The Dixon Rule: Chapter 4

I don’t want a relationship…with you.

I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE.

I’m not a fuckboy.

This sad, incontrovertible truth continues to hit me like a freight train after every single hookup. Before last night, I was able to squash these blasphemous thoughts. Banish them to the backburner of my brain and pretend the hollow feeling in my chest doesn’t exist.

Today, I’m staring at this stomach-dropping text from Crystal and finally forcing myself to accept my pathetic reality.

I want a relationship.

It wasn’t supposed to be a date.

But I accidentally turned it into one when I didn’t have sex with her.

I had her in my lap, her tongue in my mouth, her hands roaming, and I just…couldn’t do it. I wasn’t in it. If I’m honest with myself, I haven’t been in it for a long time now. Sure, it was fun at first. Fresh off a breakup from a long-term relationship, my dick eager and raring to go. It was exciting, those first few encounters, the newness of it all. Kissing someone other than my ex. Seeing a naked body that didn’t belong to her.

But the novelty has worn off. Yesterday with Crystal is proof of that.

I sit at the kitchen counter and drop my head in my hands, my breakfast forgotten, appetite gone. This is my fault. I invited her over because I thought she was hot and because I wanted to get laid. No part of that scenario involved getting into a relationship with her. Crystal’s great, but we don’t click on a deeper level. I’m not interested in taking it any further than a sloppy, aborted make-out session on my couch.

Meanwhile, she left with stars in her eyes, riding the high from “the best date she’s ever had.”

Fuck me.

Feeling like a total shithead, I force myself to craft a response before Crystal decides to tell me she loves me and can’t wait to have my babies. I compose my standard I don’t want anything serious, I thought we were on the same page text.

The chat thread stays dormant, my message still the last one in the scroll. I stare at it for nearly a minute before I see Crystal begin to type. Shit. It was too much to hope that she’d let it be.

I slide off the stool, carry my half-eaten cereal bowl to the sink, and shove the mushy remains down the garbage disposal. When I come back, she’s still typing, so I go take a shower and pray her reply won’t be too bad.

I dunk my head under the spray and bemoan my fate.

I’m not meant for hookups.

Yes, I realize that’s ironic, considering I’ve been indulging in nothing but hookups since my breakup with Lynsey last spring. I’ve slept with more women this month alone than in all the years I’ve been sexually active. There was one girl before Lynsey, and then Lynsey and I were together for four years, dating from junior year of high school until we broke up my sophomore year at Eastwood College.

To my friends, I insist that our parting was mutual.

By mutual, I mean I nodded numbly and said if that’s how you feel, then I can’t stop you.

I drag my hands over my scalp, shampoo suds sliding down my face and over my chest. I rinse off and then proceed to stand under the hot spray for another five minutes.

Wallowing.

I like having a girlfriend. I don’t care if that makes me a total sap. Deep down, I’ve always been a relationship guy. Always had this clear vision for my life, one that really solidified when I started dating Lynsey. There’s a reason I haven’t ragged on Ryder that much about his elopement with Gigi Graham. To me, it’s not an unfathomable move. I always saw myself marrying young. Hell, I wouldn’t even be against having a kid in my early twenties. I can visualize my entire future laid out in front of me. NHL super stardom, a wife, a couple of kids.

I don’t want to fuck random girls anymore. I want to fuck the girl.

I step out of the shower, dry off, and stroll naked into my bedroom. My phone still lies on the patterned bedspread where I’d tossed it. I check it, and sure enough, there’s an essay from Crystal.

As I read it, I alternate between annoyance and guilt. The thesis statement is basically you led me on, you fucking asshole.

I didn’t, though. And I make that clear in my response.

Is she for real? If I kiss a girl, that means I’m now obligated to propose marriage? If we’d had sex, sure, maybe I’d entertain that line of reasoning, but we made out for ten minutes, I told her I was tired, and then she left. How can that be considered anything deep?

I cringe even typing those words. Sounds so pathetic. If this was any of my friends, I’d be like, get the fuck over it already.

…with you.

