Chapter 7
Nadia
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
With the TV as background noise, I flip through the guys on BadgerUp, a Wittmore athlete dating app. Even though I’m not swiping right on anyone, that doesn’t mean I can’t look, does it? It’s habit, mostly. A thing to do when you’re at home by yourself, bored, and rewatching the same rom-com for the fifteenth time.
That’s the justification I’m giving myself as my thumb lingers over Caleb, a sophomore on the water polo team with abs made of steel. I checked him in at the gym a few weeks ago. His face is cute enough, but who cares about his face when he’s got a body like that? I zoom in, able to actually count the ladder of muscle.
“What the hell, Caleb?” I say out loud. “Were you made in some kind of laboratory?”
I flip through his photos, landing on another shirtless picture, this time he’s slick with water on a dock by the lake. Normally, I wouldn’t be interested in someone that plays on a non-varsity sport like water polo, but the urge to feel something—someone—is getting harder and harder to resist.
Especially when they look like a Greek god.
“Fuck it,” I say, thumb hovered over the screen. So I’ll swipe right. See how this goes?—
The sound of a loud thump against the front door makes me pause. I hold still, waiting to see if that was a knock or something else. We live on a busy street. It’s mostly foot traffic, but more than once a random, drunk frat boy has stumbled up the steps and passed out on the front porch.
I set the phone on the coffee table and stand, walking to the door. Pushing up on my toes, I peer out the peephole.
“Jesus!” I jump when a face appears distorted from the glass. I exhale and look again, getting an eyeful of a familiar sharp jawline.
Yanking open the door, I glare at the man on my porch, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Axel leans against the railing, dressed in a thick Wittmore U hockey jacket, black sweatpants, and scuffed sneakers. A brown wooden box is clutched to his chest. “Thank god,” he says when he sees me, thrusting the box at me. “Take it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What? What is it?”
“Take it,” he says again, grabbing my hand and manipulating it to hold the box. “Please, before I do something I regret.”
Reluctantly, I open the box and look inside. A baggie of weed, a pack of rolling papers and a lighter are stuffed into the small space. Understanding dawns on me. “You’re trying not to smoke it.”
He nods, pushing past me into the house.
“Hey!” I call, chasing in after him. “You can’t just barge in here! Twyler could–”
“Twyler’s at my house,” he tosses out. “Probably getting her pussy eaten out by Cain right about now.”
Well. Get it girl. “I still didn’t invite you in.”
“I almost caved, T.” He sinks onto the couch, hands in his hair. “I tried to commit an epic fuck-up. I was this close, but I started walking, hoping the cold air would snap me out of it. I ended up here.”
I sigh, snapping the box shut and shutting the door behind me. “Coming here wasn’t a great idea. I’ve got to get up early for work.” I don’t add that I was one thumb swipe from committing my own epic fuck-up. Although, when I turn back, he’s sitting on the edge of the couch staring down at my phone, it’s clear he’s on to me.
The screen is still open to Caleb, the hottie water polo player’s profile page. His eyebrow raises and he sets those green eyes on me. “You were about to cave, too.” I dive for the phone, but he gets it before I do, reading the profile out loud. “Caleb Bower. Wittmore sophomore. Likes dogs, working out, and–”
I snatch the phone from him and close the screen. “Axel! Oh my god! What if you swiped right?”
“Don’t pretend like you weren’t going to do that before I interrupted you.”
“No, I wasn’t.” The lie comes out in a hiss. “I was watching TV and bored. That’s all. No caving.”
The look he gives me makes it clear he doesn’t believe me, but it doesn’t stop him from adding, “I just don’t need to be alone right now. Can I hang for a bit?”
Being alone together proved to be a problem last time. It escalated quickly, from sitting on this very couch to a sex-a-thon in the bedroom. But he looks pretty pathetic and being alone sucks. I hate it too. “Fine. You can stay and watch TV with me, but you’re sitting over there,” I point to the armchair, “and I need you to promise you won’t hit on me.”
Because my willpower is only so strong.
