kiss out of my head.
Unfortunately, this means I’m obsessing over it while I’m sitting in the middle of the library across from Julianna, attempting to study. Normally, Strength & Conditioning Program Design is one of my favorite classes. Right now, it seems drier than cardboard. After less than half a page, the words begin to jumble together, sliding into a meaningless blur.
If kissing Nash was better than ever, what would everything else be like?
The question sends me straight down a rabbit hole of memories, right back to our first time. I was a virgin; he wasn’t. It was good—great, if we’re comparing it with all the other first-time stories I’ve heard from my friends. I even had an orgasm, which is apparently more than most women get their first time. And the sex after that? Better and better. Needless to say, it created some unrealistic expectations on my part.
Losing my virginity to Nash was like having a Ferrari for my first vehicle—and moving on to other guys was the equivalent of downgrading to a used, rusty Honda Civic. Sure, the Civic is a fine, reliable car. There’s nothing wrong with it. It might get you where you need to go . . . eventually. But it’s no Ferrari. The Ferrari might be a little impractical, but the performance can’t be beat.
For all of Nash’s numerous shortcomings in the boyfriend department, he was a giver in the bedroom. Bless my naive little heart, I honestly thought everyone in committed relationships was having mind-blowing sex on the regular.
Turns out, I was gravely mistaken.
It was a rude awakening the first time I slept with someone else. My first boyfriend after, Jay, wasn’t well-acquainted with the clitoris. Or foreplay. And he’d definitely never found the G-spot. Oral was a one-way street and trying to discuss my sexual satisfaction, or lack thereof, went over like a lead balloon.
That’s when I invested in several battery-operated boyfriends and readjusted my expectations to more accurately reflect the grim reality of college dating. It’s a brutal landscape, marred with guys who either don’t know what they are doing; don’t care; or for whatever reason, can’t get your engine revving.
At the end of the day, I don’t want the guy who’s going to ask if he can hold my hand. I want the one who’s going to tear off my underwear, grab my wrists, and pin me to the wall. Preferably while whispering filthy things in my ear about what he’s going to do to me next.
It’s a bit of a problem.
Especially when Nash is the wrist-grabbing, wall-pinning, dirty-talking type.
“Violet?” a girl’s voice asks.
“Huh?” I blink rapid-fire, and the library slowly comes back into focus. Fluorescent lighting buzzes overhead, illuminating the floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with worn books. The scent of old paper permeates the air, and there’s a wicked cramp in my right hand. I set down my pen, which I’ve been clutching like my life depended on it.
Julianna gives me an imploring look. “You completely zoned out there.”
“I’m tired, that’s all. Didn’t sleep much.”
Offering her a weak smile, I shift my weight and try to ignore the liquid heat that’s pooled between my legs. It’s impossible. My black cotton thong is soaked.
In my Psychology of Human Sexuality class last year, we learned that men think about sex approximately twice as often as women—and ever since that toe-curling kiss with Nash, I’ve been giving even the horniest man a run for his money in that department. My daydreams about him have been constant, vivid, and filthy.
“Want to take a coffee break?” Julianna offers. “We could order it to go and take a walk around campus. It’s gorgeous outside.”
“Yes!” My voice comes out several times louder than is appropriate for the library, eliciting a glare from a blonde girl with oversized glasses seated at a nearby table. I lower my voice, leaning closer to Julianna. “That sounds great.”
We make our way across campus to The Beanery, and fifteen minutes later, I have a pumpkin pie latte in hand. It’s The Beanery’s version of the Starbucks staple, but it’s superior to the original. It’s also dessert in a disposable paper cup, but if I can’t indulge in other vices like Nash, sugar and caffeine will have to suffice.
Afternoon autumn sun filters through the half-bare trees as we enjoy a leisurely stroll through campus, making small talk about school and our internship. It should be relaxing, yet it is decidedly not what I need. I won’t be getting what I need any time soon, though, because that would be a Very Bad Idea.
“How are things with Marcus?” I ask Julianna.
The other night, I tried to broach my misgivings regarding Marcus with her, but it was not well-received. To be fair, I don’t have much to go on other than a gut feeling and belief that he exaggerates his hockey achievements. Neither is all that incriminating. She seems to really like him, so for now, I’m opting to be supportive while praying my intuition is wrong.
“Good.” A smile plays on her lips, and she tips back her fall-themed cup, taking another sip of her white chocolate mocha. “We’re going out again this Friday.”
“That’s exciting.”
