Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
JOSIE
H e was talking to another girl. Got a call from his girlfriend or fuck buddy right after making me squirt all over his hand against the wall of his rink. I want to cry, but I am too angry , and I want to get this anger out, but it runs so hot I feel like I am going to freaking explode.
I am currently under my baby blue comforter, the light from my phone illuminating my face as I look through all the headlines of the “Golden Boy of Hockey, Christopher Jackson.” There is one pic of him captioned Titian Uncle At Work, in which Christopher Jackson is at the beach with the rest of his teammates, but he is off to the side holding a baby close to his bare chest, the thick black lines of tattoos along his chest bleed into color over his biceps. There are other small children playing around him, while others have their hands deep in the sand, making sandcastles. The journalist reports that Uncle Chris, as the kids call him, is known for watching the kids during Team Days to give his hockey mates and their wives a break .
I roll my eyes. Of course, he’s perfect in the media, of course, he looks like the perfect dad, and of course, I can’t stop scrolling about him because here is another article about Christopher going to prom with a bullied senior. Oh, and here is another about him donating a hundred thousand dollars to addiction services in his hometown of Michigan.
I am gripping my phone so tight that my knuckles are white, and I hear the creak of my phone. The tears are creeping along my waterline again, and I can’t fucking breathe without my chest shaking with every exhale.
A weight presses down on my chest, and I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. How could I have allowed myself to succumb to the advances of Coach Christopher Jackson right there in the middle of the arena where anyone could see us? He’s fifteen years my senior and literally everyone’s favorite guy, so there’s no bad words written about him anywhere. He stops to pet puppies and donates his winning pucks to a child in the crowd every game.
The beloved golden retriever of the NHL was praised for his loyalty and skill on the ice. And in contrast, I was known as the ice princess - cool, calculated, and unapproachable. My demeanor on the ice matched my reputation, with every move precise and graceful like a swan. I am pretty to look at, sure, but so media-trained, I look like a robot. Smile. Wave. Congratulate. Be humble. And polite, but I’m not beloved. I am just an athletic anomaly who is able to bend and twist their body in ways people are not supposed to, which makes me magnificent, or at least I used to be.
A tear slides down my cheek, feeling cool against my hot skin. The door to my shared dorm room creaks open, followed by a frustrated sigh and the heavy thud of boots hitting the floor. I am hoping that my roommate, Marissa, will change her clothes or pick up some books for class and leave me to spiral down. But then I hear her running towards me, and suddenly, she’s on top of me, her body crashing into mine.
“No,” I groan, her fingers running in quick taps across my body as she tries to pry the comforter I have cocooned myself in.
“You have been like this for three days; get up!” Marissa’s voice is firm as she pinches the comforter and pushes my body onto my mattress, making me hiss when the cold air slithers under my blanket.
“Marissa!” I yell. pulling the comforter taunt against my skin and pushing my face into my damp pillow. “Stop.”
“I’ll stop when you leave your wallow hole and tell me what’s wrong.” Marissa flips me onto my back while her thighs clench around my waist.
She rips the blanket from over my face, and I bare my teeth, hissing as the cold air drills into my damp cheeks and narrowed eyes. Marissa shines her bright white teeth at me, a smug look on her face. She leans in closer, her soft, brown skin glowing under the dim light of the room, her black pixie cut framing her face in sharp, perfect angles. Her nose ring glints as she looks me over with a concerned eye, unwavering in her mission.
“You’ve been crying,” Marissa says as a statement, her eyes narrowed on my cheeks and my eyes avoiding hers.
“I can cry,” I whisper.
Marissa leans back, and I pull myself up to lean back on my elbows. She pushes a strand of hair stuck to my cheek behind my ear. Her bottom lip protrudes out further, and her eyes search my face. “What’s wrong, Josie? ”
Her fingertips linger on my lobes, and I flinch away from the comfort; I don’t want her kindness. I don’t deserve it. I wish I did. I turn my head and look off at the pink LED lights shining behind her head. “I can’t tell you.”
“What do you mean you can’t tell me? I’m your best friend.” Marissa sucks her teeth.
I avoid her eyes, but I can feel her gaze boring into my head, willing me to look at her. Marissa is one of my only weaknesses; the only person I believe loves me for me outside of Mom, better than Mom sometimes. She is the only person who ever bothered to know me as Josie Richards , not the perfect, polished figure skater everyone else sees—the future Olympian everyone is banking on. With her, I can almost forget that I’m expected to always be flawless. This thought only makes me hate Christopher more because he doesn’t expect me to be perfect. I just am, at least to him.
“Get off me,” I grumble, shifting my hips pinned by her thighs.
Her thighs lock around my waist with surprising strength, her small, athletic frame pinning me down as her fingers wiggle dangerously close to my ribs. Her eyes shine with excitement, and she whispers with narrowed eyes. “Talk, or get tickled.”
“Marissa, don’t you dare!” I warn through a strangled voice while twisting even harder, desperate to break free before the tickling begins. Being tickled is one of my least favorite things. Did you know that laughter and jerking movements are actually a fear response? It’s your body reacting to the threat of pain and danger.
“Oh, it’s happening,” she says, her tone light and teasing. “You’re not getting out of this. ”
Her fingers dive under the warm blanket, playfully attacking my sides, and I regret the day I told her I trusted her more than anything. The sensation of tickles spread through my body like wildfire, causing laughter to bubble up uncontrollably and mingle with the lingering tears still wet on my cheeks.
“Stop! Marissa!” I gasp, struggling to catch my breath, wriggling under her grip.
“Tell me what’s going on, and maybe I’ll show some mercy,” she teases, her fingers not letting up.