“Sure,” he says, rising and moving to the armchair. He shrugs out of his jacket, revealing a faded, tight gray T-shirt that clings to his chest. “So what are we watching?”
I grab the remote and a blanket and settle back on the couch, placing my phone on the flat arm. “Springfield.”
“Like the town? Or the rock star?”
“It’s the name of the town where they live. It’s my favorite show from when I was in middle and high school.” It’s a teen soap opera about a bunch of high school kids as they learn about friendship and first love. Of course, there’s a ton of heartbreak, scandal, and drama too. Axel still looks confused. “You never watched it?”
Everyone our age watched Springfield. It’s a classic and launched the careers of half a dozen stars.
“Was it on cable?” he asks.
“Yeah. Every Sunday night.”
He lifts his chin. “Well there you go. We didn’t have cable growing up, and we were always busy on Sunday nights.”
“Busy with what?” I ask.
“Obligations with my dad’s job.” He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and crosses them at the ankle. “So give me the gist of this TV show.”
I start to explain it when my phone buzzes. We both look over. I won’t lie, I’m hoping it’s Caleb, but it’s just a notification to take my vitamin before bed.
“You know, if you want to hook-up with a guy with a six pack,” Axel lifts up his shirt, revealing the muscle cut into his abdomen, “you’ve got my number.”
“Actually, I don’t.” I roll my eyes and force them back on the screen where Jen and Brock are flirting by their lockers. “Want to hook-up or have your number.”
He grabs my phone, that hasn’t locked since the notification came in, and goes to my contacts.
“There,” he says, once he’s added his in.
“I wasn’t looking for a hook-up,” I remind him. “And I’m definitely not calling you when I’m feeling horny.”
He grins. “So you were horny?”
“I was bored.”
And lonely. And yeah, a little horny. But mostly I was trying to keep myself from calling up Brent and making an even bigger mistake.
“Why not?”
I frown. “Why not what?”
“Why won’t you call me?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m hot. You’re hot. We’re clearly compatible sexually. We can scratch each other’s itches.”
“Because,” I rub my temples. Is he always this infuriating to talk to? “I’m not chasing jerseys anymore.”
“It’s not chasing a jersey if I’m naked.”
I give him a hard look. “I’m trying to be better. Just like you are. Hooking up with random athletes has done nothing for me, but give me a shitty reputation and essentially getting blacklisted across campus. If anything, you should stay clear of me, I’m like some kind of hook-up kryptonite.”
“That’s bullshit,” he says. “We hooked up and I had a shutout. If anything, you”re a lucky charm.”
I laugh darkly and shake my head.
“What’s so funny? You know we take our superstitions seriously.”
I stare at his terrible mustache. Twyler told me he started growing it after they started winning this season and had vowed to keep it until they either lost or won the whole thing. “Oh, I know.”
“Then what?” he asks, smoothing his ‘stache down with his fingers.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for one of the guys I’ve chased to say I’m their lucky charm?” He shakes his head and despite knowing better, I continue. “Three years. Three fucking years worth of hook-ups and late night booty calls. Being available whenever they wanted me. Showing up when I was exhausted or had other work to do. And the one time I’m not interested, when I absolutely can’t be interested, you’re showing up at my door flashing your abs and being all cute.”
He grins. “So you do think I’m cute.”
“Shut up.”
On screen Jess and Brock stroll down the sidewalk of their quaint small town, eating ice cream and holding hands. It’s sweet and so far from where I am with my life today.
“People want a girl like that,” I say, pointing to the screen. “Someone innocent. Not someone with a body count like I have.”
“Who gives a shit about body counts?” he asks.
“No one gives a shit when you’re a man.” Again, I look at the screen. “Spoiler alert: Brock goes on to have multiple girlfriends, including one he knocks up, and two he cheats on. No matter what, he”s the hero. Jess? She’s just the sad girl that can’t get over him.”
“Okay,” Axel says suddenly. I look over at him. “I hear you, and I’m willing to be your safe space, if you’re willing to be mine.”