She steals a glance around us before replying, lowering her voice to a hush. Her hazel eyes scan across my face worriedly. “But don’t you think it’s unethical? It’s a conflict of interest for me to date him, right?”
Unease settles in at her reminder, and I tamp down on it. “Marcus is with Preston. You’re not training him. The rules only say you can’t date your own athletes.”
I feel like I’m calling myself out because unlike her situation, I am training Nash.
That’s why nothing will happen.
Nothing can.
***
In the middle of nacho night, I finally decide to fess up to Claire and Jules about The Kiss.
Why, I’m not sure. Blame the carbs.
“Nash and I kissed,” I blurt. “At Marcus’s party last weekend.”
Julianna whips her head in my direction, and the salsa heaped on her tortilla chip drips onto her lap. “That was two entire days ago. You’re telling us this now?”
Next to me, Claire heaves a long-suffering sigh, biting into her cheese-covered nacho without a single word. It’s a better reception than I’d expected, honestly.
Julianna busies herself wiping the salsa from her Lululemons for a few seconds, and then her gaze snaps up to me again, her hazel eyes wider than a hockey puck. “Oh my God. That’s why you’ve been so spaced out lately.”
I hug my knees into my chest, half-hiding my face. “I didn’t know how to tell you guys. I didn’t want you to be mad at me.” Or to judge me for being an idiot.
“I’m not mad, I’m concerned,” Claire says evenly. She pushes her plate aside, tucking her long legs beneath her. “Details, please. Who kissed who?”
“He hit on me in the training room one morning, so I pulled him aside at the party to talk about it. My intention was to give him shit but then it turned all flirty and hot, and he kissed me.” I pile an aggressive amount of guacamole onto my tortilla chip, nibbling at it while they process my confession.
“Did you kiss him back?” Julianna presses.
“What do you think?” My cheeks burn hotter than a fireplace. I shove the chip in my mouth and bury my face in my palms. “Of course, I did. It’s Nash. He’s my own personal brand of heroin.”
Ice cubes clink as Claire takes another sip. “I don’t know what to say. I want to be supportive, but I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
Her words strike a chord within me. Nash is the only guy who’s ever truly hurt me, and here I am, putting myself out there for it to potentially happen all over again. It is uncomfortably close to the definition of insanity and yet, knowing that doesn’t lessen the draw I feel to him.
“I’m neutral like Switzerland on this one,” Julianna says, holding up her hands. “I don’t know enough of the backstory to have an opinion or offer you advice. I just want you to be happy.”
Dropping my hands into my lap, I look up at them. “Maybe he’s changed.”
“What if he hasn’t?” Claire counters.
“I want to believe he has.” Pushing my plate aside, I reach for a gingersnap from the Cookietopia box Julianna picked up on the way home. I bite into the spicy-sweet cookie, savoring the warm ginger and molasses flavors. It’s soft and perfectly chewy, the way a cookie should be.
Swallowing, I add, “My brain is saying one thing, but my heart is saying something else.”
“Just to clarify,” Claire says, “is it your heart or your vagina talking?”
Good question. Based on my daydreams lately, maybe I’m being controlled by the wrong impulses. I would be lying if I said our chemistry wasn’t clouding my judgment.
Then again, I know there’s more to it than that. While spending time with him again has dredged up old feelings, there are new ones on top of those. I see that softer side to him that’s always been there. Often well hidden, but there, nonetheless. That’s the Nash I loved.
The one who held my hand all over campus even though the guys on the team gave him shit for being whipped. Who bought me a necklace with an amethyst pendant from Tiffany’s while he was away for a tournament in New York City because it reminded him of me. Who used to sit and play with my hair, reserving all the yellow Skittles for me while we watched cheesy movies.
The one I made plans for the future with, who once promised me forever.
That Nash could be worth taking another chance on—especially if he’s matured since then and his priorities are more in order. If he’s ready to put the work into a relationship and all that it entails, it could be worth it. The problem is, he’s always been a wildcard.
Nash will never be the safe choice.
“I don’t know.” I finish the last of my gingersnap, flopping against the massive heap of turquoise and lime throw cushions, contemplating Claire’s question. “Maybe it’s both. But they’ve got some strong opinions.”
Claire leans over and grabs a dark chocolate cookie with white chocolate chips, waving it at me. “If you ask me, this is the equivalent of a dude thinking with the wrong head, Violet. Eyes on the prize. Think about your internship. Your career.”
My heart does a slow descent, splattering at my feet. “You’re right.”
