Chapter 5 Blue
Blue
Islid into my Portfolio Management class about two seconds before the TA closed the door, so my day is definitely on an upward trajectory.
If I hadn’t jogged to campus and taken the steps two at a time, there’s a solid chance I’d be sitting in Coach Baylor’s office right now, explaining that I was late for class and couldn’t sit for the exam.
This early in the semester, that would have tanked my grade in the course and my ice time this weekend.
But luck was on my side, and I’m pretty sure I aced the test. My prof is old school, and he insists on giving paper and pencil tests so we can’t cheat.
A lot of people complain about the guy and his policies, but I don’t let myself get worked up over shit like that.
Besides, the class is pretty straightforward, and the material’s not difficult.
I may not like math, but it likes me. Numbers are boring as hell, but they always add up.
They’re easy. You know when you’ve got the wrong answer, and you can just backtrack your way to the point where it all went south.
Not like relationships. Take my relationship with Liza, for example.
Okay, that’s definitely not the right term.
Hell, we’re not even friends. I just wish I knew how to interact with her without pissing her off all the time.
I’m pretty sure that’s never going to happen, though.
Still, I’ve got to figure out a way to thank her for taking care of Hazel this morning and for cleaning up the mess my cat left behind.
I know from experience that flowers aren’t the way to go.
I tried that after the glitter incident.
I thought she’d like the bouquet I sent her.
Who doesn't love roses? Liza DeWalt, apparently. When I saw that they’d been delivered and asked her if she liked them, she told me the arrangement was the nicest bunch of dead things she’d ever received.
So, flowers are out.
Maybe I can upgrade her coffee pot, because the one she’s using right now is ancient and totally outdated.
I’m sure there’s a better model on the market, and it’s a practical gift, so that should win me a few points, or at least keep her from strangling me the next time she sees me.
Which, to be fair, will be at practice later today.
I need to keep breathing or my hockey game is going to fall to shit.
I know athletes play through injuries all the time, but I’m pretty sure death is a deal breaker.
The walk across campus takes no time at all because it’s freezing outside, so I hurry my ass through the quad and into the library.
There’s a bank of chairs in the far corner by the fireplace, so I stake my claim.
Before I can settle into the soft, buttery leather of my seat, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
For a second, I’m sure it’s my dad, wanting to continue the awkward conversation he started yesterday.
I am not in the mood for another lecture.
Luck’s still on my side, though, because when I check my screen, I see that it’s not my dad messaging me, but my best friend, Dutton.
Sparky: You feel like grabbing food at the diner?
Blue: Always, but I’ve got to finish making slides for a presentation this afternoon. What time are you heading that way?
Sparky: Idk. Bridgette’s working at the salon this morning, so we could meet up after my workout and kill some time until she’s done, or we could grab lunch later. Up to you.
Blue: Lunch is good. I should probably get some work done before I treat myself to a French toast feast.
Sparky: See you then.
Blue: It’s a date, Sparky.
Sparky: Don’t fucking call me that.
Laughing, I tuck my phone in my pocket and root through my bag for my laptop and charger.
My best buddy talks a big game, but I know he secretly loves the nickname I gave him when we were little kids.
That grumpy bastard can’t fool me. It’ll be good to grab lunch with him later.
Our rooms are right next to each other, and we play for the same hockey team, but I haven’t seen as much of him lately as I usually do since he went and got himself a girlfriend—and not just any girlfriend.
My guy went straight for the forbidden fruit when he fell in love with our teammate’s twin sister.
The drama has died down over the past few weeks, and I’m glad.
He might be a surly fucker sometimes, but Dutton Wagner is one of the best people I know, and he worships Bridgette.
Those two are sickeningly sweet together, so I’ll either get a toothache from mass consumption of French toast or from watching them make heart eyes at each other, but they’re happy, and that’s all that matters.
Lucky fuckers.
I’ve never had a problem finding a hookup or even doing a low-key, no-strings type of thing for as long as it lasts.
I’m the fun one, and I’ve never broken any mirrors, so attracting attention from the opposite sex has never been an issue for me.
But ever since I started at Bainbridge a few months ago, casual encounters just haven’t held the same appeal as they used to.
And I really don’t want to think about why that is, because I know the answer can be found on the first floor of the hockey house.
But I can't think about that now, or even curse myself for being such a dumbass the first time I met Liza. If I want French toast for lunch—and who wouldn’t—then I need to lock in and finish this presentation.
Settling back into the comfy chair, I crack open my computer so I can get to work.
But when I go to retrieve the files, they’re not there.
Nothing is there.
Nothing familiar, anyway.
Instead of the usual blue background, I’m greeted by a green one.
At first, I wonder if my color settings are off.
Like, maybe I hit a weird combination of buttons and messed with my display.
But my screensaver of Hazel isn’t loading, either.
I’m no tech geek, but Leo Santos is, and I know he’ll troubleshoot it for me if I ask him.
There’s no time for that now, though. I’ll just have to hope I haven’t fucked my machine up too much.
All I need to do is update my slides. I can worry about optics later.
But when I click on a search engine in an attempt to login to my WolfWire app, all I see is dicks.
What the ever-loving fuck?
