Hell, we both saw what happened to Chris Little, our teammate in freshman year. Dude gets drafted, goes pro, plays for half a season, and then? A career-ending injury takes him out. Permanently. Not only will Little never step foot on the ice again, but he spent every dime of his signing contract on his medical expenses, and last I heard, he went back to school to learn a trade. Welding, or some shit.
So yup, Garrett’s playing it smart. Me? I knew from the start I wouldn’t be going pro.
“I mean, Gretzky went undrafted, and look at everything he accomplished. The guy’s a legend. Arguably the best player in hockey history.”
Garrett is still talking, still trying to “reassure” me, and I’m torn between snapping at him to shut up, and hugging the living shit out of the guy for being such an amazing friend.
I do neither, choosing to placate him instead. “I’ll call the agent on Monday,” I lie.
He offers a pleased nod. “Good.”
The silence returns. We cart our empty bowls over to the dishwasher.
“Hey, we’re going to Malone’s tonight,” Garrett says. “Me, Wellsy, Tuck and maybe Danny. You in?”
“Can’t. I’ve gotta start studying for exams.”
It’s sad, but I’m starting to lose count of all the things I’m lying to my best friend about.
*
Grace
“I’m sorry—can you repeat that?” Ramona stares at me in utter disbelief, her eyes so wide they look like two dark saucers.
I shrug as if what I’ve just told her is no biggie. “John Logan came over last night.”
“John Logan came over last night,” she echoes.
“Yes.”
“He came to our dorm.”
“Yes.”
“You were in this room, and he walked in, and then both of you were here. In this room.”
“Yes.”
“So John Logan showed up at our door, and walked inside, and was here. With you. Here.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Yes, Ramona. We’ve established that he was here. In this room.”
Her mouth falls open. Then slams shut. Then opens again to release a shriek that’s so earsplitting I’m surprised the water in my glass doesn’t jiggle Jurassic Park-style.
“Oh my God!” She runs over to my bed and flops down. “Tell me everything!”
She’s still wearing her party clothes from last night, a teeny minidress that rides up her thighs when she sits, and silver stilettos that she kicks away in an excited blur of legs.
When Ramona had walked into our room, I’d lasted all of three seconds before spilling the news, but now, with her staring excitedly at me, reluctance jams in my throat. I’m suddenly embarrassed to tell her what happened last night, because…well…I’m just going to say it: because it was underwhelming.
I had fun watching the movie with him. And I loved fooling around with him—at least until those final moments—but the guy got off and then left. Who does that?
No wonder all his hook-ups take place at frat parties. The girls are probably too drunk to notice whether they have an orgasm or not. Too drunk to realize that John Logan is selling nothing but false advertising.
But I already opened my big mouth, so now I have to follow through and give Ramona something. As she gawks at me, I explain how Logan showed up at the wrong door and ended up staying to watch a movie.
“You watched a movie? That’s it?”
I feel my cheeks warm up. “Well…”
Another screech flies out of her mouth. “Oh my God! Did you fuck him?”
“No,” I’m quick to answer. “Of course not. I hardly even know him. But…well, we did make out.”
I’m hesitant to disclose any more than that, but the revelation is enough to light up Ramona’s eyes. She looks like a kid who’s just gotten her first bicycle. Or a pony.
“You made out with John Logan! Eeeeeh! That is so awesome! Is he good a kisser? Did he take off his shirt? Did he take off his pants?”
“Nope,” I lie.
My best friend can’t sit still anymore. She hops off the bed and bounces around on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I wasn’t here to witness it.”
“You’re into voyeurism now?” I ask dryly.
“If I’m voyeur’ing John Logan? Um, yeah. I’d watch the two of you make out for hours.” She gasps suddenly. “Oh my God, text him right now and ask him to send you a dick pic!”
“What? No!”
“Aw, come on, he’ll probably be really flattered and—” Another gasp. “No, text him to invite him over tonight! And tell him to bring Dean.”
I hate to rain on her parade, but considering the way Logan rushed off last night, I have no choice but to dump a bucket of cold water on Ramona’s joy. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I confess. “I didn’t get his number.”
“What?” She looks devastated. “What is wrong with you? Did you at least give him yours?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t have his phone on him, and there wasn’t an opportunity for me to give him my number.”