That’s always the unspoken caveat, and sometimes I wish social etiquette didn’t require us to pretend that’s not what we mean. If someone wants to be in a relationship with you, they will. They won’t string you along. They won’t hit you up in the middle of the night for sex. They won’t feed you endless excuses about how they’re “not cut out for relationships” or how “you deserve so much better.” They would be with you, plain and simple.

And despite the reputation we get for being clueless or fickle or not being able to keep our dicks in our pants, a man usually knows pretty fast, often within minutes, if he considers someone girlfriend material.

Then what the hell are we fighting about? I want to gouge my eyes out. Instead, I apologize once again, and we go back and forth for a while. Normally I’m good at keeping my cool, but Crystal’s next message really gets my goddamn goat, as my dad always says.

My jaw tightens. Okay, then. We’re done here.

I send a final text to punctuate that.

Then I block her.

Fucking hell. All we did was make out. How is this even a thing?

And why do I still feel like a total asshole?

As I throw on a pair of black basketball shorts and a Bruins T-shirt, I reread the entire conversation to determine whether I deserved to be yelled at. But my brain truly can’t comprehend what I did wrong. The level of Crystal’s vitriol is completely disproportional to what actually occurred.

I jump when the phone vibrates in my hand. For a moment I’m afraid Crystal found a way to get around the blocking, but it’s my dad asking when they should expect me tomorrow. I’m heading to my hometown, which boasts the very cheesy name of Heartsong, Vermont, to visit my family.

As for today, I was planning on golfing, but now I’m too annoyed to golf. Maybe I’ll swim laps instead. That’ll require less concentration.

Fuck. Why are women so exhausting? Even Lynsey was exhausting, and I liked our relationship.

My heart clenches as her face flashes in my mind. Her big dark eyes. The cute little smirk she wears when she’s proven right about something. Before I can stop myself, I sit on the foot of my bed and creep her social media, yet another thing that makes me feel like a chump. She unfollowed me after we broke up, but I still follow her. Just haven’t been able to press that stupid button to click her out of my life. Besides, she has a private account, so if I did unfollow and then felt the pitiful need to cyberstalk her again, I’d have to send a request, which is even more embarrassing than the fact that I’m still following her.

I’m a stray dog begging for scraps, dying to see what she’s up to. I eagerly scroll through new shots of her at the dance studio. A black leotard is plastered to her lithe body, pale pink tights hugging her shapely legs. Lynsey is constantly lamenting that she wishes she were shorter. She’s 5’6”, which is tiny compared to me, but apparently the average height for a ballerina is like 5’4” or something.

Lynsey is beyond talented, though. She attends the Liberty Conservatory of Fine Arts in Connecticut, one of the top performing arts colleges in the country. Like Juilliard, the Liberty Conservatory offers a highly sought-after dance program and accepts a shockingly small number of students. I took Lynsey for a steak dinner when she received her acceptance letter.

I keep scrolling, until I reach a photo that raises my hackles. It’s of her and some guy. Their hands all over each other. I can’t see his face, but my fist itches to punch it.

I relax when I read the caption.

DAY 1 OF REHEARSALS FOR #NUABC.

She tagged Sergei, her best friend, who did the competition with her last year too. He also happens to be gay, so not a threat.

Guilt tugs at my gut. She’d always wanted me to be her partner. Thought it would be fun to do it as a couple. Which, frankly, always surprised me because there are far better dancers than I am, and Lynsey is incredibly ambitious. To her, winning an amateur ballroom dance competition is equivalent to securing an Olympic gold medal. I suspect she was secretly relieved whenever I would balk and say absolutely not.

Now I’m wondering if my resistance is yet another reason she dumped me.

Yeah, bro, you got dumped because you didn’t want to do the damn salsa with her.

Who knows. Maybe that is the reason.

I’ve had a lot of time for self-reflection since the breakup, and I’m honestly questioning if maybe I’m just a shit boyfriend. I’m too focused on hockey and I’ve never been willing to compromise about that. My game schedule was and is nonnegotiable. But, damn it, I did make an effort. I went to all her dance recitals, sitting front-row center. I attended all her family events, often picking them over my own. I did my best to put her first.

Guess it wasn’t good enough.

I let out a breath, staring at her picture. My fingers slide across the cool surface of my phone.

I should call her.

No, you shouldn’t.

No, I should. We’re still friends. Friends call each other.

