Freshman Year #2
The Bullies’ house is a cool place. Multiple floors, lots of rooms for the guys, and super modern.
While it’s all sleek with white marble and slate gray walls, it also has a sense of home.
Maybe it’s the cushions on the couches or all the photos of the team from year to year, but you can tell that the guys are taken care of. That they love where they live.
I head out to the courtyard behind the house as I pull out my phone.
I see a few couples talking close, getting to know each other before they go find somewhere to get naked.
They don’t pay me any attention as I sit down on a large beanbag with the Bellevue Bullies logo on it that is next to a huge fire pit.
I lean back, looking up at the stars as a smile moves across my face. The only reason I agreed to come tonight was because my interview to broadcast for the Bellevue Bullies’ girls’ hockey team was a success. I will call all the games next season, and I’m super stoked about it.
I should have gone to Cold Stone to celebrate instead, yet here I am. I tried not to be the boring person that the Graces claim I am, and I listened to my dad, who told me to come celebrate.
I open my text thread with him and hit the microphone.
“You told me to come, and I’m sitting alone because people my age suck.”
He messages right back. I hit play, and his deep voice makes me grin. “All people suck. You gotta find your people.”
“I don’t think they exist. Only you, Mom, and Tía.”
“They’re out there. Don’t worry. Try to have some fun. There are hockey players there. Find one and talk shop.”
“They’ll try to make out with me.”
“Thank you for ruining my night with that image.”
“You suggested it.”
“I said talk, not suck face.” I snort. “Though, you’re probably right, you’ll impress them with all your hockey knowledge and then, bam, they’ll fall in love and try to sleep with you. You let me know so I can kill them.”
I grin. “Of course, Dad. I’ll tell you about all the guys who hit on me.”
His voice is playful but stern. “Good. Have fun. I love you, Ro.”
I smile, my heart warming. “I love you too, Dad.”
“Be safe.”
“I am.”
I tuck my phone into my pocket as I lean back to look at the sky once more. I smile to myself at the thought of finding my people. I don’t know if they’re out there, and honestly, I’m sick of trying to make myself a space at all these damn tables where people look at me like I’m not good enough.
I am good enough.
“Less teeth. Girl, what are you doing? Stop trying to stop me. You said I could fuck your mouth.”
Laughter sputters out of me, and I look over at where the gruff voice came from.
As bright as the moon, a pair of thick ass cheeks clenches as the owner of said ass cheeks makes a sound of distress.
I look around in shock, finding that the other couples who are out here have wide eyes, and they quickly go inside.
I look back as the guy backs up, fixing his jeans. “I’m not getting the rhythm. Let’s make out,” the girl suggests.
No joke, the guy puts his hand on her head, stopping her forward motion, and says, “Chick, fuck no. I don’t kiss on the mouth, and you suck at sucking dick.”
Damn, I can’t help but flush with embarrassment for the girl.
That is, until she lets out a shrill, “Let me try again!”
I’d know that shrill cry anywhere.
The guy moves away just as Grace P. tries to stand, but she wobbles on her sky-high heels.
Her mascara is in streaks down her face, along with her tears.
Her mouth is swollen, her cheeks red, and I feel awful for her.
I can tell she’s drunk, but also, she’s mortified.
I don’t know why it surprises me that Dawson Sinclair is the guy fixing the front of his pants, but it does.
I knew she was on a mission, and good for her to get what she wants, but damn, even I’m burned by his rejection.
What an asshole.
The whole situation is wild to me. It’s like when everything is so wrong and all you can do is laugh to ease all the tension.
Which is why I let out a nervous giggle at the sight before me.
Grace P.’s eyes whip to me, her jaw dropping a bit when she realizes I’m a witness to her lowest moment.
I try to give her a reassuring smile, but then she glares with all the rage in her body.
As if I’m the one who said she sucks at giving head.
I smile. “Told you it wasn’t a rite of passage.”
She growls at me. Like a fucking dog. “Fuck you, Ambrosia. You’re just jealous!” she spits, and yeah, I snort.
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Of the fact that no one would want your ugly, fat-ass self to suck their dick! You try to act like you don’t want anyone, but we all know it’s because you can’t land anyone.”
Wow. Before I can tell her to practice giving head on a cucumber, Dawson’s rough voice cuts through the air. “Hey, what the fuck is your problem? Don’t talk to her like that.”
I gawk at Dawson, and she does the same.
What the hell?
Grace P. recovers way faster than I do. “What? She is!”
“No, she’s not. You are,” he spits back as he sways a bit. He’s obviously drunk, yet he’s defending me. “Ugly, that is.”
Weird.
“You don’t know her!” Grace P. tries, but he waves her off.
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t talk to people like that. You’re a fucking leech. Go away.”
He waves her off once more, and she lets out another shrill noise before stomping off.
I’m in awe as I watch her walk away. If she hadn’t been such a bitch, I would offer to help her, but I hope she trips on those heels that she can’t walk in.
Before I can look back from Grace P., Dawson falls onto the beanbag with me, his big body jolting mine when he leans back as if he belongs in the beanbag with me.
Shocking me even more.
His big thighs press to mine, the warmth of his skin sending chills down my spine.
I came to the party in a pair of biker shorts and a flowy Bullies tee for comfort rather than trying to look cute.
Like me, he has on a pair of athletic shorts and his team tee with his number 60 on the front under the Bullies.
