15. Brodie
Lizzy bought herself a can of pink paint.
I glide across the ice, working the puck, back and forth, back and forth, tapping it with the tip of my stick the same way I do every day of the week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
From behind me, a teammate approaches, and I use my body as a defense so he can’t steal it from me.
Lizzy bought herself a can of pink paint, and she wants me to help her in her room.
Glide, glide, tap.
Glide, glide, tap.
I lift my gaze, find someone to pass the puck to, and launch it across the ice toward Palmer Parker, an East Coast silver spooner with a mean chip shot and an entitled pedigree.
He takes off with it, skating toward the goalie. Takes aim.
Shoots.
Scores.
Circles the net and comes out the other side to slap me a high five.
And so it goes for the next ninety minutes, and practice is finally at an end.
I collapse onto the bench when we’re back in the locker room and begin unlacing my skates, breathing an audible sigh of relief as they come off, first one, then the other, as the locker room fills with my teammates.
It goes from loud to louder as they file in, talking shit and telling jokes.
I set my skates aside and unhook my body armor. Remove the shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Shin guards. The long shirt beneath it all clings to my body even though it’s supposed to have moisture wicking and keep me dry.
Nothing but marketing bullshit.
I stand, pulling off my shorts, socks, and briefs, walking toward the showers, and grabbing a towel on my way in, not bothering to wrap it around my waste.
Holy shit, the hot water feels good.
I know I should take a dip in the ice bath, but damn—this is too, too good…
It sluices down my body, and I close my eyes, tuning out the echoes of my friends in the background. The laughing. The exhausted, loud banter.
Our bodies are exhausted, but we’re jovial. The game we have over the weekend is one we’re confident we’ll win—so we give ourselves permission to crack jokes, give each other shit, and be dicks. Say things we normally wouldn’t say on a normal day.
That’s what guys do.
Lizzy bought herself a can of pink paint, and she wants me to help her and has been messaging me like we’re fucking pen pals since she spent the night at my house.
It makes no sense.
We’re not friends.
We’re not pen pals.
She went out with Sully even though she’s clearly not interested in him.
I try to tune out the noise—from the locker room—attempting to shut off my brain and concentrate on the running water, the heat, the rhythm of it.
Find it impossible.
I shut the shower down abruptly, not bothering to shampoo or condition my hair, preferring to do that once I get home.
I can’t think in here.
Can’t escape.
I towel off before stepping out of the shower stall, wiping down my legs, waist, cock and balls—and go to my locker to dress. I’m still damp when I pull the long-sleeve T-shirt over my head and the gray sweatpants up my legs, tying them so they don’t slide back down my hips.
Slide my feet into a pair of athletic sandals, and off I go.
“Dude, where you going?” Charlie calls out to my back, not even close to being dressed, standing in the center of the aisle with his hands up.
“Home.”
“But some of us are going to Davidson’s for a barbecue. You’re not comin’?”
I shake my head. “Naw. Go on without me. I’m tired.”
I half expect him to argue—Charlie almost always does—but he nods, pulling a hand down his face and massaging his jaw. He must have taken a stick to the face earlier. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be rubbing it.
Helmets are great, but not if you get whacked in the face hard enough.
I walk home, welcoming the cool air, lugging my duffel filled with dirty clothes that need to be washed. I don’t mind that my clothes are damp or I’m not wearing the right shoes for a long walk.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I root it out, palming it so I can see who it’s from.
Lizzy: Should I wear my lavender sweater tomorrow for my speech or wear a blazer with jeans?
I stare and stare at that message, confused.
Then stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare at it some more.
Should she wear a sweater to class or a blazer with jeans? What the hell is she asking me for?
What the hell do I care?
It’s on the tip of my fingers to reply when another message comes through.
Lizzy: OMG so sorry, that was for Jill – accidentally sent it to you. Whoops **tongue sticking out emoji**
Brodie: That confused the shit out of me lol
I’m grinning down at my phone, damned if I’m not.
Lizzy: Sorry ’bout that!!
I’m still standing in the center of the sidewalk, not having gone a single inch since her first message, grateful I haven’t walked head first into a light post yet.
Brodie: Eh. What’s the speech for??
Lizzy: Business comm—everyone has to do a five-minute speech and I’m dreading it.
I heft my bag on my shoulder and start walking again.
Brodie: I hate public speaking…
Lizzy: I’m not looking forward to it.
Lizzy: But if you have any opinion on what I should wear, feel free to chime in ha ha
Brodie: I say sweater. Then you’re comfortable.
Lizzy: Good point.
I’m at a curb and step down into the street, not needing to look both ways before I cross. The neighborhood is quiet, and traffic has died down since it’s well after dinnertime.
I look at my phone again.
No new message.
Look again three seconds later, expecting there to be one.
This is stupid.
Why is she texting me to begin with?
It was an accident. She meant to message her roommate, you moron.
No she didn’t. She meant to message you and it couldn’t be more obvious.
The hell it was an accident. I’ve seen enough chick flicks to know a fake, accidental text when I see one.
Brodie: What are you up to right now?
Ugh! Why did you ask her that?
Lame!!!!! At least come up with something original. Or ask her something specific about herself.
I shove my phone back inside my pocket and try to ignore it, and
I’m halfway down the block when it vibrates again; my heart quickens.
Lizzy: I was about to paint my toenails.
About to paint my toenails.
I have no idea what to say to that so that’s what I say except that sounds pretty fucking cute.
Brodie: I have no idea what to say to that.
Lizzy: LOL awwwww.
Awwww – what does she mean by that? God I feel stupid right now.
Brodie: Uh. What color?
Lizzy: LOL
Lizzy: What color do you THINK I’m painting my toes.
