Chapter 11 – Lena
chapter
eleven
Lena
So fake dating your nemesis is totally normal now?
My lips were swollen. Not subtlety…obviously, I-just-got-kissed-within-an-inch-of-my-life swollen. And there. I turned my head, pushing my braids aside, and saw a faint red mark on my neck where his stubble had scraped when he'd kissed along my jaw.
I gripped the edge of the sink and leaned closer to the mirror, touched the mark with my fingertip, and my stomach flipped.
That's not stage makeup, Lena. That's evidence.
Fantastic. I looked exactly like a girl who'd been mauled by a hockey player in front of ten thousand people. Which, to be fair, I had been. But it wasn't supposed to show.
I needed the shower. Needed to stand under scalding water and press my forehead against the tile and scrub the phantom feeling of his hands off my body.
So I did. Cranked the heat until the bathroom filled with steam, let the water pound my shoulders until my skin turned pink, and it didn't work, not even a little.
I could still smell him, soap and cold air and something underneath that was just Trace, clinging to me like my body had absorbed it.
By the time I'd toweled off and changed into my sleep shirt and shorts, the mirror had fogged over completely.
Good. I didn't need to see my own face right now.
I bundled my game-day clothes into a ball, padded back to our room, and kicked them into the corner of my closet.
The hallway was loud. People still filtering back from the arena, someone blasting music two doors down, a group of girls shrieking about something I didn't want to know about.
I shut our door and the noise dropped to a muffled hum.
Kimmy wasn't back yet. She'd gone to get hot chocolate after the game, giving Trace and me privacy for the walk home. Giving us privacy. Like we were a real couple who needed a moment alone.
My phone sat on the nightstand, screen lighting up every few seconds.
I made the mistake of checking it. Fourteen texts, three Instagram tags, and a Snapchat from a girl in my econ class that was just the kiss emoji repeated eleven times.
Someone had already posted a video of the kiss to the campus gossip account with the caption Coulter's mystery girl identified: Lena Hartwell, junior, tennis team. It had two hundred likes in an hour.
I put the phone face down and pulled the sunflower-patterned duvet over my head.
We're not. This is a deal. Two reasons, Lena. That's all this is.
Reason one, Mom. Trace's family had connections at Chicago Memorial, the kind of connections that could get Mom in to see a specialist who wasn't taking new patients.
Dr. Okafor. The name alone had made Mom cry when I'd told her there might be a chance.
I'd sell a kidney for that appointment. Fake hand-holding and performative kissing? Bargain.
Reason two, Matt. Not getting him back. God, no.
Just making sure he choked on the upgrade.
The guy who'd dumped me over pad thai because my sick mother was too much of an inconvenience deserved to watch me walk around campus on the arm of someone better than him in every conceivable way. And Trace was that in spades.
Don't think about why that thought came so easily.
Two reasons. Clean. Simple. Transactional.
So why is your body still humming three hours later?
I pushed the covers down to my chin and stared at the ceiling.
My dorm wasn't anything fancy. White shelves leaned under the weight of my life, a couple of battered tennis trophies, a row of books I'd promised myself I'd read this semester and definitely wouldn't, and three succulents in pots shaped like cartoon animals, all thriving despite my complete neglect.
One of them was a smiling frog. The frog was judging me.
String lights framed the window, and outside, the October wind rattled the poorly insulated glass and sent dry leaves skittering across the walkway below.
I pressed my fingers to my lips again, like a reflex I couldn't override.
The toothpaste hadn't helped and the shower hadn't helped.
I could still taste him underneath my own cherry lip balm, something warm and a little salty, something that was just him.
My fingers kept drifting there, tracing where his lips had been, pressing like I could hold the sensation in place.
You're twenty-one years old and touching your own mouth like a Disney princess who just had her first kiss. Get it together.
My heart was still hammering. Three hours later and it hadn't gotten the memo that the show was over. There was this ache low in my belly that wouldn't quit, and every time I shifted in bed, I felt it.
Trace fucking Coulter. How was I getting wet just thinking about him?