You shouldn’t call her, and you’re not friends. You’re still in love with her.

Friends can be in love with each other.

They can’t.

The inner debate goes on for a while. Until my fingers make the decision for me and dial her number. One ring in and I regret it, but it’s too late. She’ll see the missed call. Maybe she won’t pick up, though. Maybe—

“Hey,” she answers, sounding surprised. “What’s up?”

“Hey.” My vocal cords sound like they’re wrapped in two bags of gravel. I clear my throat. “I was just scrolling Insta and saw the post of you and Sergei. I realized we hadn’t spoken in a while, so I wanted to check in and say hi.”

“Oh. Yeah. No, you’re right. It has been a while.” She doesn’t sound put off that I called. “Actually, I ran into your mom last night at the pancake house.”

“You’re home?” My heart speeds up, then stutters for a beat, because Lynsey saw my mother and didn’t even text me about it? I guess that shows where her head is at. “I’ll be there tomorrow until Friday. How long is your visit?”

“I’m leaving this afternoon. Going up north to Monique’s family’s cabin for a week.”

“Nice.” Last July, I went with her on her best friend’s annual lake trip.

Do not bring that up—

“We had the best time there last year.”

Fucking tool.

“We did, didn’t we?”

I chuckle to myself. “Remember night swimming?”

“Oh, you mean when you almost got your dick bitten off by a snapping turtle?”

“It did not almost bite my dick off. It just brushed my thigh.”

“That’s mighty close to your dick, Lindy.”

The nickname makes my heart clench. And it reminds me of all those times we laughed about what would happen if we got married. She’d be Lynsey Lindley. Very firmly, she’d declared it was too much of a tongue twister and vowed to never take my name. Eventually we compromised and decided she’d hyphenate.

Not that it matters anymore.

“You’re right, it did get a bit too close for comfort,” I relent, still chuckling. “Man, that was a fun trip.”

“It was.”

A short silence falls.

Don’t tell her you miss her.

“I miss you.”

There’s a pause.

“As a friend,” I add, fighting a grin. “I miss our friendship.”

“Yeah, I can hear you smiling right now.”

She knows me too well. “I’m not.”

Another pause.

“I miss our friendship too,” she admits. “But I still think distance is the right move.”

She’s not wrong. I can’t imagine the agony of talking to her regularly while not being together.

I want to ask her if she’s seeing anybody, but I know I shouldn’t. Fortunately, this time my mouth is able to curb the impulse.

“How about you?” Lynsey asks. “Everything’s good?”

“Yeah. Hockey’s great. New apartment is sick. Oh—my best friend got married.”

“What?! Who? Beckett?”

“Seriously? That’s your guess?” I sputter with laughter. “Try again.”

She gasps. “No. Ryder?”

“Yep.”

“When did this happen?” she demands.

“Three months ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“Distance, remember?”

She sighs grudgingly. “Fine. That’s fair. But I think when it comes to friends getting married, you have an obligation to make that call. Deal?”

“Deal. I’ll call you when Beck gets married.”

“Thank you.” This time I can hear her smiling, and it sends another ache to my heart. “Did you guys enjoy your first season at Briar?”

“Definitely. We got off to a rocky start, but we won the Frozen Four, so I can’t complain.”

“What’s the campus like?”

“Great. Why? Want to transfer?” I joke.

She hesitates. “Actually…”

My pulse starts racing again. “Are you kidding me? You’re really thinking of transferring?”

“I’ve been considering it. I might want to take on another major, and Liberty doesn’t offer many academic options. I heard Briar has an excellent psych program. And I already spoke to my advisor—she said it would be easy to transfer. I have all the credits I need and won’t have to retake anything. But…I don’t know. It’s kind of far, and…”

And you’re there is the rest of that sentence.

“Come on, Linz. Briar is big enough for the both of us. We could probably go years without crossing paths.”

“No, that’s not it.”

I snort.

“It’s not entirely it,” she amends. “But yes, I might come and do a tour.”

“Nice. If you do, you’re welcome to crash here. I have a very comfortable couch.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s not an imposition. You know you’re always welcome here. Same goes for Monique and the rest of the old crew. Just because you and I aren’t together, doesn’t mean we’re not all still friends, right?”

