“Look at you, flirting like a pro.”
“I keep telling you I’m smooth as hell,” I tease.
“You will be, once I get done with you,” she retorts, and god, I love her sass. “Come on, what’s next?”
I scratch absently at my chest. “Uh. I dunno. If I’m not studying, I game for an hour or two to zone out a little. Then I just kinda lie on my bed and scroll mindlessly on my phone. Doesn’t everybody?”
“True,” she agrees. “Alright, so lie down.”
I turn toward my bed because it’s kind of impossible not to do what Mel says. But damn, it’s seriously hot in here. Santos said someone from campus maintenance was coming to check out the AC unit this week, and god, I hope they get here soon. I’ve been leaving my window open, but it’s not helping much. Peeling off my T-shirt, I launch it toward the hamper and make the shot. “He scores,” I joke, but Mel’s not laughing. She’s staring open-mouthed at my chest.
“Damn.”
“Uh, thanks?” My cheeks flush. I never know quite how to respond to that kind of attention. Over the past year, since I slimmed down and bulked up, I’ve been noticing that people pay more attention to me. When I’m in the regular gym here at Bainbridge or I take my shirt off during a run, I definitely get looks, and not the kind I’m used to. I try not to let the attention go to my head. Mostly, I ignore it. But it’s hard to ignore Mel, especially when she’s looking at me like I’m good enough to eat. And though I like it,I want to turn my own gaze on her. I feel like doing everything in my power to make her body feel good, to make her smile, to make her moan. Trouble is, I’ve got no clue where to even start. And when Chelsie laughed out loud at my attempt at kissing, it bruised my ego. But if I shoot and miss with Mel? I have a feeling that a lot more than my ego is going to get hurt.
I lie down like she requested, and automatically go for my phone. It’s just habit. But before I can open my favorite app, Mel stops me.
“Toss it here,” she tells me.
“But I thought you said to just do what I normally do?”
She stands and takes two steps toward the bed. “To start, yeah. But I’m here, and I think we can come up with a few more interesting things to do than scroll through QuikTok, right?”
Instinctively, I scoot back toward the wall to lie on my side, giving her plenty of room to join me. I don’t know if we’re just gonna lie here like we did the other night on her couch, or what. But even then, I wouldn’t complain.
“Mind if I join you?” she asks, and I nod dumbly.
“Words, Will, I need your words.”
“Yeah, of course. Totally. Yes,” I ramble, and if there was any hope left that Mel was under the impression that I am actually as suave and cool as other guys my age? Well, that’s been shot to shit.
Her smile lets me know she suffers no such delusion.
That’s one of the many things I like about Mel: she doesn’t bullshit and she doesn’t take any shit. Not from me; not from anybody. Well, maybe that douchebag ex who likes to hang around the coffee shop waiting for a chance to talk to her. But there’s no room for thoughts of him right now. Mel’s sitting primly on my bed, the curve of her ass mere inches from my hands. My fingers itch to reach for her, but I don’t.
“What’s the matter?” she asks, sensing my nervousness.
“I’ve got the yips,” I blurt, though I swore that cursed word would never cross my lips.
Mel looks totally confused. “Did you just say the yi—”
Before she can utter the unspeakable word, I reach out and cover her mouth with my hand. “Don’t say it. I shouldn’t have said it. Shit…”
“Ok,” she mutters, peeling my hand away, but not letting go of it. “I promise not to say the word, but can you at least tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”
I sigh. “Yeah, so…the…things…are when you choke, you know? You’re going for a play or whatever, and you just freeze up. It’s the thing every athlete dreads and—”
“Oh no, and tonight at practice you—”
“No,” I practically shout, as though that will ward off the evil spirits of athletic doom. “Not on the ice.Here.In the bedroom.”
She turns to face me fully, sitting cross-legged on my bed.
I take a deep breath and explain. “Just a couple seconds ago, I was thinking about you sitting here with me. How you look so good, you know?”
She blushes, though there’s no way she’s a stranger to compliments. No matter your type, Mel Cohen is objectively beautiful. Her hair is long and dark and silky. Her skin is soft and flawless. Her eyes are green with flecks of gold, and her mouth is full and pouty. Her body is soft and subtly curvy with legs that seem to go on for miles.
“I wanted to touch you,” I tell her honestly. “To reach for you, but—”
