Page 30 of Best Man on Campus

“Thank you. I appreciate your confidence. And taking the time to talk with me.” She grunts and I get up and give her a pat on the shoulder as I walk by on my way up the back stairs. It’s well past time I turned my attention to where it should be. Studying.

After a few mind-numbing hours of memorizing organic chem terms, prepping for the midterm exam, I turn out my light and hit my bed. My body and soul are exhausted, but my mind still buzzes around the image of Jazzy. I’m contemplating whether I need to jack off to get some sleep when my phone buzzes.

I have no idea who’d be calling at this time of night, but my nerves jump and I reach for the phone. It’s an unknown number. That ratchets up my heart rate. There aren’t many reasons a stranger would be calling past midnight. It could be about one of my parents, an emergency. I sit up on the edge of the bed, tension twisting my gut, now expecting the worst possible news, as I answer the call on the third buzz.

I say, “Ben Weaver—”

“I know who I’m calling, you twit.” Jazzy’s voice slams into me like a wild beast, full of pissy energy, and I let out a breath on a snort of laughter, though my gut remains clenched albeit for totally different reasons than before. Anxiety about getting bad news about my parents turns to a confusing mix of emotions working me up, stirring excitement through me, right down to my dick. Not tired anymore.

“You’re the last person I expected to be calling me.” I enjoy the pause, knowing I’ve pushed back, putting her on the defensive.

“No shit, right?” she says, her voice easing, and I wonder what the hell this is all about.

“I was just about to fall asleep,” I lie. “What’s up?”

“Good. Now you can dream about me,” she says, still not getting to the point. Unless harassing me, wanting to torture me is the point. I should tell her she needn’t have bothered calling in that case because I’m feeling plenty tortured, thank you very much. But I don’t. I wait for her to go on. After the silence drags on for a few beats and my poor heart pounds harder with the waiting, I relent.

“It’s your dime, Jazzy. Why did you call?”

“Does there need to be a reason? I thought we were like, lovers now. Aren’t we supposed to have midnight calls and drive each other crazy and shit like that?”

I laugh because what else can I do? Some of my tension disappears at her mockery. She has a reason. It looks like I’ll have to wait for it.

“Whatever you say.”

She lets out a sigh, the long-suffering, overly dramatic kind meant to exaggerate and make fun out of whatever has her so nervous.

“Fine. So you have a hockey game tomorrow—or rather tonight, right?” She pauses for me to confirm, as if I need to. And I have no idea where she’s going with this, but I’m intrigued as fuck now.

“Right.”

“And I thought you were supposed to be some kind of nice guy, but here I am, your fucking lover for fuck’s sake and you don’t even give me a ticket to said game.” The way she says lover makes it sound like a joke, but a grin pops onto my face as I lie back on my bed, unreasonably pleased that she wants a fucking ticket to my game.

“It’s yours, Jazzy. You can have as many tickets to as many games as you want.” There’s a pause because my answer is far more serious than her anxious pseudo banter. My tone speaks to the underlying need she has to be soothed. I shouldn’t be this pleased and I shouldn’t make rash open-ended promises, but she has me unguarded, she has my heart in her fist right now—or at least my dick. I’m unreasonably in lust with her though there’s so much more to my crazy-ass attraction.

“Fuck, hockey boy. Even I know it’s the playoffs and tonight’s game could be your last. As many games as I want? Sure. I’ll take one ticket for tonight’s game.”

“It’s yours. I’ll leave it for you at will-call.” My grin widens. “But Jazzy, I can guarantee you there will be another game.”

“You’re an arrogant son of a bitch for a humanitarian.” She says humanitarian like she’s calling me a devil. I laugh, admittedly feeling far more like that devil right now. My dick is fully aroused and my hand itches to reach down and fist it. But I don’t. We have a game in less than twenty hours. Fuck, I need to get some sleep and I’m wondering if I’ll be able to now with every nerve ending alive and sparking in reaction to Jazzy. And she’s not even in the fucking room.

“Tell me something,” she says “What the fuck did you do to be named a finalist for the Hockey Humanitarian award, unicorn boy?”

That fucking award. I laugh, but I’m reluctant to tell her. It’s tough not to sound like a holier-than-though prick when I answer that question. I hate it and people ask me all the time because it’s the first thing my mother says now when she introduces me to whoever she brings to the games with her up from New York. Fuck. Jazzy’s ticket will put her right next to my mom tonight.

“Well? Spit it out.”

“Or what?” I say. She laughs.

“Or I’ll think of something to get you. Fair warning. I’m good at fucking with people.”

“I have no doubt.” I sigh. I’ll tell her about the humanitarian shit, but I’m not going to tell her about sitting with my mom at the game. I’m a chickenshit, I know, but I don’t want her backing out.

“I raised some money for holiday presents this past December for kids at the clinic in New York where my dad works.”

“Oh yeah? How much money?”

I blow out a breath. “Five thousand—”