Chapter Sixteen
Leo
Do I know how to date a girl? Nope, not a clue.
I knew how to hook up with girls—albeit not usually more than once with the same person—but Sophia was an entirely different story.
After I’d gone up to the weight room, I’d realized I should have capitalized on the opportunity in front of me by requesting dates or at least regular hang outs, but my mind had been too preoccupied with the streamers and confetti flying around at the surprise realization that she wanted to have sex with me on an ongoing basis.
In the spur of the moment, I’d thrown out my request to be friends, hoping we could at least be friends with benefits instead of just fuck buddies.
Maybe our arrangement could turn into something more.
Maybe if we spent time together, what we had could turn into dating.
As strange as it felt for me to admit it, I knew that was what I wanted with her.
She made my heart skip beats in ways I was pretty sure I should ask my dad about—medically speaking.
I hadn’t known Sophia would be coming to practice this morning.
Coach had said it was a possibility, but when I’d glanced up at the stands and saw her there leaning over a notebook with her dark hair curtaining her face, I’d been unable to suppress the joy I’d felt.
Knowing her eyes were on me while I practiced did something to me I didn’t understand, but I was dying for her to be in the stands cheering for me at our games and waiting for me outside the locker room so we could leave together.
I wanted this girl in a way that was completely foreign to me, and I didn’t know what to do with those feelings.
Asking her to hang out platonically may have been a random impulse, but I didn’t know how else to get her to see me as more than just someone for sex and it seemed like a good place to start.
If a friendship didn’t lead to anything then maybe I could at least get this crush out of my system and stop obsessing over her laugh and those eyes.
I’d read her second article as soon as it was released yesterday and I still wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
On the one hand, she’d practically flirted with me in the article, saying she could be a Bruins fan with good reason, but on the other, she’d essentially warned everyone on campus against having a relationship with hockey players because of our grueling schedules.
Knowing how she felt about her family in Hawaii, I had a feeling that no matter what we turned into during this little research project of hers, it would be over at graduation.
I was starting to get antsy by the time I left dinner with Devon and Rickles. Sophia still hadn’t reached out. Not that I’d expected her to be asking for sex immediately, but I had thought she’d maybe text me so I’d have her number. I should have just asked for her number.
Why? So, you can look like the needy little weirdo you’re turning into?
“I’ll see you later,” I said to the guys as they turned toward a party on frat row. I had no interest in being at a party and I figured hanging out with Jace would be my best bet since I did a fairly good job forgetting about anything else when I was immersed in a video game.
Me: You wanna hang out?
Jace: Sorry, little dude. Got a date.
Of course. Jace never sits at home waiting for people to call him.
I had a history paper due in a couple days and the responsible thing to do would probably be to use this free time to start that. I’d just walked into my dorm room when my phone rang. My pulse soared. I ripped it out of my pocket and thrust it to my ear without looking at it.
“Hey,” I said, excited and smooth.
“I’ve never heard you so eager to talk to me,” Aunt Sloane said, sounding amused.
“Oh.” My voice dropped. “Hey, Aunt Sloane.”
“Okay, well clearly you thought I was someone else,” she said. My aunt had a distinct tone of voice that we all knew included eye rolling so I didn’t have to see her to recognize it was happening.
“Sorry.” I lay down on my bed. “What’s up?”
“I got us M?neskin tickets for their show in a few weeks. They’re coming to TD Garden.”
“Sweet!” I yelled. Aunt Sloane and I had been going to rock concerts together for years.
My mother loved pop music and at some point when I was a toddler, Aunt Sloane decided she couldn’t let me grow up thinking that was what counted as good music, so she’d made it her mission to get me into rock.
It’d worked and we loved all the same bands.
“I’ll text you the details and if your schedule doesn’t work out, I’ll just drag Lavi along.”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Aunt Sloane,” I said. We talked for a few more minutes before I hung up the phone and focused on my history paper. It was midnight and I was just about done with my first draft when my phone chimed with a text.
Sophia: Hey, this is Sophia.
My heart started racing. Seriously, what is with my body these days? Do all crushes make you feel like you’re going to die from relief when you talk to them? Seems inconvenient, not to mention dangerous.
I immediately saved her number before leaning back in my desk chair. I hoped I came across a lot cooler than I felt after having waited to hear from her all day.
Me: Hey, Hawaii. It’s after midnight. Is this our first booty call?
Sophia: It would be safe for you to assume that I won’t be asking for any booty calls. Do people still do that?
Me: You’ve never been on the receiving end of a booty call? Not even from that douchebag ex of yours?
Sophia: Okay, I know we’ve established that Connor and I were not right for each other. Thanks for that, by the way.
