Page 31 of Best Man on Campus

“Thousands? Shit. What’d you do for that? Bet you had a sore dick for a while.”

I can’t help laughing at her outrageous irreverence.

“Hell, I didn’t think of renting out my dick for money. Maybe I should have tried that.”

“There’s always next year.”

I don’t bother telling her about the coat drive during winter break. It’s incidental.

“So is that it? I don’t know if it’s enough to win. I bet the other finalists have a deeper resume of good deeds.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You’re holding back, aren’t you?” I hear the relish in her voice, can feel her moving in for the kill, to nail me by forcing some horrible, or in this case, embarrassing revelation. I swear if she were in the room with me, I’d kiss her so hard and long she’d forget the fucking Humanitarian Award existed. She’d forget her own name. My dick dances around thinking about her mouth, her tongue in mine and the way she feels in my arms.

“Well? Do you need another warning, hockey boy?”

“I’ll take some time in the penalty box with you any day,” I say, hoping she knows enough about hockey to know what a penalty box is.

She clicks her tongue. “Okay, you’ve forced me to google you—”

“Don’t bother. You win. I ran a coat drive. We collected over a hundred coats for the parish near where my parents live.”

“That it?”

“That’s all there is. I’m sure I’m in third place of the three finalists.”

“I’m sure you’re in first place in my… on my list.” I know I heard her right though she rushes on.

“Listen, I gotta go. Have a great game. Break a leg or whatever they say for good luck in hockey.”

“Do me a favor, Jazzy,” I say and pause for her to agree.

“Fine. What the fuck do you want from me?”

I laugh though I’m not sure she’s joking. “Wait for me after the game.” I leave it at that. I don’t tell her I want her to go out with me afterward, that I want to spend the night with her again. One step at a time.

“Sure. You got it, hockey boy.” She ends the call and I’m listening to dead air against my ear.

Fuck. She’s tough. But damn if her promise doesn’t excite the shit out of me. Enough to overshadow the trepidation. With Jazzy, I have a feeling that trepidation will always live in my gut at some level. Proving I’m a glutton for punishment. Proving I’m more my father’s son than I want to be.

* * *

This morning’s skate around is a light one, mostly to get us together and keep us wired for the game tonight. I’m first on the ice and Voz skates on, circling me and laughing, shaking his head. Kace tells him to back off and I have no clue what’s going on but I can tell from the looks on the other guys’ faces there’s something. Coach blows the whistle to start skating, ending the drama as we loosen up and then do drop drills.

At the end of the skate, I’m the last off the ice. Even the coaches leave before me. I like to linger out here, breathe in the cold air, take a spin around alone and feel the ice, listen to the scrape of my blades. I’m savoring it, knowing my time for hockey is coming to an end, the minutes flying away from me with soul-crushing speed.

When I get to the locker room I reminded there’s something going on because Kace takes me aside immediately, pulling me to his locker and grabbing his phone.

“I need to show you the fucking TikTok video Jazzy posted because it’s clear as fuck you haven’t seen it yet.” He swipes the screen, his brow furrowed and jaw tense, and concern edges through me. But I cut it off because it’s only a TikTok video. Who gives a fuck?

Kace shows me on his phone. “Look at this. You need to comment and diffuse the shitstorm. That girl is unbelievable.”

Stone comes over and says, “Fucking trouble.”

I take the phone, calm and cool, not reacting to either of them, and look at the screen.

Holy fucking shit. I can barely hear the words to her song, but they fit the picture perfectly, the siren note, calling to the place in all young men where the base instinct to satisfy every wild sexual urge lives. She shows her ecstasy, sings it in a pained plaintive voice as she slips her fingers into her panties and between her thighs and plays with her pussy, until she writhes, arching into her release—or her faked orgasm. I’m not sure which, but her breathy words claim it’s real, claiming that she’s won her bet with fate and her unicorn. Fuck.