Chapter 8
FIFI
Trick is late for class when I spot him with his hair tousled and wet.
As he walks toward me, my belly floats, reacting like I’m riding a rollercoaster about to plunge into nowhere.
Apparently, my body hasn’t forgotten what he did to me last night.
The inspirational orgasm he gave me was as powerful a gift as reciting the Emerson poem to me, sounding like he meant every word.
“Sorry I’m late. Early morning skate.” He sits next to me at the end of the middle front row, ignoring the professor’s scowl.
Guilt immediately tightens my chest and heats my face, but in no time, it is taken over by indignation at the professor singling him out because he’s a student athlete.
“I apologize, Professor Gringely.” He smiles at the man as if they’re sharing a joke, and I’m confused. But I don’t dare ask him about it, taking out my tablet as the professor jumps right into the syllabus.
Concentrating while Trick’s thigh rests against mine, hard and massive, and his scent invades every breath I take, soapy and tantalizing with an undertone of something indescribable, and so singular it must be the essence of Trick, is next to impossible.
I might need to rethink sitting with him in class, especially in the front row where I feel stiff and self-conscious, like everyone knows I want to jump him as my body leans in his direction as if propelled by a super magnet.
I barely hear the professor’s question as he stares in my direction. But Trick answers.
“That we’ll beat B.C. is three to two based on our winning percentages against common opponents, goals scored, and goals against averages.”
“Yes, though predicting future results is not a perfect science, calculating betting odds on a sporting event is a perfect real-life example of the application of statistics.” He pauses and zeroes in on me while I try to absorb the fact that Trick was perfectly prepared with his answer and more than confident.
“Ms….” He pauses while he consults his computer screen. “Enlighten me what your name is?”
“Sofia Rossi.” I make my voice as confident and proud as possible, without being obnoxious.
“Yes, Ms. Rossi.” He nods as if he recognizes my name, and maybe he does.
The Rossi fish empire is well known in the region and not without massive efforts on my father’s part.
“Tell me why the odds of UNH’s hockey team defeating B.C.
in their upcoming game are no more than an educated guess, albeit very well educated. ”
“Because the information used to calculate those odds is imperfect and, more importantly, incomplete,” I say. “There are many factors that are impossible to quantify.”
“Such as?” Professor Gringely asks.
Trick grins at me like he’s proud, and my mind blanks. He whispers under his breath like a ventriloquist, “Someone getting hurt in the game.”
“For instance, someone could get hurt during the game… by a random shot.”
Some guy behind me says, “More likely hurt by a purposeful check to the boards. Watch your back, Trick.”
The class seems to chime in all at once on this point, and though the professor calls for everyone to simmer down, he’s smiling.
The prof gets a grade of A+ from me for getting the class engaged in statistics.
While students weigh in on possible random events, I take the opportunity to lean into Trick and ask him what I’m dying to know.
“You know Professor Gringely, don’t you?”
“Sure. He’s a big fan, in case you didn’t notice.”
Stifling my urge to kiss his smirking, confident mouth, I laugh and relax into my seat for the duration, enjoying the sizzling point of contact of my thigh against his every second, letting it stimulate every part of me, including my brain.
After class, he offers to walk me to my next class where we’ll part ways.
“Isn’t it out of your way? You’ll be late for your next class too.”
He shrugs. “I’ll run. It’s good for me.”
“I’m getting winded thinking about all the running and skating and working out you do.”
“These abs don’t come cheap.” His lids lower, and I know what he’s thinking because I’m thinking the same thing—about last night and the way I ran my hands over those washboard abs.
I shiver reflexively, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me to his side. The closeness out in the open unnerves me. I can’t seem to get the notion that we’re hiding our relationship, such as it is, even if we’re away from home and our families.
“What did you tell your parents last night?”
He sighs, then warms his expression into a smile. “Not last night. This morning. I told them the truth. I stayed at Bog’s place. It’s not the first time.”
“You didn’t go home? You jerk.” I swat his arm. “You made me think you were the faithful son going home every night to your poor lonely parents.”
He grunts. “Lonely? They still have Rory, Liam, and Daniel.”
“And Kathleen.”
He nods. “They’ll always have Kathleen.”
“Don’t say that. You never know what might happen.”
“Ignoring statistical probability already? You really are a romantic.”
“Of course. I’m here with you playing Romeo and Juliet, aren’t I?”
“I thought we were more like the Hatfields and McCoys?”
Rolling my eyes, I answer playfully. “Where’s the romance in that?”
He pulls me closer, wrapping me with both arms in the strength of his hard, ropey muscles, stirring up all kinds of fuzzy warmth, mostly south of my belly, but in my heart too. “I love your hard muscles, the way you make me feel.”
“How’s that?”
“Giddy and protected.” I don’t bother holding back since there’s no point.
“Is that all?”
I laugh because he’s teasing, but he’s also avoiding talking about his own feelings.
In all the snatches of time where we’ve spent our relationship up until now, it’s not escaped my notice that he doesn’t do feelings.
Like when we texted last night. He didn’t exactly respond to my ILY the way I’d hoped. Most guys are like that though, right?
But more so Trick. He deflects with humor when he’s not outright silent. Lucky for him, I know enough to be patient, so I don’t prod him or insist he tell me how he feels like some of my friends have done.
Not that it’s worked out for them.
“Now that you’ve had a taste of spending time alone together—”
“You mean now that I’ve had a taste of you?” His voice is low and gravelly, and he nuzzles my ear, making me shudder. I bite my tongue to prevent a moan.