Her voice softens. “Well, thanks, Lindy. I appreciate that.”

I’m wired after we end the call. My skin’s buzzing, pulse still off-kilter. I head for the living room and step onto my balcony, which overlooks the landscaped grounds. I can’t quite see the pool, but I have a clear view of the flower-lined path leading to it. I feel like I’m at a Caribbean resort. It’s fucking amazing.

I breathe in the warm summer air. It’s a gorgeous morning. Maybe I’ll play golf after all. But that swim sounds nice too. So why not both?

Like the man of leisure I am, I change into swim trunks and shove my feet into flip-flops. With an oversized towel over my arm, I grab my sunglasses and keys from the hall credenza.

Outside, the scent of freshly cut grass hits my face. I inhale deeply. I need fresh air to process that phone call.

I arrive on the pool deck in time to see Diana gliding through the air.

Literally.

A guy with jet-black hair and bronzed skin is lifting her up by her calves, twirling them both around while Diana’s arms are stretched high above her in a V pose. It’s like some weird form of water dancing.

When Diana notices me, she makes a face and jumps out of the guy’s arms, landing in the water with a splash.

“No,” she growls as she heaves herself out of the pool. Her wet ponytail hangs over one shoulder. She’s in a red two-piece, the top resembling a sports bra and the bottoms tiny booty shorts.

Je-sus. Her body is ridiculous. Toned to high heaven, without an ounce of fat on her. Female athletes are so hot.

“Tuesdays are my pool day,” Diana declares.

“That’s not a rule,” I answer cheerfully.

“It is now.”

“You can’t invent new Dixon rules whenever you want.” I suddenly notice the tripod and smartphone set up in front of the pool. “What the hell’s going on here?”

As if remembering the camera, she stomps over to turn it off, dripping water all over the concrete.

“We’re rehearsing,” she says haughtily, “and Shanes aren’t allowed. Especially on Tuesdays, which are my pool days.”

I turn toward the guy in the water, who’s watching us in amusement. I wave. “I’m Shane.”

“Kenji,” he calls back.

“Don’t befriend my partner,” Diana orders.

Grinning, I drop my towel and keys on a nearby lounge chair. Everything about this apartment complex is lit, but the pool area tops everything. Rows of loungers, a gathering area with tables and chairs, a frickin’ pizza oven. And these red-and-white-striped umbrellas are bomb.

I slide my shades on. “So what are we rehearsing for?”

“None of your business.”

Once again, I seek out Kenji because he seems more level-headed. “NUABC,” he supplies.

“What the fuck’s New Absey?”

Diana huffs in annoyance. “It’s the National Upper Amateur Ballroom Championships.”

“You say that like I’m supposed to know what it is—” I stop. “Wait, actually I do know what that is.”

“Bullshit.”

“Seriously. My ex competes.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “Who’s your ex?”

“Lynsey Whitcomb.”

“Oh, I remember her,” Kenji tells Diana as he does a lazy backstroke. “She and her partner placed third in the American Nine last year.”

Diana glares at me as if I’m personally responsible for Lynsey’s dance prowess. “Did you come all the way down here to flaunt that your ex-girlfriend is some ballroom prodigy?”

“No.” I roll my eyes. “I came down to swim laps. So chill out and go back to your water dancing. I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine.”

“But we’re filming,” she complains.

“Great. Then your viewers can feast their eyes on the beautiful, godlike man in the pool.”

She stares at me. “Oh, you’re referring to yourself.”

I snicker. Arguing with Diana has succeeded in easing the lingering tension from my call with Lynsey. I was in low spirits before, but my chest feels lighter.

I saunter past the irritable blond and descend the steps in the shallow end. With the late morning sun beating down on us, the water feels like heaven against my skin.

“Do you go to Briar too?” I ask Kenji as I swim by him.

He opens his mouth, but Diana silences him with her hand. “You don’t have to answer that, Kenji.”

I chuckle and wait for him to speak for himself, but he simply gives me an apologetic shrug. Wimp.

Grinning, I slice through the cool water to start the first lap. It brings me deep enjoyment knowing Dixon doesn’t want me here.

I’m in a terrific mood now.