5. Is That My Face?
OLIVIA
I normally manage my lack of height well.
I keep a stool in my office at work for whenever I need it, and I climb a mean kitchen countertop at home to reach the high things I don’t use all that frequently.
The problem is after all these years, I still forget sometimes.
I’ve pulled countless muscles trying to crawl up walls toward shelves, standing on tiptoes and reaching just a little bit higher , attempting to turn into Spider-Man and scale the volleyball net to disassemble it.
Today is one of those days where it’s me versus the volleyball net.
The noises I’m making are entirely unholy, bordering on the edge of sounds I reserve for when I’m alone in my bedroom with my vibrating pocket boyfriend, and I keep glancing over my shoulder toward my office at one end of the gym.
I can see the damn step stool right there, holding the freaking door open so I wouldn’t forget it.
I guess I got a little wrapped up in knowing today is the last day of school before Christmas break, and I’m about to have two weeks off with very little reason to wear a bra.
“ Miss Parkerrr .” Amusement drips from my name, the way it’s sung, and I’m unsurprised that— again —one of my senior boys has stuck around to tease me. “Wanna come to a party this weekend?”
I barely spare the sandy blond leaning in the doorway of the boy’s change room a glance. “Stop inviting me to your parties, Brad. I’m your teacher.”
“Yeah, the best teacher.” Brad saunters my way with the swagger of a man with all the confidence in the world.
It’s oddly reminiscent of Carter Beckett, and I shudder to think there might be another in the future as arrogant as him.
Where do people find all this confidence?
“I’d love to party with you. So would the rest of them.
” He inclines his head toward the change room and licks his lips.
I don’t know if it’s intentional or not.
Probably, because these boys are ballsy little piglets.
I’ve got a strange urge to knee him where it hurts, but I resist, focusing on the task ahead: trying to get the stupid string out of the stupid loop so I can put this stupid volleyball net away and not think of it until next year.
Brad’s behind me a moment later, his chest brushing against my back while I try not to choke on his cologne.
One spritz is fine; seven brings me back to the Spring Fling in eighth grade where I had my first kiss.
It was intoxicating, and not because the kiss was great, but because he wore so much cheap cologne I felt woozy.
Brad puts me out of my misery, pulling the top string, and I watch one side of the net float to the ground.
“Thanks,” I mutter, folding the length of the net into small sections as I move across the width of the gym. He strolls past me and leans against the pole that’s still attached to the remainder of the net. “Take it down, Brad, please.”
“Aren’t you at least gonna try first?”
“No, I’m not, because that would be pointless, wouldn’t it?” My arms pin across my chest as I pop a hip. I’m a bit of an Attitude-y Judy, which, admittedly, makes me a good fit for the role of a high school phys-ed teacher. My teens can handle my sass, and I can handle theirs. “Take it down.”
Brad grins and pulls the net down. “Geez. Testy.”
He follows me to the storage room, propping himself up beside the garage-style door while I pack the net away.
“You know, my birthday’s January third. When we get back from Christmas vacation, I’ll be eighteen.”
And I’ll still be twenty-five, his teacher, and super uninterested. “Good for you. Happy early birthday.” I slam the door down, slide the lock in place, and stalk off toward my office, tossing a, “Merry Christmas, Brad,” over my shoulder.
But Brad doesn’t take the hint. He rarely does. That’s why he lets out a deep belly groan as he follows behind me like a lost little puppy. “Will you ever stop playing hard to get?”
“Are you my student?”
“Yes.”
“Then no.”
“Fine,” he calls from the doorway. “But in six-and-a-half months I won’t be your student anymore!”
“Even then, Brad,” I whisper, more to myself than anything, because I’m hoping he’s disappeared by now.
But a quick glance up shows me he hasn’t.
Rather, his blue eyes blaze with zeal as they dip down my body.
I plant my hands on my hips. “Are you for real right now? Get out of here and come back in January without this whole flirting-with-my-gym-teacher crap. It’s annoying, uncomfortable, and highly inappropriate. ”
His grin tells me he has no intention of changing his ways or growing up over the break. “Bye, Miss Parkerrr,” he singsongs, disappearing around the corner with a group of his friends.
Teenage boys. Always thinking with the head in their pants, rather than the one on top of their shoulders. Then they grow up to be men who still do the exact same fucking thing.