I eye him, those long legs stretched out and the tattoos on his bicep bulging from where he has it bent. “What does that mean?”
“I need to stay away from partying. You need to stay away from going back to your own bad habits. We keep each other accountable. No more epic fuck-ups.” His tongue darts out and licks that hoop in his lip. “A safe space. Deal?”
If he hadn’t come over here tonight I probably would have caved, and either hooked up with Caleb or felt like shit when he didn’t match with me.
And even though there’s nothing about Axel Rakestraw that seems safe, I find myself saying. “Deal.”
I give him my hand to shake on it, and he slides his warm, rough fingers against mine. He doesn’t shake it though, instead holding tight. “But, if you change your mind, and want some no-strings, no-pressure, killer orgasms? Just ask.”
I pull away and ignore the crackle where our hands met, adding, “I won’t.”
“So her fatheris the rich guy, right? Is that why her tits are out all the time?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t think those things are related.”
“Sure it is. They’re excellent tits.” He leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Too excellent. They’re fake. Only a rich daddy would give a high school chick implants.”
“Those aren’t fake,” I argue. “Monica Morgan is gorgeous. She’s got her own clothing line and models on the side. Those are her real boobs.”
He shrugs. “If you say so.”
Obviously he doesn’t buy it, and I have no idea why we’re even having this discussion. I’m not even sure why he’s still here. I’ve done nothing to make him comfortable. I didn’t offer him a drink or an extra pillow for the chair which is notoriously uncomfortable. I’ve made little small talk other than answering a few questions about the show, yet he’s watched three episodes of Springfield, growing more interested with each episode.
I mean, it’s hard not to. All the characters are gorgeous. The drama – delicious. I was surprised to hear he’d never heard of it. You would have had to live under a rock not to have an awareness of the show back then. It was super popular and the actors were everywhere at the time. All over magazine covers, social media, and commercials.
If I had to guess, I’d suspect his interest back then was on two things. Hockey and sex.
When the episode ends, I turn off the TV with the remote.
“That’s all?” he says, watching as I yawn and then stretch my arms over my head.
“Yep. I have to work in the morning.”
“Where do you work?” he asks, reaching for his jacket.
“The campus gym.”
“That’s cool.” He stands and looks toward the door. “Can I go out the front door this time or are we still doing the window thing?”
I shake my head. “You can use the door, just don’t make a show about it.”
“Damn, my plan had been to walk out on the front porch and shout out that I’d been hanging out with you all night.” He winks. “No one needs to know that all we did was watch soft porn.”
I gasp. “That’s not soft porn! It’s about teenagers.”
“T, two of the characters had sex in a shower. Sure, they didn’t show anything, but that’s like porn 101.”
“Gross.”
“Just calling it like I see it.” He shrugs. “But I definitely know why my father didn’t let us have cable.”
“Was he strict?” I ask, walking him to the door.
“You could say that.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Thanks for letting me come over and distracting me with tits and sex scenes.”
“Even if they weren’t my tits?” I joke.
“Oh, yours distracted me too, T.” He gives me a lopsided grin that makes my stomach clench. “Bundle up all you want, I’ve seen them, remember?”
I fling open the door. “Go.”
“I’m going,” he laughs. “But really, thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I lean against the door as he steps out on the dark porch. “I refuse to admit that I was tempted to swipe on waterpolo Caleb tonight, but I can acknowledge that I appreciated having company.”
“No worries, T. I told you, I’m your safe space. Call me any time you get the urge.”
He walks off with a smirk, and I take a deep breath. I did it. I made it through a night with a sexy, dangerous, varsity level athlete without taking off my clothes. Maybe he is my safe space after all.
For someone attracted to athletes,organized sports isn’t my thing. Sure, my parents put me in all the standard youth sports: soccer, volleyball, basketball, softball, but none clicked. I wasn’t lacking athletic ability, I had good balance and hand-eye coordination, but the idea of chasing other girls around a field, court, or bases never held an appeal. Girls are mean, and competitive girls are worse. By middle school, it was clear that I wasn’t going to find my tribe this way.