Someone walking past us snickers. “Get a room, Trick.”
“Shit. I should be more discreet or rumors will fly.” He loosens his hold on me, and we continue walking.
“No one knows who I am, right? So rumors won’t matter.” I’m hoping I’m right.
“As long as I’m not seen with you more than a couple of times,” he says, a rare wrinkle in his brow.
“Are you that famous—or should I say, notorious?”
We slow down as we get to the building’s main door where my class is.
“Maybe. Better not to take chances. Make sure your friends, the gossip twins, Nina and Ricci, don’t find out we’re…”
“Together?” I feel lightheaded with alarm because it may be too late for that.
Not after I declared Trick was off-limits to everyone else.
What was I thinking? I lick my lips. “They may already know. I mentioned that I was interested in you. But so what? Let the rumors fly at UNH. We’re a world away from home, and the love lives of coeds are hardly the kind of news that would make it outside the cocoon of campus. ”
“You are such a romantic.” He touches my face and doesn’t seem upset and certainly not hiding the way he feels about me right now because the look he gives me could melt an ice rink.
“I’ll play it down,” I promise.
He nods, looks around as if to check for spies. There are students coming and going, but they don’t seem to be paying attention to us. He pulls his hood over his head, leans in, and kisses my lips. The touch is hot and tender and fleeting, like our relationship up until now.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Meet for dinner?”
He shakes his head. “We have team dinners. I’ll call you afterward.
” The intensity of the bedroom-eye stare he levels at me reaches all the way down to my belly and lower, between my thighs.
Oh my god. How can I be so hot when it’s so cold out?
I’m practically dripping with sweat and desire when I walk into my most important class, an advanced design seminar I had to submit a portfolio to in order to be accepted.
Before I reach the door of the small classroom, my phone buzzes. Checking it quickly, I almost stumble. “Shit.” I’m a few minutes early, and I have to take this call, though the last person I want to talk to right now is my father.
“Dad, I’m on my way into class. Make it quick.”
“That’s a fine hello.” He doesn’t sound upset. Good. “I wanted to let you know we got you a ticket to sit with us for the hockey game, and we’ll be going out to dinner afterward.”
Shit. “We will? Doesn’t Vincent have to go back to Boston with his team?”
“No, I spoke to his coach. I’ll drive him back to B.C. after dinner.”
“You will?”
He chuckles. “Or Frank will.”
That sounds more like it. Not that Dad wouldn’t do anything for us, but he doesn’t drive at night. Hardly drives at all anymore since his eyesight’s been going.
“Okay. Where should I meet you?”
“I thought we could come to your apartment before the game and meet your roommates.”
“You know my roommates—Nina and Ricci from high school.”
“Your mother wants to see the place. I think she has a housewarming gift for you.”
“I don’t know.” Struggling to find an excuse why I don’t want my family there, I’m not even sure what the real reason is, but it’s strong. “It’s not up to me. The place is—”
“You can call your mother and work out the details with her. I have a meeting. I’m looking forward to seeing you, Sofia.
It’s… different without you around the house.
Make me proud.” It’s his usual sign-off, but I thought I could swear I heard a little wistfulness in his voice. I think he may even miss me.
That notion should be cause for a smile, or it would be if I didn’t feel so suffocated by my family. That’s why I need them to give me space and not invade my world. I don’t want them to visit my apartment with such unreasonable urgency I feel guilty.
Between that and my guilty conscience about being with Trick, I’m buried in guilt and not thinking rationally. There’s no way my family could find out about him from a quick visit.
Not unless my too-talkative roommates are around.
Shoving my guilt and my irrational paranoia aside, because I deserve a life of my own, I hurry into design class a minute late and take the only empty seat. Next to the one person I know—and don’t know. My roommate Darcy.
I smile at her. Sharing this class will be a good chance to get to know her better and make us both feel more comfortable as roommates. But when she nods, without even a flicker of a smile or any friendly intention, I’m taken aback.
For a second, I wonder about her until I realize where she’s at. She’s afraid of competition after her bad modeling experience and needs some true friendship to bring her around. I’m certain of it.
Doubling down on my friendly smile, I cover her hand with mine. “I’m so glad to see a friendly face. I know so few people.”
“What are you doing in design class?” She flicks her hair over her shoulder and straightens, looking down at me in an obvious power-play move.
“I’m a design major, same as you.” I grin, feeling the happy coincidence, even in the face of her bristling frown.
“Girl, you may be a design major, but you’re not the same as me.” She flicks her eyes up and down, looking me over like I’m a stained dress.
I laugh. “True. You have it all over me in the looks department. You’re so tall, and I bet you can wear anything. Talk about a major advantage in design class. You can be your own model.”
Her frosty expression cracks, and I see some melting as the professor begins by turning off the lights for a slide show of last year’s fashion design award finalists.
“You’ll all be entering the design contest as part of your class assignments, the most important assignment. You’ll be competing among several New England area college design departments, and I’m sure you’ll make UNH proud.”
The contest. The New England Fashion Design Contest college-level award is one of the two reasons I transferred to UNH.
In fact, I’m not sure which reason is more important, Trick or the contest. Maybe that’s because my competitive juices are flowing now, because, of course, Trick is more important.
Tamping down my zeal to win, I turn back to Darcy.
“Don’t even think you have a chance to win,” she says. “I’ll be taking home the prize.”
I smile, but I silently disagree.