Just one? “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, usually it’s a Saturday.” He makes a box with his hands, using his fingers to create the corners. “See, if our coaches don’t give us structure, some guys? Jeez, they just fucking cannot handle playing at this level. It’s like when the teacher would leave the room in grade school—total chaos.
The notoriety, the crowds…drugs, sex, booze…it’s a lot to handle.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way.”
Rowdy sets his water bottle on the railing, balancing it there, twirling the top until it spins. “Never have I ever had a wet dream.”
“Dude, what the hell!” I sputter. “Where did that one come from? Give a girl a little warning, why don’t cha.”
“Well? Have you?”
“Can girls have a wet dream? They don’t even have the necessary equipment.”
“You tell me.”
I roll my eyes for lack of a better, more mature reaction, taking a slow sip from my water bottle. Rowdy watches intently from his perch on the railing, swallowing down the last of his water.
“Just to clarify, we’re not going to start talking dirty.” No good can come of that; I don’t know if my heart can handle anything casual, and sex talk will only leave me feeling vulnerable.
“Why not?”
“Because once we go down that road, things are going to get weird. Trust me.”
“How so?”
“I read it somewhere in an article.”
“Reading is bad, you should stop.” He clicks his tongue. “So, what you’re telling me is, you don’t sit around talking pervy with your friends?”
I shoot him a look.
His sheepish grin does not bode well for me. “Never have I ever talked like a pervert with my friends.”
He chugs.
I chug. Wipe my mouth. “Stop doing that.”
He laughs. “Never have I ever watched porn alone in my room.”
“Would you stop?!”
We both drink.
“We need to start drinking alcohol when we play this game. It would be way more fun, and imagine how drunk we’d be.”
It really would be. “I have a feeling you’re going to be a horrible influence, Rowdy Wade.”
“I might be a bad influence, but you obviously like it, and I doubt you’d be coming back every Friday if you didn’t like the thrill of being rejected.”
I don’t tell him I come back to see him, that I don’t feel rejected—I feel excited. I anticipate each day of the week as they fall away, leading to my new favorite day of the week: Friday.
No, I don’t feel the thrill of rejection.
I feel the thrill of being with him on this porch.
“It really does make sense if you think about it: you’ve been told a few times you’re not allowed in the house, yet here you are for the third week in a row. Admit it, you like the element of being somewhere you’re not supposed to be. It’s kind of like breaking and entering.”
“What are you, a psych major?” I joke.
“Yes.”
“For real?”
“Oh yeah, I’m a huge fan of Freud. Huge.” Rowdy’s huge biceps bulge when he sticks his hands beneath his armpits, arms still crossed. “What about you? What’s your major?”
“Marine biology.”
“For real? That’s pretty fucking cool—too bad you’re in Iowa.”
Which is basically the same reaction I get from anyone I tell.
“I realize that, Rowdy. It would be great if I was near an ocean, but…” I didn’t get accepted anywhere on a coastline—not even close. Of course, I don’t tell this to Rowdy.
His mouth curls into a smile, hands still in his pits. “What’s your favorite sea creature?”
“Coral.”
His brows furrow as his head draws back. “How is that a sea creature?”
“Coral is alive,” I enthuse passionately. “And it’s so beautiful. Have you ever been scuba diving? Or snorkeling? Thousands of organisms dwell inside a single reef.” I clamp my mouth shut before I word-vomit my love for the bottom of the ocean floor.
“Like Nemo.”
“Exactly.” I grin. “And his father.”
“And Dory. Man that fish is whack.”
We’re grinning at each other like idiots. The easy set of Rowdy’s mouth has me clearing my throat, his scrutiny of me intimidating. Suddenly self-conscious, I pick at the hem of my jacket, fiddling with the zipper.
Have I mentioned how good-looking he is? Especially when he’s focused.
And right now, he’s focusing all his attention on me.
“I should probably go.” I move to stand up, hand ready to push off the wooden porch. “It’s getting so cold.”
His next question pins me back down and my ass hits the floor again.
“Doesn’t it bother you that your friends leave you out here?”
“You seem really fixated on this—no, my friends do not leave me out here.” They make themselves scarce so I can be alone with him.
“I’m not fixating on it, I just want to know that you’re not being completely shit on.”
“Why? Are you feeling protective?” I try to make a joke, but it falls flat, his mouth still pressed in a straight line.
Damn.
“I think…” I search for the right words. “I’m not going to fault them for loving parties, just like they don’t fault me for wearing puffy coats to those parties.”
He can’t tell if I’m being serious or a smartass. “Remind me where you met them?”
“The dorms.” I pick at a loose strand of yarn on my mittens. “My best friends from home are at other schools, you know how that is. I don’t get to see them unless it’s a holiday or whatever. I do have friends from my classes, but they do lots of studying.”
Which is what I should be doing more of if I want to improve my grades.
“Do you think those friends of yours inside realize they’re wasting their time with my teammates?” he muses, chewing the mouthpiece of his water bottle.
“What do you mean?”
“Derek and Ben? Brinkman? They might be pricks, but they can smell a gold digger from a mile away—no offense, but those girls you came with reek of desperation.” His smile is lazy as the bottle hits his lips. Lopsided grin, eyes hooded. He looks sated. “Not like you.”
“What about me?” The butterflies in my stomach flutter their wings.
He shrugs. “I couldn’t figure out what you were doing with those two. They’re not even close to being in the same league as you.”
“Did you just imply that I’m classy?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
I readjust myself, trying to get more comfortable on the hard ground, repositioning my legs. “You know, when the three of us were freshmen, we used to have way more fun. It wasn’t about guys and parties and hooking up.”
“What’d you do? Have, like, slumber parties and shit?”
“Something like that.” I laugh, biting back my smile, pausing with a new train of thought. “You know what I couldn’t stop thinking about when Ben and Derek were hitting on my friends?”
“What?”
“All I could think about was what it would be like to date them. They were so boring—no personalities.”
“How so?”
“Ben kept lying about the dumbest shit, like winning the title for the College World Series, and his pick-up lines were so terrible even I knew the punchlines. Zero effort. Do you know what that tells me, Rowdy Wade?”
Rowdy shifts on the railing. “What does that tell you?”
“He’s going to be selfish in bed.” At this point I’m wishing I’d gone with a beer instead of water. “I bet he’s not a giver.”
Rowdy chokes a little on his water. “Come again?”
My arms cross and I smirk at his pun—come again—giggling into the collar of my coat because occasionally I’m as juvenile as a fifteen-year-old boy.