That didn’t mean they let me off the hook–not exactly. My mother, in particular, saw the benefit of exercise with or without a team. Her view is that it’s not just good for the body, but for the mind, and as much as I hate to give her credit for anything, she’s right. Working out definitely makes me feel better, primarily by reducing my anxiety. After a few more trials and errors, I realized that I didn’t want to play games. I wanted to be strong.
I’d been coming to the campus gym since I got to Wittmore. I’d been happy to just use the facilities, coming in for spin classes or to use the free weights or cardio machines. But after everything went down with Brent and CJ, and I kept coming home to find Twyler and Reese snuggled up on the couch watching one of her disturbing documentaries, I bit the bullet and asked Abby, the gym manager, if they had any open positions.
Thank god she said yes.
“When Brian gets here, it’d be awesome if one of you can straighten out the mats in the studio,” Abby tells me when I arrive for my shift that day. “The last class made a huge mess.”
“I’ll get them sorted.” She opens her mouth and I quickly add, “And disinfected.”
“Thank you,” She grins, grabbing her jacket and shoving her arms into the sleeves. “Oh, also, the thermostat in the men’s locker room has been acting up. Maintenance should be here in the next hour. If you’ll show them where it is when they get here.”
“No problem.”
Loud shouts from the back corner echo off the high ceilings and she sighs. “Keep an eye on that back corner, will you?”
“The Wannabes are back?”
“Yep.”
The Wannabes are a small group we dubbed the Wannabes due to the fact they want to be hard core weight lifters. They’re fit, but they’re too busy showing off and recording themselves for ChattySnap videos to maintain basic gym etiquette. The biggest offense, other than getting unconsented video of another gym member, is the fact they hog the free weight area and leave the whole area a mess. “I asked them to re-rack the weights this time but you know they never listen. Some are just too heavy for me to lift, so if you want to make a pass by them every so often to make sure they’re keeping it straight, I’d appreciate it.”
“My pleasure.”
“Thanks, Nadia. I’ll bring you a coffee on your next shift as thanks.”
My boss heads out, leaving me alone at the desk for the first hour of my morning shift. It’s past the early rush, and things are pretty quiet. I scan in members, who are primarily students with a few faculty members thrown in between. I also hand out equipment, like basketballs for the court, and towels for the pool. It’s easy and pretty mindless, which is exactly what I need right now.
One of the perks of the campus gym is that it’s free of varsity athletes. They have their own training facilities, which makes this my own little safe space.
Safe space.
I think of Axel showing up two nights ago, looking desperate and on the edge of making bad decisions and how he came to me for help. No one has ever looked at me as a reliable person to count on. It feels weird.
“Nadia?”
I look up. “Oh, Eric, hey.”
I haven’t seen my project partner since I overheard the awkward conversation between him and my former lovers after I left class.
“I didn’t know you worked here.” He holds out his phone and I scan his student ID.
“Yeah,” I say, “I started a few weeks ago.”
“Cool.” He steps aside, and I scan in the guys with him. A few have the same Greek letters on their clothing–frat brothers. “I’ve been meaning to contact you about meeting up. We should get started on the project, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, absolutely. We definitely should do that,” I say, trying to quell the uneasiness in my gut. “This week?”
“We can, uh, meet at the Zeta Sigma house if you want? There’s a study room or you know…”
If I didn”t know, the smirky grin on his friend’s face would fill me in.
“You know…” I say, mouth turning dry. Old me would have just said yes. I wouldn’t want to rock the boat. I would have just done what was expected of me, and honestly, the urge to do that now is strong. It’s the easy way to live, but I think about Axel on my doorstep, shoving that box of weed at me. Saying no to going to a frat house, alone, with a guy who was envisioning me giving him a blow job, seems possible. “Can we do the library? That would probably fit into my schedule better.”
“Oh,” he says, eyebrows furrowing, “Sure. No problem. I’ll text you with a time.”
I force a smile. “Great. Thanks, Eric, I appreciate it.”