I squeezed my thighs together, willing the sensation to stop, and it didn't. If anything, the pressure made it worse, a sharp pulse of want that had me gripping the edge of my mattress like it owed me money.
This was the guy who'd taken his brother's side when it mattered most. The guy I'd spent years hating. So why did my body betray me every time he touched me?
The walk home replayed behind my closed eyes whether I wanted it to or not.
His hand in mine, fingers intertwined, shoulders brushing.
His thumb tracing slow circles on the back of my hand.
When we'd passed under a streetlight, I'd glanced up and caught him looking at my mouth. He'd looked away fast. Not fast enough.
And his voice, low and rough, saying get some rest like he was fighting not to say something else entirely.
But it wasn't real. It absolutely wasn't real, no matter how slick my panties had gotten when his tongue swept against mine.
No matter how I'd fisted his jersey and arched into him when I should have been pushing him away.
No matter how I'd breathed his name against his lips,Trace, and felt him shudder.
Actually shudder. A six-four hockey player had shuddered because I said his name.
None of that was real. He was performing for a stadium. That was all.
Sure, Lena. Keep telling yourself that.
Tomorrow, campus would be buzzing. People would want the gossip, and we'd give them our rehearsed story. Stick to the script.
And Matt would find out soon enough. Not that I wanted him back.
I wanted him to choke on it. The guy who'd called me needy and suffocating because I'd been dealing with my mother's illness while he needed me to revolve around his thesis schedule.
But there was no point in going Crazy Ex-Girlfriend on him.
Better to upgrade and never give him the satisfaction.
And use Trace to do it?
That part I didn't love. I didn't want to use anyone. But this was mutually beneficial. He needed the stable-boyfriend image for the scouts, I needed Mom's specialist appointment and Matt's ego in a body bag. Fair trade.
Beneficial indeed. You can still feel his lips.
I could still hear the way he'd moaned, low and rough and desperate, like something had been ripped out of him.
I could still feel the possessive way he'd clamped a hand on my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head back so he could kiss me deeper.
The way his other hand had grabbed my ass and pulled me flush against him until I could feel exactly how hard he was through his gear.
My core clenched at the memory and I rolled onto my side, bit down on the pillowcase, and groaned.
Cool. So your coping strategy is eating Egyptian cotton. Very mature.
I should have known Kimmy wouldn't let tonight go without a full debrief.
The door opened with a click, and she breezed in.
"Okay, lovebirds." She plopped onto her bed, tucking her legs underneath her and hugging a purple pillow to her chest. "I gave you your romantic walk home.
I froze my ass off getting hot chocolate I didn't even want just so you two could have your moment.
" She pointed at me. "Now spill. Everything. "
I groaned into the pillow. "I don't know, Kimmy. It just… happened."
"Is it because of your breakup with Matt?
Are you trying to make him jealous or something?
It's just I've never seen you even talk to Trace Coulter.
I mean I know you know him from high school but still.
" Her voice had gone quieter on that last part, and she was picking at the pillow seam, the thing she did when she was trying not to push too hard.
"No." I sighed, rolling onto my back. "It wasn't about Matt at all."
The half-truth sat heavy in my chest. I couldn't tell her about the deal, about Mom's appointment, about any of it. So I gave her what I could.
"We started talking again when I ran into him at the Commons." True. "He asked me to go to the game." Also true. "No big deal."
God, I was the worst friend alive.
"Wow." Kimmy's eyes went wide and she hugged the pillow tighter. "I didn't even know you had a thing for hockey players!" She giggled. "Or bad boys, for that matter."
"Neither did I," I admitted, barely above a whisper. I pulled the duvet higher. "But there's something about Trace… He's different from any guy I've ever met."
And that was the truest thing I'd said all night.
Before he'd hurt me, he'd been my best friend.
The person who made me laugh until my ribs ached, who remembered how I took my coffee, who'd driven forty minutes in a snowstorm junior year to bring me soup when I had the flu because Trevor had "forgotten.
