Chapter 18 Blue
Blue
Blue: Sorry. Coach had me stay late running drills with Mickey. I thought you'd still be at the area when I left, but I didn’t realize it got so late.
Liza: It’s fine.
Blue: I’m no genius, but something tells me it’s not fine.
Liza: Did you read my text? I said it’s fine.
My fingers start to tap out a reply, but my brain thinks better of it, so I pocket my phone as I round the corner and see the hockey house at the end of the street.
A lot of the guys drive back and forth to practice, but we’re close enough to the Wolf’s Den that walking seems much quicker to me.
It is early February, so the walk is definitely brisk, but I don’t mind.
And based on Liza’s texts, it seems like our place might be even frostier than the thirty degree temps outside.
I don’t blame her for being pissed, though.
We’ve managed to sneak around undetected for more than a week now and the more time I get with Liza, the more I want.
We were both hoping we could check a few more things off her list tonight, but it’s late enough that all our housemates are home, so that’s probably not going to happen.
If any of my friends knew about our arrangement, they’d tell me I’ve lost my mind, and not just because Liza is openly hostile toward me ninety percent of the time.
No, the proof of my insanity would be the fact that when Liza and I are alone, she’s the only one getting orgasms. Don’t get me wrong: I have always lived by a ladies first philosophy, and I always will.
But I’ve never had a sexual encounter where the orgasms weren’t mutual.
Until now.
And, to be clear, I’m having orgasms. Plenty of them. When Liza sneaks back down to her room, or I make my way up to mine, I’m always about ten seconds from publicly humiliating myself. All my needs are being met, it’s just that I’m the one meeting them, usually in the privacy of my shower.
And, honestly, I’m more than okay with it..
It’s not that I wouldn’t love to feel her hands on me again, and it’s not that I haven’t imagined what it would be like to sink inside her tight, wet heat.
Fuck me, I think about it way too often.
But this is all about Liza, about making her feel good, and letting her decide what she likes and what she doesn’t.
And as corny as it sounds, when she feels good, I feel good. My whole goal is her please.
I’m basically her human vibrator, and I love my job.
When I get to the front of the house, I take the steps two-at-a-time, and punch the security code into the lock.
I wave hello to the freshmen who are sprawled out on the sofas playing video games, and head for the kitchen because I’m starving.
And because Liza’s room is down the hall, so I can check to see if her light’s on.
“Stop!”
I obey the freshman’s command, although I’m not sure if it was issued by Dime or Flo. I get those two confused all the time. They look nothing alike, but they’re both named Mason, and I think that’s where the confusion started.
“Dude, whatever you do, stay out of the kitchen. I’m serious. Do not go in there.”
I turn around as Dime is finishing his dire warning. “Unless you three have some food stashed somewhere in this room, I’m going into the kitchen.”
“It’s not safe,” Flo says, every bit as freaked out as his buddy.
“Why?” I ask, skeptically. “I know Mickey didn’t burn a mac and cheese cup again because he’s at the library studying with Viv.
” More accurately, he’s at the library pining over Viv, but I’ll keep that part to myself.
Not that it’s any secret that our pal is madly in love with Viv McDonald.
Anyone who sees the way he looks at her could tell you that in about five seconds.
It doesn’t seem like she sees Mickey as anything more than a best friend.
I could be wrong, of course, but either way, I’ll stay out of it.
“It’s not Mickey. It’s Liza. And she is pissed.” Flo practically hisses the word. “You can’t go in there. I tried to get ice cream about ten minutes ago, and I swear to god, she hissed at me.”
If Liza’s so upset that these three are picking up on it, you can bet your ass I’m going into the kitchen to find out what’s wrong and see how I can fix it.
I wave them off, but Dime vaults off the couch and lands right in front of me, slowing down my progress.
I’ve got six inches and at least forty pounds on this kid, so it would be easy for me to pick him up and put him right back on the couch he so quickly vacated, but he looks so panicked right now that I’m afraid if I do, the poor guy will need to change his pants.
“What?” I say, growing impatient. What if something’s really wrong in there? What if Liza’s mom got sick? Or lost her job? Or something else horrible.
“Dude! Do you not hear us? She’s in a very bad mood, and you’re only going to make it worse. If she sees you, her head literally might explode!”
