Chapter Fourteen
NOW
It takes forever to get through the swarm of congratulatory partiers once we arrive at Ferris’s.
Everyone wants a piece of Chase—a picture, an autograph, a hug, a kiss on the cheek.
… I can’t imagine what else they’d be looking for if he were single, but he made very clear at the game that he isn’t, and I walk through the crowd feeling like I’m wearing a full-body halo.
“Sorry it’s such a circus,” he murmurs to me when yet another guy comes over and claps a meaty hand on his shoulder.
It seems like every athlete at Stratford has come out for this, whether they’re into football or not.
News travels fast. I had to set my phone to Do Not Disturb because it was lighting up with notifications from every single social media app.
People aren’t just cheering on the team’s win or Chase’s record; they’re sharing videos of him asking me to the dance, of me responding, of their heart-eye emojis and dreams of finding a guy like that.
It’s not like I’m unused to getting some attention, but this is seriously next-level. Even Shannon’s completely out-of-control sweet sixteen didn’t storm social media like this, and she had performers from Cirque du Soleil.
I can’t see Shannon, but I can hear her across the room, laughing and flirting and, from the sound of it, getting deep into Ferris’s extensive liquor stash.
I wonder if she’s with Gia and Tommy, or with Lucas, or with someone else entirely.
I’m just glad she’s here. It means she’s not sulking over not being the star of the night, like she did last year when Tommy’s promposal to Gia way overshadowed hers, or when dating-my-lab-partner-Jamie Taylor dyed their hair to match the nonbinary flag the same day Shannon got her first lowlights.
“Well, if it isn’t the king and queen of the evening!” Linus Doyle swoops forward with an exaggerated bow, Hunter Ferris himself at his heels.
“We have reservedeth a room for the royal couple,” Ferris says in a regal voice, “but do not breaketh any shit, for it is my parents’ room. Eth.”
“Dude, why would you let us use your parents’ room?” Chase asks, and I like him even more for it.
Ferris shrugs. “They’re out of town for the week, and the maid’s coming tomorrow anyway,” he answers in his regular voice. “Just don’t be gross and don’t try on any of my dad’s cravats.”
“Why would—”
“I know, you wouldn’t think people would have to be told that,” Ferris says, cutting me off and glaring at Linus, “and yet.”
Chase twines his fingers in mine and gives my hand a little tug. “You wanna?”
I think back to watching him dominate the field, to the smiles and winks he threw my way, the proud thanks at the end.
I think of all the times I’ve admired his body in uniform or at pool parties or just walking down the hall wearing jeans way too well.
I think of how the last time I took off my clothes with someone, it was my last night in the Outer Banks, a single night that felt much too honest at the time yet has been anything but since the first day of school.
And I say, “Yeah, I wanna.”
Ferris wasn’t kidding when he said they saved us a room; there’s a sign with a crown bearing a number 14 on the door and a little bowl next to the bed with more condoms than anyone could possibly use over the length of a party.
My stomach flips at the sight. I’ve done my share of fooling around, but none of it has actually necessitated one of those colorful little packets.
Not that I’m opposed, and especially not with Chase; he’s been the guy I’ve imagined my first time with for years. Though maybe not in some guy’s parents’ bed at a house party, before we’ve gone on a second real date.
Chase laughs when he sees them. “I see someone was a little optimistic.” He closes the door behind us and swoops down to drop a kiss on my cheek. “Don’t worry. I have zero expectation of using those tonight.”
“Good,” I say without thinking, and before I can wonder if that was a mistake, Chase lifts me in his arms and kisses me.
“I thought your muscles hurt,” I mumble against his lips.
“Oh, right,” he says, and he drops me on the bed with a wicked grin.
“Hey!” But there’s no time for my teasing protest because he’s crawling up the bed and taking my face in his hands—paint smears be damned—and we’re making out like everyone else in the house, in the world, has disappeared.
“I hope this paint comes off in the wash,” I murmur as Chase kisses my neck, my arms definitely staining the linen.
“I hope it doesn’t,” he says, pushing aside the shoulder of my shirt to kiss the skin it was hiding. “There should be evidence of Stratford’s newest record holder scoring yet again that same night.”
“That’s awful.”
“I’m just teasing.” His fingers creep up my shirt, grazing over my belly button ring, waiting to see if they’ll be stopped on their journey to my special occasion lace bra.
They won’t.
I can feel the exact moment he realizes it.