I know he went with 60 because his dad was 59.
I know more about him than he’ll ever know about me.
He glances over at me, his hooded, glassy gaze moving down my body before he looks back up at me.
“Don’t listen to her. You’re fucking hot.”
Did Dawson Sinclair just call me hot?
How drunk is he?
“Thanks,” I say with a small giggle. “You don’t need to make me feel better. I don’t care what she thinks.”
He exhales, closing his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel better. I was telling you the truth.”
Oh.
He sighs deeply as he leans back, his shorts riding up and the tattoo along his thigh catching my eye. It’s a very lifelike butterfly, looking as if it’s about to take flight off his thigh. Under it in a typewriter font is a word. It takes a moment for me to make it out: Metamorphosis.
I run my finger along the letters without thinking. I think the punch is getting to me since I ask, “Why metamorphosis?”
He shakes his head. “It was for my life changing, but it’s a lie.”
I bring my brows together, looking over at the guy beside me. His jaw is taut, his shoulders up and tense. He looks like he really could have used a good blow job.
I almost feel bad for him.
Almost.
“How so?”
“I don’t know what I want,” he admits, his words a bit slurred. A smirk moves across his lips as his hazel gaze locks with mine. “I don’t know why I said that to you. I don’t even know you.”
“I mean, we’re sharing a beanbag, and I was witness to you getting a bad blow job.”
“So bad,” he says, shaking his head. “But yeah, just feeling a little un-metamorphosis.”
I don’t know what to say, so I only watch as he runs his large hand down his face. He is huge, and it’s so sexy. Not that I want Dawson Sinclair. Even if he did defend me.
“I drank too much,” he admits softly. “And I hate drinking. But I had a bad day, and my parents are on me about giving up football.”
I bring in my brows. “I take it you don’t want to?”
He shakes his head. “I want to do both, which pissed them off—especially since I decided not to go into the draft this year.” He looks over to me, eyeing me. “Do you know what the draft is?”
I give him a small smile. “I do.”
“Like, the hockey draft, right?”
I snort. “Yeah, I know sports.”
He sighs. “That’s hot. And good, I didn’t want to explain myself.”
He looks so beaten that I can’t bring myself to be a bitch to him. Plus, I don’t want him to know I know a lot about him. That I know his parents, and that they know me. Instead, we sit in silence as he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth.
“Not that it matters, but I think you should choose hockey.”
His shoulders drop. “So does everyone else.”
“It only matters what you want,” I tell him, and he looks over at me. His eyes burn into mine, and I feel his gaze slowly trailing over every bit of my body. I want his eyes back, so I ask, “Do you really not kiss on the mouth?”
He shakes his head almost violently before his gaze locks with mine. “Fuck no. I don’t want anyone to think it’s more than it is.”
Makes sense, but I can’t really focus on that when I’m lost in his eyes.
It’s as if he’s looking into my soul with his piercing gaze.
He’s so big compared to me, which isn’t a normal thing for me.
I’m usually the same size as the guys I date, which is why I’m attracted to athletes.
They usually tower over me, and Dawson does just that.
He has such soft features, high cheekbones, and the biggest mouth I’ve ever seen.
He really is beautiful, but like Grace P. said, I would never be his type.
He’s just drunk. He feels like shit, and I’m the only one around for him to talk to.
When he smiles, showing all his teeth, I know he knows it’s one hell of a weapon. He has to use that smile to get what he wants, and I’m sure he’s super successful.
“Can I eat your pussy?”
I blink, caught totally off guard, before I snort very loudly. “Could you find it?” He grins, a predatory one, but then his eyes cross, and I can’t help but laugh. “Bro, you’re so drunk.”
He waves me off, and I swear he forces himself to look into my eyes. “It’s fine. You can sit on my face and suck my dick.”
“Wow, that sounds so damn appealing,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But I’ll pass.”
His brows furrow. “Really?”
“Really.” But my retort comes out a little weak. Almost as if I wouldn’t mind doing exactly what he said. My pussy is on board, but she’s a needy thing, so I ignore her because I won’t be another one of his conquests. I pat his thigh before pushing off the beanbag. “No one tells you no, huh?”
He looks up at me with an expression that tells me no one has.
He’s so confident. So sure of himself. That big dick energy is firing off like mad, and even I can’t deny that it’s sexy.
Then he slowly spreads his legs wide, and my eyes catch on the fucking pole in his pants.
The fabric does little to hide his arousal, the thick curve of the head pressing against the middle of his thigh.
If only I had a measuring tape to measure that sucker.
Easy ten inches.
My pussy weeps at the thought.
I tear my eyes from his crotch to his heated gaze. It catches me by surprise that he’s hard for me, but then I remind myself he’s drunk and just wants a warm mouth. He licks his lips and then asks, “What’s your name?”
I smile. “I’ll tell you one day.”
“So, I’ll see you again?”
I shrug, and I hate how easy it is to smile at him. I usually have to force it, but for him, it comes quickly. I wink, which is totally unlike me. “If you’re lucky.”
I’m almost to the side of the house when he calls out, “I’ll find you.”
A rush of excitement flows through me, but I know he won’t remember me or even this moment.
But I will, because when I make it to my car, I get the call that my dad has dropped dead from a heart attack.
And just like Dawson Sinclair’s tattoo reads, I am forced into metamorphosis.