" And now he was making me feel things I didn't want to feel, forbidden, dirty things that had no business existing in a fake relationship.
Get a grip, Hartwell.
"Tell me more about the kiss." She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, eyes bright. "What was it like?"
"Kimmy, I don't think I should—"
She cut me off with a wave of her hand. "Come on, Lena. You can't just leave me hanging like this!"
"Okay, okay." I sat up against the headboard, pulling my knees to my chest. My cheeks were burning. "It started out slow, like he was testing the waters." My voice dropped without my permission. "But then it just... escalated. Like we couldn't stop. It was… incredible."
Way too true.
"I'm your best friend! I need more details!"
"Fine." I peeked out from behind the pillow.
"It was intense. His lips were soft, but firm.
" I swallowed hard. "He held nothing back.
Like—he grabbed me and just..." I trailed off because my body was doing things that had no business happening during a conversation with my roommate.
My nipples had tightened under my sleep shirt and I was grateful for the low light. "It was a lot."
Kimmy bounced on her bed, clapping. "Oh my God! That's so romantic!"
"It wasn't romantic." I corrected too quickly, too defensively
"Girl, your face is the color of a fire truck right now. It was at least a little romantic."
"It was just... passionate."
More than it should have been. More than you can explain without blowing your cover.
"Even better!" Kimmy fell back against her headboard and clutched the pillow to her chest like a shield. "So what are you guys now?"
"I don't know honestly." I slid back down under the covers, hiding, definitely hiding.
"No. This is epic. Trace Coulter. He's gorgeous and a hockey stud. Face it, you're officially the talk of the campus. Lena Hartwell, the good girl gone wild!"
"Ugh, don't say that." I covered my face. "I'm already drowning in this. It's complicated."
"Why? A hot guy likes you. What's complicated about that?"
Because it's fake. Because I'm trading kisses for a medical appointment. Because he chose Trevor over me once and I'm handing him the knife again.
"My recent track record has me a little gun shy."
Kimmy threw her pillow at me. It hit me square in the face. "Honey, if he doesn't know you're awesome, that's his loss." She pointed at me, one eyebrow raised. "You're amazing, Lena. Don't ever forget that. Matt is a shit stain."
I threw the pillow back. "Thanks, Kimmy." I laughed softly. "I love you."
"I know." She caught the pillow and tucked it back under her arm. "And for what it's worth? The way that boy looked at you tonight?" She fanned herself. "Matt could never. I'm just saying."
The way he looked at me. Like I was the only person in a stadium of ten thousand.
Don't go there.
"Now, try to get some sleep. Tomorrow's a new day, and who knows what it'll bring?"
"More chaos, probably," I muttered, but she was already reaching for her bedside lamp.
The room went dark except for the string lights and the faint glow of streetlights through the window.
I was wide awake and wired.
I closed my eyes and the dark made it worse. Nothing to distract me from the highlight reel my brain had decided to play on a loop. I rolled onto my stomach, pressed my face into the pillow, and it didn't help because now all I could smell was my shampoo and underneath it, still, somehow, him.
I flipped onto my back again, kicked the covers off, then immediately pulled them back up. Hating him had been so much easier. Hatred was clean and simple. This, whatever this was, was a five-car pileup of feelings I couldn't sort through without a therapist and possibly a bottle of wine.
What kind of masochist gets hot for someone she's supposed to despise?
My hips shifted restlessly and my skin felt electric. My sleep shirt had ridden up and the cool sheets against my bare stomach made me shiver, made me think of his cold hands from the rink warming against my skin.
Stop it. Go to sleep.
My body didn't listen. It never listened when it came to Trace.
I stared at the ceiling wondering how one fake kiss had rewired me.
"Lena?" Kimmy's voice, groggy and half-asleep. "You keep tossing. You okay?"
"I'm fine." My cheeks burned. "Just can't sleep."
"Mm. Count sheep or something." She was already fading back out.
"Thanks," I mumbled, turning away from her.
Yeah, like counting is going to help when he’s all you can think about.