Me: Anytime.
Sophia: But I don’t want you to call him a douchebag. He’s nice, and someday he’ll make some girl happy. That girl just isn’t going to be me.
Me: Okay, would you be fine with it if I refer to him from this point forward as your “grossly misinformed ex”? Because he is, and it’s hard for me to ignore that.
Sophia: Hahaha, yes.
Me: Cool. Let it be stated on the record, for whatever your next article about us is, that I’m glad he’s out of the running for your attention.
Sophia: My articles aren’t about us.
Me: Then why are you flirting with me in them?
Sophia: Your arrogance knows no bounds.
Sophia: I’m texting because I have a question about hockey.
Me: And you’re not using a search engine for this research because…?
Sophia: I figured you’d be faster and more accurate.
Me: Should I just leave the sexual undertone of that comment alone?
Sophia: Yes, please. What are those stretch things you were doing called?
Me: You stretch before you surf? Or before your fancy, Navy SEAL workouts?
Sophia: Yes.
Me: Okay, well I don’t know about you, but I just call those…wait for it…
Me: Stretches.
Sophia: Thank you. You’re hilarious. I’m surprised more people aren’t trying to get access to your new phone number so they can hear this comedy firsthand.
Me: Thank you. My major is sports medicine, but I’d probably excel in your writing classes if comedy was a topic.
Me: Speaking of your major, seems like a good time to ask if you’re good at it. I seem to be defining words for you more than I’d expect from someone in their senior year who is almost done with an English degree.
Sophia: You know what, I’ll just use a search engine for the rest of my hockey questions. Their responses are less sarcastic.
Me: Also, less funny.
Me: Why do you want to know what those are anyway? I assume it was the groin ones that caught your attention?
I smirked at the phone as I followed up my message with a winky face, wishing I was with her to see the blush that I knew would appear on her cheeks when she read my question.
Sophia: I was thinking about the recent pop-culture obsession with hockey romance novels and when I saw those stretches it got me thinking about an interesting article topic.
Me: I bet it did.
Sophia: Well, it certainly seems like a more interesting topic for an article than talking about whatever flicky things you were doing with that stick.
Sophia: And it’s normal for an English major to need to learn hockey terminology.
I laughed out loud and hopped up out of my chair, moving to my bed and lying on my back. I had practice in the morning and was already exhausted. I should have been going to bed, but I was happy to text her all night even if it meant dragging ass on the ice.
Me: Let’s get one thing straight, Hawaii. I never flick my stick. I handle it with the care and precision it requires. I grip it firmly and move my wrist in a practiced motion. My stick is a precious tool with an important job to do.
Sophia: Are you for real right now?
Me: I am.
Sophia: Are you talking about your dick or your hockey stick?
I laughed heartily again.
Me: Both of course. And in hockey, that’s called stickhandling.
Sophia: Right, I’m sure the internet was going to tell me that any minute.
Me: Rely on the internet if you want, but I think you’ll be much more entertained entering your remaining questions into this text thread.
Me: Also, if you need any pictures of me handling my stick to help you with your article (or book research), just let me know.
Sophia: Now you’re talking about your dick, aren’t you?
Me: I don’t keep my hockey stick in my dorm.
Sophia: Great, now I’ve unwittingly entered the unsolicited-dick-pic era of my life.
Me: Don’t you get me at all yet? I’m only going to send you what you want to see. I just want you to know, I’m willing. You’d be the first to ever get one from me too.
Sophia: Wow. The honor I feel right now is hard to put into words.
Me: Again, as a writer, I feel like you should be better with words, but what do I know? I’ve never been offered a dick pic. Maybe I’d be speechless too.
Sophia: Here’s a question the internet can’t answer for me. Just how big is your stick?
Me: The average NHL stick is about sixty-three inches long, Hawaii. But the internet could have told you that.
Sophia: I wasn’t asking about your hockey stick.
I snorted and rubbed my jaw. What the hell? She’d obviously noticed it was large; it’s not like I was going to scare her off with a number.
Me: Oh, well then, the answer to your question is eight inches.
Sophia: Fucking hell. Are you adding an inch for ego?
Me: You’ve had it in your body, Soph. Do you think I’m exaggerating?
Sophia: No.
Sophia: Wow.
Sophia: Goodnight, Leo
Me: Sweet dreams, Hawaii.
Me: Hey, wait, are you coming to our first game?
Sophia: And every single one for the foreseeable future, apparently.
Me: Hit me up after? I’ll answer any questions you have and maybe we can hang out?
Sophia: Okay.
Me: Night, Hawaii.
I rolled over onto my stomach, tossed my phone to the side, and passed out with a smile on my face.