If I knew, I wouldn’t have to ask.
Still, I stop on the sidewalk again because apparently, walking and thinking are not two things I can do at the same time.
Brodie: I have no idea. Pink?
Lizzy: I went with lilac this time.
Brodie: I have no idea what lilac is.
Lizzy: It’s light purple basically
Why couldn’t she have just said that the first time instead of making me guess?
Lizzy: I’ll show you next time I see you.
Lizzy: So what are you up to right now?
Brodie: Walking home from practice.
Lizzy: WALKING home? Isn’t it far?
Brodie: I could use the exercise lol
Lizzy: Okay, but it’s almost dark out.
Brodie: I’m a big boy. I can handle it.
I’m a big boy? Why the fuck did I go and say that? I sound like an idiot.
Lizzy: Are you sure?
Brodie: That I’m a big boy?
My pulse ticks.
Steps falter.
Barely notice when I’m outside her house—and mine—staring at that ground floor where her bedroom window is.
If I were Sully, I would walk up to her door and knock. If I were Sully, I would have some clever, snarky, or sexual comeback. But I’m not him and never will be, so I walk past her house and through the grass from her yard to mine, ducking my head as if to shield my identity.
Don’t leave her on read, asshole. Say something.
Lizzy: Why are you using a question mark?
Brodie: If you’re thinking about a certain body part, then yes, I’m a big boy.
Lizzy: Wait. Are we talking about the same thing?
Brodie: Fuck. Maybe we’re not?
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Fuck.
Now she thinks I’m a pig.
I take the stairs up to my bedroom two at a time, slamming into my bedroom and dropping my bag, still needing that shower and still wet from the one I had back at the ice rink.
I pull the shirt from my body and toss it to the corner of the room. Remove my bottoms, wanting to drown myself in the shower to save myself from this humiliating conversation…
Lizzy: Okay but tell me why you were using a question mark—has this topic been up for debate? Inquiring minds want to know…
Is she talking about my dick again?
Someone send me a map, I have no idea what to say.
Brodie: No! It’s never been up for debate.
Yup.
Definitely need a cool shower if we’re going to bring up my cock.
Poor dude.
I glance down at him hanging between my legs, setting my phone on the counter in the shower, determined to ignore it.
This shower is cooler than the last and I roll my head from side to side, one hand braced on the tile shower wall. My shoulders dip. The other hand moves down my body, gripping my already hardening cock and I squeeze my eyes shut.
My grip is tight as I pull, moving my fist up and down, up and down, faster and faster and faster, the water a shoddy substitute for lube or spit.
I let my forehead rest on the tile.
It’s cool.
Wet.
I visualize Lizzy and those hard nipples beneath her white sleep tank—the soft, smooth under thigh—imagining myself braced between her legs. Imagine my mouth on her pussy.
I bet she doesn’t wax or shave it.
Doesn’t seem like the type.
I imagine myself licking and sucking her sweet tits, moaning when the tip of my thumb strokes the rim of my cock.
My balls tighten, pulsing when I come, my entire body convulsing. Thank god I have one hand on the shower wall, or my fucking knees would buckle.
My body wracks itself from the pleasure, a jolt of energy zinging through my groin as cum spurts into my palm.
I breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe i?—
“Holy fuck, dude, were you just whacking off?”
The door flies open, and I’m literally caught with my dick in my hand as one of my roommates saunters in, moving to the sink as if he hadn’t just interrupted. Two seconds earlier and….
“Shut the fucking door!”
Were these assholes not supposed to be gone? Jesus Christ, can I not have two minutes of privacy?
“Bro, chill. I jerk off like, every day.” Charlie laughs, continuing to stand in the open doorway. “Sometimes twice, if I’m being honest.”
I shut the water off, angry, and grab the towel that I’d tossed over the shower curtain.
“Why are you still standing there? Get the fuck out of here.”
“Dude, masturbating isn’t supposed to make you angrier. It’s supposed to calm you down. What’s your problem?”
Nothing is my problem.
My phone chooses that moment to ding, and Charlie leans over to glance at my lit up phone screen.
“Who’s Lizzy?”
“None of your business.”
His brows furrow as he frowns, thinking. “How do I know a Lizzy?”
“You don’t.”
He stands there, taking up space, while I towel off, then wrap the towel around my wet body. Not a single person is willing to let me shower or relax in peace.
I bet it’s quiet at Lizzy’s house.
I bet she doesn’t have to tolerate this bullshit, squirrels not included.
I bet her room smells like flowers, and her bed feels like sleeping on a cloud.
The thoughts have me scowling.
Suddenly, Charlie snaps his fingers. “The neighbor. Jill’s roommate.” He seems pleased with himself. “Are the two of you…”
“No.”
He leans his hip on the counter as I stand there dripping wet.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
He grins. “That’s a horrible reason.”
Why are these assholes so nosy? I should have lived alone this year, it would have saved me so much trouble and humiliation.
“It’s not a reason. It’s a fact.”
He squints at me. “That would not hold up in a court of law.”
“Don’t use your courtroom bullshit on me.”
Charlie is pre-law although the reality of him actually becoming a lawyer is slim to none and actually kind of terrifying. He’s going to the pros and won’t need a backup plan for many, many years but dude, him in a courtroom?
Yikes.
“Are you going to respond to her?” he pesters. “What did she want?”
“Oh my god—can’t a guy shower in privacy?”
I shuffle past him, stalking to my room like a guy who’s genuinely embarrassed to have been caught with his dick in his hand.
“’Kay. But you weren’t taking a piss. You were jerking off.”
I slam my door behind me but can still hear the fucker laughing.