I stuff my laptop into my bag, tuck myself into my coat, and pull out my phone before I lock my door and walk out of the gym and into the hallway.
I flip through my text messages. They’re relatively unimportant, as they usually are.
One from my mom, wishing me a happy last day of school.
Another from my brother, begging me to make his favorite blueberry pie for dessert on Christmas, a series of prayer emojis trailing the question.
The one from my niece Alannah is a crapload of silly emojis and an I love you, Auntie Ollie .
She’s only seven but Grandma and Grandpa spoil her to hell and back—likely because they go several months without seeing her—so she got an iPad for her birthday and she texts me every day without fail.
I don’t mind; those I love you texts make my heart swell.
My gaze settles on a series of text messages from Cara, all of which start exactly at the time of the final school bell. I don’t even have time to read them before my phone rings.
“How do you do that?” I ask, sandwiching my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I dig my car keys out of my bag. “How do you know the moment I have my phone in my hand?”
“Call it a twin thing,” Cara replies simply.
“We’re not twins. We’re not even related.”
“We’re soul sisters, Liv, and you know it.”
I climb into my car, turn the ignition, and listen to the engine struggle before it shuts itself off. “Fuck me,” I groan, giving it another go.
“You need a new car.”
“No I don’t. Red Rhonda works just fine, don’t you, girl?” I pat the dash, say a prayer, and crank the ignition once more. The engine roars to life and I sink back in my seat with a sigh, waiting for the car to warm up.
“You are gonna run old Rhonda straight into the ground.” Cara laughs. “Anyway, I’ve got an extra ticket to the game tonight. Wanna come? We’re going out for drinks after.”
Hockey game? Drinks?
Tell me it’s a dangerous idea without telling me it’s a dangerous idea.
I’ll go first: I’ll have to spend the entire evening pretending like I don’t notice Carter, which is hard, captain of the team and all that.
He’s bound to have a girl or two hanging off him later and that’ll irritate me even though I already know he’s a manwhore.
Plus, he probably won’t even remember my name, which might piss me off more.
I can only hold off on punching conceited assholes in the throat for so long.
“I’m pretty tired,” is the response I give Cara.
Not really, but I never turn down the opportunity to take off my bra, throw on my grubbiest sweats, and curl up on my couch with a good smut book or four hours straight of Netflix.
“Ah, c’mon, Ol,” she groans. “Don’t you remember how much fun we had last weekend? You’re on vacation! Let’s party!”
Do I remember how much fun I had? Which part?
Grinding all over Cara because being a respectable human five days a week is exhausting and I desperately needed to let loose?
Or Carter Beckett telling me he wanted to fuck me silly and buy me breakfast?
Maybe it was the two-hour post-pizza-and-Carter nap, followed by three hours of Brooklyn 99 reruns after I got home from my brother’s house Sunday night.
I guess it was kinda fun.
“Livvie? Please, babe. For me.” The pout she’s definitely wearing is audible. “I’ll be your best friend.”
“You already are my best friend,” I point out, but when she whimpers through the phone, I sigh. “You’re utterly ridiculous.”
“And you’re soft as fuck. You should learn to say no to me every once in a while.” Her shrill squeal rings in my ear before she prattles off details for tonight, and then promptly hangs up on me before I can change my mind.
* * *
“I don’t understand why the floors are already so sticky when the game hasn’t even started yet.” My nose scrunches as I listen to my Chucks peel off the floor with each step. “And especially all the way down here.”
I scan the arena as we move down the row and take our seats.
We’re sitting directly behind the bench—perks of dating one of the assistant captains, I guess—so it’s not as if five hundred people have walked down the row before finding their own seats.
Which begs the question: Why in the hell are my shoes sticking to everything?
“The floors are always disgusting.” Cara pops the top off a king can of beer, depositing it into my waiting hands. “That’s why I don’t bother with heels anymore.”
“That must have been such a tough decision for you to make, what with heels being such appropriate attire for hockey games.”
She flicks me in the temple and I snicker, stealing a handful of popcorn from the giant red-and-white striped bucket in her lap.
“Carter was asking Em about you this week.” She says the sentence so casually, as if it’s totally normal for arguably the hottest guy in the NHL to ask about you.
I hammer a fist against my chest as a popcorn kernel lodges itself in my throat. “Pardon?”