Clapping him on the shoulder, I nudge him out of my way. “Think of it like this: I’ll be her punching bag. She can take her frustrations out on me, and then she’ll feel better, and we can all use the fridge again. It’s a good plan, right?”
I don’t wait for them to respond, but as I cross the threshold into the kitchen, I swear I hear someone mutter, “It’s your funeral.”
They’re a bunch of chickenshits because Liza doesn’t scare me.
She used to, back when I was also a chickenshit.
But now that I actually know her? She’s the best. She’s not some unhinged villain who's raging on people for no reason. If she’s really as mad as the guys think she is, then somebody must have done something major to piss her off, and for once, I don’t think it was me.
Yeah, I’m home an hour later than I said I’d be, but that’s out of my control.
And because she works for the team, Liza understands that better than a regular girlfriend would.
Not that she’s my girlfriend, but the principle still applies.
When I step into the kitchen, I nearly get beaned by a flying package of pancake mix.
I duck just in time to dodge the hit. Fucking pancakes.
They’re French toast’s bratty, jealous step sister.
Liza doesn’t notice me standing here, but when she lobs a box of cereal behind her, I catch it easily.
When she doesn’t hear it hit the counter or the ground, she turns around.
“Hey,” she says, sounding defeated. “Sorry if you got hit with flying shrapnel. I’m looking for something and I can’t find it. This pantry is a freaking mess.”
“I’m good,” I tell her. “But how about you? Rough night?”
“I’m just tired. And hungry. And mad. I’m so far past hangry it’s not even funny.
I’m full-on larving. Livid and starving.
” In case there was any chance I didn’t get the message that she’s in a bad mood, she crosses her arms, narrows her eyes, and juts out her lower lip.
I know she’s not trying to be adorable, but she just can’t help it.
“All right, what can I do?” I ask. “And what exactly are we looking for?”
“Nothing specific,” she answers, leaning forward and plucking a granola bar off a shelf. “This will do.”
“Not possible,” I scoff. “There’s no way you frightened the freshmen and tore up the kitchen so you could snack on a crumbly granola bar. What’s really going on?”
“I’m fine. It’s stupid,” she says, and as she unwraps her snack, crumbs break off in chunks and fall to the floor, so I scoop them up, toss them in the trash, and start gathering up the discarded boxes and putting them back on the shelves.
“This tastes terrible,” she says, making a face. “Do granola bars expire?”
I shrug because I don’t know, but I take the crumbly bar and its shiny wrapper out of her hand and toss them in the trash, too.
She walks past me, and I’m slightly worried she’s going to start raiding the fridge next, but she bypasses it and slumps onto one of the stools at the bar.
As soon as I’m done restocking the shelves, I position myself on the other side of the bar, grab a soda from the fridge, crack it open and pour it into a glass.
When I slide it in her direction, she finally smiles at me.
It’s small and it lasts for a second, but I’ll take it.
“Isn’t this one of Jenksy’s sodas?” she asks, eyeing the can.
“Yep,” I answer, grabbing another, popping the top, and taking a swallow. “But he was late today, so Coach Van had us skating our assess off. He owes us.”
“That seems fair,” she agrees, taking a sip.
“So, now that I’m your bartender, aren’t you supposed to tell me what’s bugging you? And don’t even try to feed me that bullshit about you being fine. You damn near decapitated me with a box of pancake mix.”
Liza sighs before meeting my gaze. “It’s stupid and you’re going to laugh at me, but whatever.
I had a meeting downtown today about a possible internship this summer.
It went pretty well, and I was offered the spot, so I decided to treat myself to a mini buffalo chicken pizza at Rinaldi’s.
I didn’t have time to eat it, though, so I clearly labeled it and stuck it in the fridge.
When I tell you how much I was looking forward to that pizza…
Did you ever want something so badly that you could practically taste it?
Well, that was me and this pizza. It didn’t even matter that I skipped dinner because I was busy working on a group project because I knew what deliciousness awaited me at the end of the day.
So, imagine my surprise when I came home and my pizza was gone.
Completely gone, except for the empty box that still has my freaking name on it. ”
In a matter of seconds, I have the app for Rinaldi’s up on my phone. “They’re still open,” I tell her, pretty sure I’m going to earn another one of her smiles.