Dammit. I bet Ollie is behind this. He’s still pissed that I am the superior prankster in the house, and he hasn’t quite forgiven me for the stunt I pulled last week.
But it’s not my fault the guy’s too damn gullible.
I painted his bar of soap with clear nail polish.
That’s like the oldest trick in the book.
It’s a rudimentary move, but it’s a classic for a reason.
The soap will never lather, and that shit’s just funny as hell.
Apparently, I’m getting payback in the form of five hundred dick pics.
And this is quite the gallery. There are long ones, thick ones, pierced ones. Damn. I’ll say this for Ollie: he loves a theme.
There are a few more tabs open, and I can’t resist clicking on them. Sure Ollie’s an amateur, but he’s got real pranking potential, and I want to see what else he put on my machine.
Tab number two is a bunch of dildos. It’s funny, but a little redundant, if I’m being honest.
Tab number three doesn’t disappoint. It’s tips on masturbating, and I’ve gotta admit that if I opened this up while working on a group project, that’d be horrific. And hilarious.
Tab number four is…a journal? Ollie’s pranking game has taken a nosedive.
Why the hell would I want to read his diary entry about jacking off?
I shake my head, and I’m about to text him and offer him lessons on the fine art of pranking, but my eyes snag on a single passage on the screen, and suddenly, I can’t tear my gaze away.
Entry #1-January 23
My comfort level with self pleasure is probably a five out of ten?
I’m not opposed to it at all, but I’m not always successful, either.
I think I get too easily distracted and then I’m all up in my head instead of down in my…
well, you get the picture. Today’s session started out slow, but once I visualized the experience, I was able to get into it.
I tried using a toy, but I find them intimidating, and my fingers worked just fine.
There was some playful spanking in my fantasy, and though I’m not sure I’d want to try that in real life, the image was pretty hot.
It takes me a minute to process what I’m seeing. And when I read it again, I get a little light-headed because I’m picturing myself doling out her pleasure. I'm either on the verge of a heart attack or the best orgasm I've ever had. It's a toss-up.
I slam the laptop shut a little too quickly and with more force than is necessary.
I may need Leo to fix this machine after all, even though it’s clearly not mine.
Running my hands over the cool metallic cover, I notice a sticker in the bottom left corner.
On it, there’s a thin metal structure that looks like the underside of a bridge.
In bold letters, it reads: Truss me, I’m a civil engineer.
Yep. This is Liza’s machine.
I must have grabbed hers by accident this morning when I was rushing out of the house.
That means she has my device, but that’s the least of my worries right now.
I’ve got to figure out a way to get her computer back to the house before she realizes I’ve got it. She’ll freaking kill me if she knows I saw her tabs, and even if I do love teasing her, I don’t want her to murder me, and I don’t want her to be embarrassed.
Slipping my phone from my pocket, I pull up the last message thread.
Blue: Where are you?
Sparky: Just starting my workout. Are you done with your project already?
Blue: No. I need a favor.
Sparky: Name it.
I’m about to ask Dutton to meet me at the library and sneak Liza’s laptop back into the house. He’ll do it, no questions asked. I have no doubt about that. But before I can tap out the words, my phone lights up with a text.
Liza: Where are you?
Liza: If this is a prank, I swear to god, I‘ll put superglue in your jock strap. I’m not kidding.
Liza: This isn’t funny.
I freeze with my phone in my hand. Shit.
How do I play this? If I admit I have her computer, that will just solidify her belief that I’m pulling a stunt.
But I’m a shitty liar, so I need to put on the performance of my life, not only to save Liza from unnecessary embarrassment, but to save my dick and balls from a hellish fate.
Taking a deep breath, I roll my shoulders. I got this.
Blue: Just got to the library. Why? What’s up?
Blue: And no, I’m not pranking you. Unless you’re using Ollie’s shower, which is just weird.
Liza: Of course I’m not in Ollie and Fallon’s shower!? What the hell are you talking about?
Blue: What are you talking about?
Liza: You thought you’d be funny this morning and you took my laptop just to mess with me. You are so freaking childish.
Blue: I don’t have your laptop.
Blue: Oh, shit. Yeah, I do. I must have thought it was mine. I just saw it in my bag. Want to meet up so we can switch?
Liza: Did you open it? Do NOT open it.
Blue: Why would I open it?
Liza: Good. And yes, let’s meet up. I need it back ASAP.
Blue: I’m heading to the diner in a couple hours to meet Bridgette and Sparky for lunch. See you at one?
Liza: That’s too late. I need it now. I’ll meet you anywhere.
Blue: Are you at the Wolf’s Den? I can swing by.
Liza: NO.
Liza: I just meant, no, I’m not at the arena. I’m leaving class now.
Blue: How about Drip? I can be there in ten.
Liza: That works.
Liza: And do not open it. I’m serious. I have a project on there and I don’t want you to mess with it. It’s very important.
I send off a quick pic of my bag with her computer tucked safely inside.
I haven’t lied. Yet. And I don’t really want to.
I just want to hand off her computer and then scrub the images on Liza’s laptop from my brain.
If I don’t, I won’t have to worry about her supergluing my jock.
I’ll die of blueballs before I ever step foot onto the ice again.