then his phone rings again.
“Someone better be dead,” he snaps, sitting back on his heels to fish his phone out of his pocket. When he sees the name flashing across his screen, his entire demeanor changes. His eyebrows pull together, his expression grim. He looks from me to the phone, then back to me again, regret written all over his features. Regret that he’s hooking up with me?
“I have to go.”
“Is something wrong?” Something better be wrong. I’d accept a sick relative. A dead pet. Things happen.
“I…” He frowns at his phone again, and it slips from between his fingers, landing at my feet. I don’t see much, but I do see a name. A very feminine name.
My mouth pops open for half a second before I snap it shut. Did I just get traded in for a better option? I suddenly feel cold. Like a bucket of ice water was dumped over the fire that was building inside me. I avert my eyes, pulling my shirt down to cover my tits that are still wet from his mouth.
“Al—” he starts, but I stand and scoop his shirt up off the floor before tossing it to him. Giving him my back, I reach under my shirt to fix my bra, feeling stupid. So goddamn stupid. I don’t turn around, and he doesn’t try to explain. After a moment, I hear the door open and shut behind him, leaving me alone with my bruised ego.
Stupid, stupid girl.
* * *
Two months later
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS UP with Travers?” my teammate, Riley, asks, scrubbing a towel across his wet hair. Despite Travers ignoring the plays I told him to run and trying to sabotage me anytime I got the ball in my pocket, we won the game tonight.
“Still pissed he didn’t make co-captain, I guess.” I shrug. Lacrosse is a real douchebag’s sport. Lots of rich, preppy, entitled assholes in polo shirts and fuckin’ boat shoes. They don’t like it when someone like me comes along, and Travers has had it out for me since day one. He likes to bait me into fighting him in hopes of getting me kicked off the team, since he knows I’m already on Coach’s shit list.
I look over toward Travers who’s smirking at me like a cat that got the canary. Like he’s in on something I’m not, and I don’t like it. “There a reason you’re smiling at my dick, Travers?” I ask just as I drop my towel. The entire team turns his way, everyone erupting in laughter.
The smirk falls off his face, his cheeks turning red.
Riley laughs, turning back to me. “Hurry up. I want to get back to the house before everyone shows up and drinks all the good shit.”
If it’s a weekend, it’s a safe bet that there will be a party at Riley’s. If we win a game, it’s not even a question.
“Shep!” Coach shouts, prowling through the locker room, not so much as pausing to greet the team. “A word.”
“What’d you do?” Riley frowns.
“Fuck if I know.” A look at Travers’ smug face has me feeling even more on edge. Coach has given me several warnings about my temper, so I tamp down the urge to hit him as I cross the short distance to Coach’s office.
“Shut the door,” he instructs
from his place behind his desk. “Sit down.” He points to the blue plastic chair in front of his desk. He’s silent for a minute, rubbing at his forehead as he looks down at his cell phone, seemingly conflicted. As the silence stretches, my palms start to sweat.
“You missed another practice this week.”
I stand stock-still, waiting for him to deal the blow that I know is coming. To be honest, I’m surprised I lasted this long.
“You got anything to say?” he asks.
“I had an emergency—”
“What about last week?” he asks, cutting me off. “And the week before that? Your grades are suffering. You’re missing classes and practices.” He ticks off my transgressions on his fingers. “You’re distracted on the field.”