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TUCK
One hundred and eleven days. That’s how long it’s been since the last time I had sex.
For some people, that might not be a long time. For me? It’s a fucking eternity.
Tonight, breaking this dry spell would be as easy as snapping my fingers. The house where I live with four of my teammates is packed for a victory party. The place is buzzing, drinks are flowing, spirits are high, and beautiful women have been shamelessly ogling me all night.
I’m talking to one right now, a girl in a tight blue dress who would only be too eager to help me reset the clock on this one-hundred-and-eleven-day celibacy streak.
She’s making that very clear with the way she’s batting her long eye-lashes at me; with the way she lets out squeals of laughter whenever I make a lame joke that isn’t funny at all; with the way she’s been finding any excuse to touch my arm or my chest; and especially with the way she’s blasting me with fuck-me eyes blatant enough to spot from outer space.
Hell, ending this dry spell would be easier than snapping my fingers.
But I’m not looking at the girl standing in front of me, the one whose body language is practically begging me to bring her up to my room.
No. I’m looking at someone else.
I’m looking at the girl across the room. The one with chestnut hair, sparkly green eyes, and a light dusting of pale freckles on the apples of her cheeks.
The girl I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I met her—one hundred and eleven days ago.
The girl who’s fixed herself in my mind and who’s kept my cock from as much as twitching for anyone else.
The girl who says she wants nothing to do with me. Olivia Lockley.
She’s over there talking to Summer, her best friend and my teammate Hudson’s girlfriend.
Her eyebrows bounce and her face becomes animated as she says something to Summer. There’s gotta be something really wrong with me, because I’m a lot more interested in wondering what she’s talking about than I am in the fact that the girl in front of me just mentioned how flexible she is.
Then Olivia’s face scrunches up, and I see her throw her head back to let out a peal of laughter. My heart leaps in my chest. I strain my ears to try and catch a note of it.
Olivia’s laughter—her real laughter, not the sarcastic, derisive kind she so often directs at me—is a sound like silver windchimes stirred by a gentle breeze. The kind of sound that grabs your heart.
But of course, I don’t catch even a hint of the sound over the pounding music and the loud rumble of conversation from the party.
My lips tug downward in disappointment. I raise my red Solo cup to my lips and down the last of my beer. Needing a refill will give me an excuse to disengage from the conversation with the girl in front of me. I’m just not feeling it.
I don’t want to be a dick, though. This girl—I’m pretty sure her name is Samantha—has been nice. Plus, she’s a fucking knock-out. If I weren’t in this weird hundred-plus-day funk, I’d be more than willing to give her exactly what she’s looking for.
So, instead of leaving her high and dry and bereft of a hunky hockey player, I call out to one of my teammates I notice walking by.
“Hey, Jamie!” I wave my hand to get the freshman second-liner’s attention.
He responds with a nod and walks over. I greet him with a clasp on the shoulder, and when my hand has a good hold of him, I do a little switcheroo, positioning him in front of Samantha while I step to the side.
“Samantha here was just telling me she’s from Northern California, too,” I say, an encouraging smile on my face as I glance between them. “Maybe you two have, uh, some acquaintances in common. Ya’ll get to know each other while I refill my drink.”
With that, I pull away from them and thread through the dense crowd towards the kitchen.
Okay, maybe that was pretty lame as far as introductions go. It’s not like the whole of fucking North California is a small town where everyone knows everyone.
But I didn’t want to dash Samantha’s dreams of ending the night with a hockey player, and Jamie’s so damn shy around girls that he needs an extra push sometimes. When I glance back and see that they both seem into the conversation with each other, I give myself a pat on the back.
Despite the best efforts of about a dozen scantily clad girls who try to snag my attention during the short walk through the crowd, I make it to the kitchen, where it’s less crowded. I fill up my drink and take a long first drag of it while I prop my hip against the counter of our kitchen island and let my eyes fall back on Olivia.
I let out a sigh when I notice her face pinching in laughter again, and it prompts me to wonder—what the hell’s gotten into me?
