I hear her sigh, a little sad but maybe more frustrated, and the topic drops. This isn’t the first time she’s invited me out with her, so it isn’t the first time I’ve turned her down, and it likely won’t be the last.
Despite what Jesse thinks, I haven’t put my love life on hold for Ivy.
I’m not waiting for her to finally see me or whatever unrequited love bullshit he’s comparing me to in those “best friends falling for each other and living happily ever after” kissing, sex books that Bailey’s always reading. In those stories, there’s always one sorry sap in the friendship who has been holding out hope that the other will fall in love with them and they’ll run off into the sunset to have three kids and adopt a dog.
That’s not me.
I’m not that sorry sap.
I’m not holding out hope because I know there isn’t any. I took my shot senior year of high school and fucked it up, but contrary to what Jesse believes, I’ve come to terms with that. I accept it, and I want Ivy to be happy, even if that’s not with me.
So, I’m not turning down Cassie’s offer because I’m saving myself for Ivy. That would be fucking dumb.
But.
The heart wants what it wants, and right now my heart is still tied up elsewhere. I’ve talked to other girls, gone on a few dates, but I refuse to start dating as a method to “move on” or whatever. I won’t do that to someone. It wouldn’t be fair to them, and it would
n’t be fair to me.
And besides, I’m not like Ivy and Jesse—I just can’t do the random hookups with random people thing. When I start dating again, it will be because I am finally free to invest myself in someone new. Until then, I’ll be maintaining my 4.0 GPA and my friendship.
* * *
Wednesday nights are for soccer.
When I was on the BU soccer team freshman year, practices were regimented and much more organized. Now I just get up with a bunch of dickbags on Wednesdays who like to fuck around with the ball. We run drills, and when enough of us are free we scrimmage. Some nights, like tonight, we’re able to get another group of dickbags together and we attempt to have something resembling a real game. It’s not an official college team, but I like this better.
In middle school, when I ate, slept, and breathed soccer, I had every intention of doing whatever necessary to go pro. In high school, when my dream of teaching history started to form, I was okay with playing soccer here at BU instead of doing it professionally. Now, after everything that happened with my soccer scholarship, I’m content with weekly scrimmages and work out drills with my merry band of ball kicking dickbags.
We’re a rag tag bunch, but we have fun.
After leading the team through some stretches, the student ref blows a whistle, and we post up, ready to kick ass. I don’t want to brag, but I’m a fucking brilliant midfielder, and “real” games like this one are the only time I can really unleash. So yeah, I’m confident we’ll wipe the floor with these frat douches, because I didn’t have a full ride soccer scholarship once upon a time for nothing.
Two hours later, I’m sweaty and physically spent in the second-best way. We ended up winning by a landslide.
“Good game, man,” Brewer says as he slaps me on my back.
Brewer is a decent guy. A little rough around the edges, but harmless. He’s a sophomore, a Poli Sci major, and a pretty good soccer player.
“You too, Brew,” I say between gulps from my water bottle.
“They thought they had us there for a minute,” Brewer laughs, “but they didn’t know they were up against a human rocket.”
I laugh at the compliment and give a shrug.
“What can I say, man. I’m a beast,” I joke back, and flex to show off a bicep. Brewer huffs out a laugh, and just as I’m about to toss out some more cocky bullshit, I hear my name called.
Ivy is waving at me from the side of the field.
I wave back with a smile, then turn to Brewer, ready to dismiss him, when I catch him ogling Ivy with a bawdy stare.
“Damn. I don’t know how you do it, man. If I had that hanging around, I sure as shit wouldn’t be playing Candy Land and making friendship bracelets.”
“So you’ve said,” I snap. I’m not having this conversation again.
“I’m just sayin’, man. Word around campus is she’s got a—”
“Stop,” I growl, cutting him off. “Finish that sentence, Brew, and I swear to fuck I’ll kick your ass. I mean it.”