Nobody said no to me #2
For one second, he looks as though he is about to say something else. Then the door to the juice shop opens, and Amanda beams at us from behind the counter. “Maddy! Morning!”
“Morning!” I greet back, equally cheerful.
Will commits to keep his jaw tight. He looks away first then opens the door for me, still looking irritated by a conversation he has apparently invented inside his own head. Interesting.
“Orange and beetroot?” Amanda asks.
“Yes. Beetroot for me and orange for the grumpy athlete.”
Will leans against the counter while she turns towards the juicer. “Maddy.”
“Hm?” I turn to him, still in excellent mood.
He exhales through his nose. “Just don’t offer yourself for heads.”
That irritates me almost immediately. Offer myself?
“What?” I ask. “I’m great at it.”
That does not improve his expression.
It is true, though. Based on available reviews, I am excellent at giving blow jobs. Boys have approached me to inform me that they have heard this, which means somebody has created an informal marketing department without consulting me. Words-of-mouth guerrilla marketing.
Besides, why should I be ashamed of something I am good at?
Giving pleasure is straightforward. Boys are useless at describing most emotions, but introduce their dick into a situation and suddenly they become highly articulate participants. Slower. Harder. More pressure. Right there.
Clear feedback. I adjust. Very predictable outcome.
I control the pace, the beginning and the end. As well as the ‘This is the best blow I’ve got.’
Amanda places the orange juice on the counter and turns away to prepare the beetroot.
A wicked idea enters my head. Before it can be properly reviewed, I lean closer to Will. “Okay, but when you get tired of your hand, I can blow you.”
His head snaps towards me. And for that five full seconds, he only stares. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.
Then he tips his head back and laughs. Loudly. “Tempting.”
My own grin widens.
“But no.” Will shakes his head, still laughing in amusement.
My grin remains in place because I am a professional. “Relax. I didn’t say now. Amanda is working.”
He takes his orange juice from the counter.
I squint my eyes immediately when he hits me with another “No thanks.”
Amanda continues feeding beetroot into the machine with the expression of a woman who has decided she is not paid enough to hear us.
“No?” I’m not confused. But I pretend to be anyways. He eats chicken breast almost every day, spends several hours in the gym and probably considers spontaneous pleasure a scheduling conflict. “I don’t think anyone has said no to me before.”
Boys usually agree before I finish the sentence.
Will looked tempted. Very tempted. “I don’t do casuals anymore.”
Apparently his self-control is real.
Amanda places my beetroot juice on the counter. Will takes it before I can and carries both bottles towards the door.
“Fine,” I shrug. “More for your hand.”
He laughs and holds the door open for me.
Outside, I take my bottle from Will and twist off the cap. “So what exactly started this monastic era?”
“Busy. Too tired.” He gives me a lazy answer, opening his own bottle.
What a bullshit answer. “What does basketball have to do with your dick, then?” My eyes narrow.
“Nothing. My dick is excellent.”
“Good to know.” I smile ever so sweetly.
“We have scouts coming to the next game,” he adds. “The team is serious about it, so I need to stay focused.”
“Are you going pro?” I get curious fast.
“Maybe,” he takes a drink of orange juice. “If the right opportunity presents itself.”
I study him while we walk. Every athlete I have ever met speaks about going professional as though it is either a divine calling or a birthright unfairly delayed by other people’s incompetence. Will says it like someone has offered him dessert and he was calculating calories.
My brother Collins was similar. He loved playing for Princeton and worked hard enough to destroy everyone around him, but when a professional career did not happen, he went into finance without collapsing into an identity crisis.
“Then why do you need to be focused on basketball if you’re unsure?” I take a long gulp of my beetroot juice.
Will ignores my question and turns to watch for my reaction to the beetroot juice. “Good?”
“Excellent. Want some?” I offer him with satisfaction. Because it is truly good. Maybe I’m just really good at enjoying things that are bad simply because they’re fundamentally good for me.
Will looks at the beetroot juice in disgust, then shakes his head lightly and takes a gulp of his own orange juice instead.
“Basketball is not just for me. If the team performs, it’s beneficial for everyone who wants to go pro. If I mess up, team morale goes down and everyone who wants to go pro might look bad in front of the scouts.” He comes back to the question.
Okay that’s news. Will Mercer is a saint, not just in the morale sense, but in the sense that he doesn’t fuck around when it comes to important things to himself or other people.
I am officially canonising my housemate.
“You care about the team.”
“I care about everyone’s performance.” He corrects me.
“So if you don’t go pro, what do you want to do?” I let my curiosity continue to humour both of us.
Will considers the question for longer than I expect. “Business.”
“What kind?”
“My own eventually. Like my father.”
The answer interests me more than the professional basketball possibility. Most serious athletes I know have parents who started shaping them for professional sport before they had adult teeth. Will does not sound as though anyone has demanded this from him.
Which means all the pressure probably comes from inside his own deranged brain.
“What does your dad do?”
“Sports merchandise. They design, manufacture and distribute it.”
Will continues for two steps before noticing I am no longer attached to his arm. He turns. “What?”
I catch up with him.
“You would be excellent in business,” I tell him. “All that restraint and discipline.”
“Yeah?” He sounds oddly interested in assessment.
“Dude, you just rejected a blowjob because you need to focus on a game. Imagine what you could do with a quarterly target.”
He barks out a laugh, the sound carrying down the quiet street. “Show me what you have.”
I cannot contain the excitement in my eyes. This has been a me-and-Jenny thing, and honestly, the adrenaline has been badly contained inside my body. I’m too excited to talk about it with anyone outside the two of us.
Okay. Correction. I told Lizzie, and she asked if this was another one of my an-idea-every-six-weeks phases, so that conversation died fast.
“My spreadsheet?” My eyes probably beam, but I refuse to get my hopes up too early.
“Your idea. If it doesn’t sound insane, I’ll introduce you to a couple of guys.” He twists the cap of his orange juice on.
Oh. He’s serious.
“I already know half your team. I need them to stop thinking I’m inviting them to parties and start listening when I discuss money.”
“I know who’s reliable,” he says simply.
Credibility, offered by my housemate. Even better.
“And which ones won’t waste your time,” he adds.
Freaking excellent.
My excitement rises so quickly that I nearly spill the beetroot juice. “Are you trying to be useful, Willy?”
I mean it as a joke, but I think it comes out a little too much like a compliment.
“Haven’t you heard?” He winks at me. “I'm incredibly fucking useful, Maddy.”