Ramona goes quiet for a moment. Sharp brown eyes focus on my face, narrowing, probing, as if she’s trying to telepathically tunnel into my brain.
I fidget self-consciously. “What?”
“Be honest,” she says. “Was he actually here?”
So yup, Garrett’s playing it smart. Me? I knew from the start I wouldn’t be going pro.
“I mean, Gretzky went undrafted, and look at everything he accomplished. The guy’s a legend. Arguably the best player in hockey history.”
Garrett is still talking, still trying to “reassure” me, and I’m torn between snapping at him to shut up, and hugging the living shit out of the guy for being such an amazing friend.
I do neither, choosing to placate him instead. “I’ll call the agent on Monday,” I lie.
He offers a pleased nod. “Good.”
The silence returns. We cart our empty bowls over to the dishwasher.
“Hey, we’re going to Malone’s tonight,” Garrett says. “Me, Wellsy, Tuck and maybe Danny. You in?”
“Can’t. I’ve gotta start studying for exams.”
It’s sad, but I’m starting to lose count of all the things I’m lying to my best friend about.
*
Grace
“I’m sorry—can you repeat that?” Ramona stares at me in utter disbelief, her eyes so wide they look like two dark saucers.
I shrug as if what I’ve just told her is no biggie. “John Logan came over last night.”
“John Logan came over last night,” she echoes.
“Yes.”
“He came to our dorm.”
“Yes.”
“You were in this room, and he walked in, and then both of you were here. In this room.”
“Yes.”
“So John Logan showed up at our door, and walked inside, and was here. With you. Here.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Yes, Ramona. We’ve established that he was here. In this room.”
Her mouth falls open. Then slams shut. Then opens again to release a shriek that’s so earsplitting I’m surprised the water in my glass doesn’t jiggle Jurassic Park-style.
“Oh my God!” She runs over to my bed and flops down. “Tell me everything!”
She’s still wearing her party clothes from last night, a teeny minidress that rides up her thighs when she sits, and silver stilettos that she kicks away in an excited blur of legs.
When Ramona had walked into our room, I’d lasted all of three seconds before spilling the news, but now, with her staring excitedly at me, reluctance jams in my throat. I’m suddenly embarrassed to tell her what happened last night, because…well…I’m just going to say it: because it was underwhelming.
I had fun watching the movie with him. And I loved fooling around with him—at least until those final moments—but the guy got off and then left. Who does that?
No wonder all his hook-ups take place at frat parties. The girls are probably too drunk to notice whether they have an orgasm or not. Too drunk to realize that John Logan is selling nothing but false advertising.
But I already opened my big mouth, so now I have to follow through and give Ramona something. As she gawks at me, I explain how Logan showed up at the wrong door and ended up staying to watch a movie.
“You watched a movie? That’s it?”
I feel my cheeks warm up. “Well…”
Another screech flies out of her mouth. “Oh my God! Did you fuck him?”
“No,” I’m quick to answer. “Of course not. I hardly even know him. But…well, we did make out.”
I’m hesitant to disclose any more than that, but the revelation is enough to light up Ramona’s eyes. She looks like a kid who’s just gotten her first bicycle. Or a pony.
“You made out with John Logan! Eeeeeh! That is so awesome! Is he good a kisser? Did he take off his shirt? Did he take off his pants?”
“Nope,” I lie.
My best friend can’t sit still anymore. She hops off the bed and bounces around on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I wasn’t here to witness it.”
“You’re into voyeurism now?” I ask dryly.
“If I’m voyeur’ing John Logan? Um, yeah. I’d watch the two of you make out for hours.” She gasps suddenly. “Oh my God, text him right now and ask him to send you a dick pic!”
“What? No!”
“Aw, come on, he’ll probably be really flattered and—” Another gasp. “No, text him to invite him over tonight! And tell him to bring Dean.”
I hate to rain on her parade, but considering the way Logan rushed off last night, I have no choice but to dump a bucket of cold water on Ramona’s joy. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I confess. “I didn’t get his number.”
“What?” She looks devastated. “What is wrong with you? Did you at least give him yours?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t have his phone on him, and there wasn’t an opportunity for me to give him my number.”
Ramona goes quiet for a moment. Sharp brown eyes focus on my face, narrowing, probing, as if she’s trying to telepathically tunnel into my brain.
I fidget self-consciously. “What?”
“Be honest,” she says. “Was he actually here?”