“Privacy! Privacy!” I scream between deep gasps of breaths, but Marissa just clicks her tongue and shakes her head no. “Okay, okay! I’ll talk! Just—stop!”
Marissa sharply pushes out an annoyed sound, leaning back on the heels of her feet. “Finally, I thought I was going to have to bring out the big guns.”
The big guns were invoking the silent treatment, which lasted two weeks and was the only way she found out that Dylan had slapped me after losing a big competition in the second semester of Freshman year. It wasn’t the first time, but his ring chipped my tooth, and it was the first time I had tasted my own blood. That day, I felt like something broke within me, and when I retreated into myself, Marissa pulled me out even when I fought her to stay in my cocoon.
“I can’t tell you who...” I start.
“Is it Dylan?!” She leans forward, her eyes hardening into a wide gaze, but I bite my inner cheek and shake my head no. “Good, because I will kill him.”
I giggle. “ I believe you.”
“Good,” she nods, poking her nose in the air and moving off of my lap with a weak smile. “Now be for real, what’s going on?”
I take a shaky breath, burying my face in my hands for a moment before letting the truth spill out. “I messed up, Marissa. Bad. And with the worst possible person.”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but waiting patiently. “Okay...and who is the worst possible person if it’s not Dylan?”
I flip onto my stomach away from Marissa and scrunch my pillow under my chin. If I can’t tell Marissa, then I will never tell anyone. My best friend is the only one I can trust with this secret; she’d probably even congratulate me on having sex with one of the guys on her would fuck if I was their age list and be extra proud of me, saying age is just a number and getting fingered by the sexiest guy on campus.Bbut every time I try to utter the truth, my mouth goes dry. How do I explain that I am almost fucking Christopher Jackson? How do I tell Marissa that I got fingered by the hockey coach? How do I explain that I may even like Christopher Jackson? It feels like my brain is rejecting the very thought.
“I just can’t tell you,” I mumble into the pillow.
“Josie, honey, if you killed someone, you have to tell me now because the body is already decaying.” She rubs the small of my back, and I giggle.
“No murder. I didn’t murder anyone.” I grumble because I totally wish I did murder Christopher Jackson, that piece of shit, leaving me literally covered in my cum and so ready for him to toss me over the benches and drill into me with a cock I could feel through his jeans— and trust me it was huge, mouth-wateringly huge— after getting a call from an Abby. I turn on my side to look at Marissa, who is staring at me with knitted eyebrows. “No hiding a body, but just let me stay here and watch Gilmore Girls on my phone until I pass out from a sugar coma.”
I turn around to snuggle back into my blanket-made cocoon. Still, Marissa grabs the blanket, exposing me to the cold elements again. She leans in, her pixie cut brushing against my shoulder, eyes wide and excitedly buzzing. “But since you won’t tell me what’s going on,” she teases, waggling her eyebrows, “I’ll just have to lower your inhibitions with as many Dirty Shirleys as humanly possible.”
I should mention now that I don’t party, like ever, because I am training to be an olympian, and figure skating, or even standing straight up on blades when your head is screaming bloody murder is totally not a thing. You will vomit ten seconds out on the ice, and any coach worth a damn will make you skate through it.
I groan, but it’s already too late. She’s in full Marissa mode, grinning like a cat with a whole birdcage to herself. “And don’t even think about fighting me on the wardrobe, babe. I just bought the most perfect black leather mini dress—and it is going to make your ass look so good you’re going to stop traffic, so bad there will be a fifteen car pile up!”
“Marissaaa,” I drag her name out in a whine, trying to sink back into the safety of my pillows, but she’s got the strength of a woman possessed. Before I can even blink, she hooks an arm under mine and pulls me upright like a rag doll.
“Up, up, up! It’s Halloween night, and we are dressing up like hot girls!” she chirps, clapping her hands. “No moping. I refuse to let you sit here like a sad dumpling all night.”
“I am not a sad dumpling,” I protest weakly.
“You are a sad dumpling,” she counters, her nose scrunching in mock sympathy. “And I—” she places a dramatic hand over her heart—“would be a terrible best friend and future psychiatrist if I didn’t check in and say you probably shouldn’t drink when you’re sad.”
I snort. “ Probably? ”
“Okay, okay. Definitely shouldn’t,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially, “but let’s be real. You and I both know you’re drinking tonight.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off with a sly grin. “Might as well do it in something hot, right?” She wiggles her brows again, that dangerous glint in her eyes telling me resistance is futile.
“You’re the worst,” I mutter, though a tiny smile sneaks onto my lips despite myself.
She gasps, scandalized. “The worst best friend ever, thank you very much.”
I roll my eyes, but Marissa just beams, knowing she’s already won.
“Come on, babe,” she nudges me gently. “We’ll dance it out, flirt with some randoms, and I swear, no one will even mention figure skating. Just you, me, and a million bad decisions.”
It’s hard to say no when she’s like this—bright and determined, the only person who’s ever made me feel like Josie Richards, not Josie-the-Olympic-Dream. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what I need tonight.
“Fine,” I huff, standing up.
Marissa squeals, clapping her hands together. “Yes! Now get ready, babe—we’ve got Dirty Shirleys to slay and boys to confuse!”
“And maybe some emotional breakthroughs while we’re at it?” I ask dryly, pulling a sweatshirt over my head to change.
“Obviously,” she says, not missing a beat. “Nothing says healing like dancing on a bar in a leather mini.”
I shake my head, biting back a laugh. “You are insane. ”
“Certified and loving it,” Marissa says with a wink. “Now move it. That dress isn’t gonna wear itself.”