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“Ask a guy friend to... take my virginity?” I say it aloud, hoping it sounds less crazy in my voice, but that somehow just makes it weirder.
“Someone you’re close with,” she says. “Someone experienced who won’t make a big deal out of it. You’ve got some of those lying around, right?”
I swallow. “Sure. I’ve got... friends.”
“Mine was my friend, Paul. Theatre workshop. Freshman year. We got a hotel room for an entire weekend. He taught me everything I know.” She glances up, grinning. “The things he could do with his hands...” After a moment, she returns with a sigh. “I should see what he’s up to nowadays.”
I sit quietly. Unfortunately, guy friends aren’t that plentiful in my life. Girl friends, sure, but none of them are going to Chicago North. Find a guy friend. An experienced guy friend who would punch my V-card.
Where am I gonna find a guy like that by next week?
A knock strikes the door. It opens before Courtney can say anything.
“Good evening, ladies.”
Connor greets us with a head nod from the hallway. “Court, Coach is here,” he says to his sister. “Mom says come down.”
Courtney sighs. “We’ll be down in a minute.”
Wait...
Connor.
We make eye contact. He smiles, the warm and familiar smirk of a guy I’ve known my entire life. My brothers’ best friend. The quarterback.
“Go away,” Courtney says to him. “We’re having a private conversation here.”
The Homecoming king.
The Halftime Heartbreaker.
He steps back slowly, purposefully annoying his sister. His eyes linger on me a moment more before he finally turns, leaving the door wide open.
Courtney sighs with an outstretched arm. “Born in a barn,” she murmurs as she pushes the door.
It closes with a click.
Connor.
The closest thing in the world I have to a guy friend. But he wouldn’t...
Would he?
CHAPTER 3
CONNOR
I was thirteen the first time I noticed that my father never called my grandfather Coach.
My mother’s father is a living legend. Cary Pierce, one of the greatest living quarterbacks to play professional football. Some of his records have never been broken. The ones that have were broken by my father, Junior Morgan.
I asked him one night, just after Coach’s annual birthday dinner. Why don’t you ever call him Coach like everyone else does? He was his coach once upon a time at Chicago North University. For a season, at least.
My father went quiet for a moment, then he looked at me and said, “Your grandfather and I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye on things.”
I thought that was strange. What could two men with so much in common possibly have to disagree on? Before I could ask, my mother called us back inside. I never got the chance to follow up, but as we walked inside, my father immediately went to my sister and hugged her.
“Dad, what the hell?” She grimaced and pushed him away. At seventeen, she was way too cool for that level of parental affection.
