Chapter 5 Griffin
Griffin
I’m sore all over, and all Sabrina wants to do is complain.
I should be used to it. God knows this isn’t new but tonight it’s drilling straight into my skull, and I can feel a headache brewing behind my eyes.
I know I should be a better boyfriend and I should at least try to pretend I care about this party she’s dead-set on dragging me to, but I can’t even bring myself to roll off the bed, let alone get dressed and be social.
“Come on, Griffin,” she whines from the end of the bed, standing there like she’s posing for a goddamn fashion shoot, hands on her hips and a pout painted onto her lips in perfect glossy red.
Yeah, I can admit that she looks good. Not just good, either. Fucking stunning.
She’s wearing this tiny red dress that clings to her like it was sewn directly onto her body, hugging her toned stomach and stretching perfectly over her hips.
Her tits are damn near committing a public offense, threatening to spill out if she breathes too hard, and her hair’s curled just right, cascading over her shoulders.
Her makeup is flawless and her lips are doing things that make my brain short-circuit for half a second.
And yeah, under literally any other circumstance, I’d be all over her without a second thought. No hesitation.
But my dick’s as tired as the rest of me and wants absolutely nothing to do with my hot-as-fuck girlfriend currently glaring daggers at me.
I sigh and rub at my face. “I don’t want to go out, Sab. I’m fucking tired. Coach has been running us into the ground all week.”
She huffs, rolling her bright blue eyes like I just told her I’d rather spend the evening organizing my sock drawer. “Seriously? You’ve been doing this for three years, and this is the year you decide to stop being fun? It’s senior year, Griffin.”
“I’m fun,” I offer weakly, knowing how pathetic it sounds the second it leaves my mouth.
She crawls onto the bed slow and deliberate, totally aware of every single move she’s making.
Her hips sway and her tiny red dress rides up just enough to make it clear she’s not wearing much underneath.
Her tits are practically falling out, bouncing with every shift, and she’s biting her lip in that way she knows gets me going.
Her chin tilted down, eyes up, all pouty and perfect like she’s about to climb on top of me and make me forget what I was even mad about.
It’s hot.
She’s fucking gorgeous, and she knows exactly how to use it.
Any other night, that move would’ve worked instantly. I’d be flipping her over by now and forgetting about whatever argument we just had while I bury myself eight inches deep in her tight wet heat.
But tonight?
Nothing.
No spark. Not even a twitch. My cock is fully not on board with fucking her into the mattress.
There’s just this weird, detached feeling in my chest while I watch her do her thing like I’m outside my own body. It’s not that I don’t see her. I do. I just… don’t feel it. At all.
“Sab, I’m serious,” I say, voice low and intentionally soft. I already know I’m about to piss her off but I still try not to.
She freezes mid-crawl, then sits back on her heels with a look that’s equal parts disbelief and disgust. “I’m not asking you to hike Everest or hit the gym with me. I’m asking you to be my boyfriend and come to one goddamn party.”
“And I have practice in the morning,” I reply, trying not to sound like a total dick. “It’s draft year, Sab. I need to focus.”
She climbs off the bed, smoothing down her dress with way more care than necessary, then spins to glare at me. It’s that glare, the one I’ve been seeing more and more lately.
“So the draft’s important, but making your girlfriend happy isn’t? You don’t think our relationship’s starting to fizzle out a little?”
“Fizzle?” I echo, cocking my head, more confused than anything. I mean…we don’t fuck like rabbits anymore but I think that’s normal when you’re busy with school and a sport that takes up all your fucking time.
“Yes, fizzle!” She screeches. She’s at full volume now, throwing her arms out like that word should be obvious. “You’re like the worst boyfriend ever lately. We don’t have sex, we don’t go on dates, and God forbid we talk about our engagement!”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, already feeling the dull throb of my headache start to bloom behind my eyes. “We aren’t engaged.”
“That’s the fucking point!” She hisses, jabbing a perfectly manicured finger at me like it’s a weapon. With how sharp that point is she might actually be able to draw blood. “We’ve been together for two years and you’re going pro. Don’t you think it’s time we settle down?”
Um. No.
I definitely fucking don’t.