Behind me, Brian arrives, giving me the opportunity to cut the conversation short. After getting him settled, I say, “Abby asked me to straighten the mats in the studio. You okay here by yourself?”
“No problem,” he says, already pulling out his laptop. We’re allowed to do schoolwork when it’s slow and Brian is an engineering major. He’s always got some project due.
I’m on my way to the studio when I hear a shout from the back corner. “Great,” I mutter, not in the mood to deal with a second group of guys this morning. I go past the cardio machines and the weight machines over to the free weight area. I hear their music blasting over the other noise in the gym–rolling my eyes at the fact they had to bring their own. Classic entitlement. Once I get past the ellipticals, I see a group of guys–the Wannabes–standing around a bench, the bar wracked with huge, heavy weights. Two of the guys are spotting, while another has his camera out recording the guy on the bench.
“Holy shit, he’s doing it,” someone says, voice carrying over the gym. “Did you get the weights?”
“Got it,” the videographer says, a dumb grin on his face. “Personal record!”
As I get closer, I see the arms holding up the bar wobble, shaking–struggling–under the weight. Panic fills my throat, but before I can freak out, he, with the help of his spotters, get it back on the rack.
“Hell, yes!” a voice shouts in victory.
Oh, hell no.
I storm over to where Axel, the front of his T-shirt soaked with sweat, slowly climbs off the bench, shaking out his arms.
“What are you doing here?”
“T,” he cries. “What’s up?”
“Don’t you what’s up me. Why are you here?”
“Getting swole.” He flexes, showing off his tattooed, bulging biceps. “Did you see that? Personal record.”
My eyes dart to the unholy amount of weights on the bar. I grab him by the forearm and drag him away from the others. “I know you have your own training gym at the arena. What the hell are you doing in the campus gym with the normies?”
“Thought I’d check out the facilities. See what my tuition is paying for.” He jerks his thumb at the Wannabes. “Those guys are great.”
I glare at him.
“What?”
“You’re on an athletic scholarship. You’re not paying tuition.”
“Oh, true.” He rubs the back of his neck. “For the record, this isn’t the first time I’ve been here. Sometimes I like to work out without the pressure of the team and just let loose. Test myself.”
“By pressure, you mean Reese.”
He shrugs. “Yeah. Everything’s so intense with him, you know?”
Reese is definitely intense. It’s a vibe that guys like him have–the team leaders. The ones headed for the pros. From everything I’ve seen and heard, Axel has the skills, but he may not have that same drive.
“Yo, Ax, come check this out before I post it,” one of the guys calls, holding up the phone.
He doesn’t move, hovering in that way that makes me acutely aware of everything about him. The tattoos, the muscles, the shiny piercings in his lip and eyebrow. The sweat.
He should smell terrible, but fuck me, all I’m getting is the strong scent of man.
I swallow and look around at the weights scattered all over the floor. “Make sure you put those back.” I point to the sign over the rack holding the weight that asks people to return their weights to the rack after use. “We don’t have a crew that comes along behind you to clean everything up like you do in the arena, and some of those are too heavy for the staff to pick up.”
“Gotcha, T. We’ll get it all cleaned up before we go.”
I want to say more. To ask if he’s here because he knew I was working, but that’s foolish. He seems familiar with the gym and his reasoning makes sense. I get the need to have a little pressure taken off occasionally.
“Hey man, that was amazing.” I turn and see Eric and his friends entering the area.
“Thanks,” Axel says, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.
Eric gives me a friendly smile and I hold my hand up in a small wave. They pass by, headed to a different section.
When I look back at Axel, his eyebrow is raised. “Know him?”
“My project partner in communications.”
He nods, eyes following Eric across the gym. Behind him, I see Brian waving, trying to get my attention. The maintenance guy is here. “I need to get back to work.”
“I guess I need to get back to getting jacked.”
“God, you’re the worst.” I roll my eyes, but the smugness of his statement is cut by a wink and a quick grin.
The hardest part, I think, walking across the gym, is that Axel Rakestraw is definitely not the worst. And we both know it.