“Hi there,” I say, and he laughs into my neck.
I help him slip my shirt off and then there’s no more talking, no more teasing, no more laughing.
The kissing is fast and furious, hands wandering, and his shirt joins mine, casually tossed on the floor.
We’re skin-on-lace and skin-on-skin and it’s all good until we start hearing catcalls through the door.
“Get it, Harding!”
“Go, boy, go!”
Oh God. I want to die, but Chase wrenches his mouth away from mine long enough to yell, “Fuck off, losers,” before reclaiming it.
There’s more laughing outside and a voice that is definitely Linus’s calls, “I hope you’re properly servicing our champion!
” but it’s a little more distant than the voices had been before and there’s a clear shuffling on the stairs and the sound of someone else—Keith or Lucas, maybe—saying, “Move it, pervs.”
I slump against Chase. “Well, that’s kind of a mood killer.”
“Is it?” He kisses me, clearly not bothered in the slightest.
The truth is, I don’t know. I hate that they make me sound like a groupie, but isn’t that what I am? What I’ve always been? Didn’t I sit in the bleachers for years just watching, cheering, being a fangirl of this guy who barely said hi in the halls until this year?
Didn’t I have fantasies of “servicing the champion” late at night in my room, in the bathtub?
Isn’t every bit of this exactly what I wanted?
“Maybe not,” I say, hoping it sounds like a genuine concession. I don’t want it to be a mood killer. I want us to be on the same page. I want this to feel real. I spent so much time fantasizing and I get to make it come true if I want to.
It’s so much power.
I just wish it felt like power I still wanted.
In a flash, I think of Gia, how she makes her dreams happen—whatever they are. How she does the thing and hopes emotions will follow, and they usually do. I can do that. I can do the thing. I can do the thing and feel what I want to feel, what I’m probably just too self-conscious to feel.
“I don’t know if I’m properly ‘servicing the champion,’” I say, tapping his lower lip.
“Again, not something I was counting on happening tonight.”
“I know.” And I do. “But say I wanted to.”
His eyebrows rise a fraction. “Do you?”
I’ve always wanted to, I think, but it’s a weird answer and a weird non-answer all at the same time, so I kiss down his chest instead, figuring that’ll say everything I need.
His breath hitches as I get to the top of his jeans and slowly undo the button, and it’s quiet enough for me to hear that there’s still hollering coming in our direction, but it must be from downstairs. I wish we’d put on music or something, but it’d seemed so loud earlier that it wasn’t necessary.
Now all I hear is my own heartbeat pulsing in my ears and Chase’s shallow, rapidly increasing breaths as we take the “high scorer” title to a whole new level.
For as much as he doesn’t care what other people hear or don’t, he bites into a pillow rather than screaming out, and it takes away any doubt I might’ve had about whether he’s worth taking this leap.
“Holy shit,” he breathes when we’re done.
So, not bad for my first time on a guy, then. Apparently the reading up on it I used to do in preparation of this moment paid off. Good to know.
“Do I get your MVP trophy now?” I ask.
He laughs, still weak as he relaxes against the pillows. “For now. But you have to give me the chance to earn it back.”
His gaze flickers over my short skirt and it takes me a minute to realize what he’s saying.
One of Shannon’s rules was never to go down on a guy because it gives them all the power and they never reciprocate, which Gia reluctantly confirmed was true, though she definitely did it all the time anyway.
Kiki had just snorted, and I’d pretended I was taking notes, as usual, though I’d been thinking, Good—I wouldn’t want him to.
Way too many guys talk about how gross it is and I don’t ever want Chase to look at me that way.
Shannon’s proving to be wrong; reciprocating clearly isn’t an issue for Chase, not with the way he’s eyeing me. And it’s also clear he isn’t gonna find it—or me—gross. But … I still don’t want him to do it. It’s never been part of my Chase fantasy.
And, okay, maybe I’m not ready to have my memory of the one time someone did go down on me replaced, especially since it’s clear that’s never happening with Jasmine again.
Maybe.
“We’ve got plenty of time for that in the future,” I say, giving him a quick kiss. “How about we go downstairs before those guys come back and harass us again? Besides, you should spend some time at your own party.”
He looks disappointed for a moment, but only that. “True—we’ve always got Homecoming. I can get a room, if you want.”
From zero expectations to a room at Homecoming in the space of one blow job. Noted.
My thoughts must show on my face because he quickly adds, “No pressure.”