The idea of marriage right now feels… wrong. Like, deeply, fundamentally wrong. I’m twenty-one. A senior in college. I’m on the verge of making it to the NHL. After years of training, battling injuries, withstanding pressure and expectations…I’m right there.
And now I’m supposed to just… settle down? Tie myself to this life I’m not even sure I want to keep? Lock in a future before I even know what my life is yet?
But I can’t say any of that without sounding like an asshole. And if I say it the way it’s running through my head, she’ll absolutely throw something at me…again.
“It’s too soon, Sab,” I say instead, trying to keep my voice even and reasonable, despite the way her volume is shredding my last nerve.
“Two years!” She screams. “That’s how long we’ve been together. How is that too soon?”
I groan and throw my head back against the pillow. “I really don’t want to talk about this again.”
She lets out a furious breath and starts stomping around my room, her heels clicking like fucking gunshots against the hardwood.
I know my roommates can hear all of this through the walls, and I also know I’m going to catch shit for it later.
I just… don’t care. Not right now. This isn’t a new fight.
It’s the same argument, same volume, same unresolved tension that keeps growing into something I don’t know how to name.
The the ugly, selfish, hard-to-swallow truth is that I don’t know if I love her.
And that makes me feel like a complete piece of shit.
Yeah, the sex is great. Being with a beautiful girl, someone who’s always down, always available, always proud to show me off has been easy. It’s super fucking convenient.
It’s not like I’m a fucking douchebag either. I don’t cheat and I don’t flirt with puck bunnies. I show up, I do what I’m supposed to do, and most of the time I go to the parties she drags me to. I hold her hand in public, I say the right things, I keep the image polished.
But when it comes to us, we don’t talk about anything. We don’t visit each other’s families. We don’t spend time together unless it’s fighting or fucking. We don’t discuss our futures or our goals or our dreams.
That’s the pattern. Going out and showing off our relationship, coming home to fight or fuck, blowing up at each other, and then starting all over again. And now she’s pushing for a ring and for a life when I can’t see with her in it.
At least not clearly. Not in the way I know I should. But that doesn’t even mean we need to end things. It just means I’m not fucking ready and I don’t think I should be punished for that.
“But I want to talk about it,” she says, and her voice shifts into something lower now, softer.
I sigh again, trying to keep my voice calm and gentle, “I’m not ready for marriage, Sab.”
Her bottom lip immediately juts out, the wobble so exaggerated I can’t tell if she’s about to cry or if she’s playing me. Which, honestly, is a thing she does. The woman can absolutely make herself cry if she thinks it will get her what she wants.
“God, I’m such a fucking idiot,” she says, voice trembling. My chest tightens and I have to remind myself that giving into this would mean a marriage that I absolutely am not ready for. “I’ve given you access to my body, and that’s still not enough for you. You won’t ever commit.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, frustration snapping through me. “Is that a joke? We’re completely monogamous. I do everything you fucking ask. I don’t want to go to a party when I’ve got practice in the morning…is that really what this is about?”
“It’s about everything!” She yells, and just like that, the tears vanish.
Gone. Poof. I’m telling you it’s fucking weird magic or some shit.
“I want a future, Griffin. I want to be married. I want a life with someone who’s not just gonna drop me the second he goes pro.
I want a boyfriend who shows up when I fucking ask. ”
And that’s it. I think I’ve reached my fucking limit.
“I do show up. All the time. I just don’t want to get married right now and I don’t want to force myself to go to a party when I’m fucking exhausted.
That doesn’t make me a shitty goddamn boyfriend, Sabrina!
” My voice is loud now and I hate it. I’m not that guy.
I don’t yell at people. But I’m so tired.
I’m drained down to the bone, and I can’t keep running this emotional treadmill with her anymore.
“If I’m not fucking doing it for you, then go find someone else! ”
The room goes still, like the silence hit a wall. She just stares at me, mouth twisted in something bitter. Then slowly her lips curl into a smile that’s all venom and satisfaction.
“Fine,” she says, voice low and icy. “I’ll fucking do just that.”
Then she’s gone. She’s storming out of my room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the wall behind me. I can hear her heels clicking down the hallway and then storming down the stairs before the front door is slamming dramatically.
I sit there for a second, staring at nothing, waiting for the guilt to set in, for the heartbreak or the panic or the regret. But none of it comes.
I just feel… relieved.