Page 41 of Notorious Man on Campus

“Man that was the most crazy wedding I ever went to. You are so out there. I never met anyone as ballsy as you, dude.” He claps me on the shoulder as if it’s congratulations-worthy to mess up your best friend’s wedding. But then again, maybe it’s like Glory said. In thirty years we’ll all laugh over drinks at homecoming at the antics of the young fucks we once were. We’ll be those old dudes in the alumni tent drinking too much during pre-game and remembering our glory days.

But SPU will be only the beginning of my football glory days if I have anything to say about it. If no catastrophes sideline me and I keep off Dean Lassiter’s radar, we’ll make another bowl game and with luck the national championship and I’ll be a lock in the draft, possibly even the first round.

There are a lot of ifs. Especially the one about Dean Lassiter’s radar because I know he’s damn serious about the school’s reputation and especially when it comes to complaints by trustees and donors.

“Remind me never to go to another wedding,” I say and he grunts because he’s on his way to falling asleep in spite of the coffee as I drive us back to campus.

All I need to do is avoid Nyla for the rest of the semester. For the rest of my life. And keep BMOC house and its residents, including myself, out of the social media limelight.

Piece of cake. If the cake was made of arsenic and rat poison and frosted with cyanide.

Chapter 16

Nyla

Opening my eyes as I wake, a flood of sensations hit me at once, but the sting I feel between my legs hits me hardest and makes me smile. Until I turn my head and find myself alone in bed. My heart stutters, but I force down the dread and reason that he’s in the bathroom. Until I look up and see the bathroom door wide open and empty.

Now I panic. Stop it, Nyla. So what if he went back to his room? I look at the clock and see that it’s already eight a.m. No wonder he’s gone. I’m a lazy slog sleeping so late, but a smile slides into place again, because can you blame me for sleeping late? By rights I should be in bed until at least noon. Sitting up I shift my legs over the side of the bed, not as easy as it should be since I’m young and healthy and when I stand, they’re rubbery and I almost fall back down.

I laugh out loud at myself. Wait until I tell Brick. Looking for my phone, I see a piece of paper folded with Nyla clearly written in Brick’s handwriting, blocky and neat. Grabbing it, my entire body warms up. Until I read his words.

Nyla,

We had a great night. I hope it was special for you.

Like always, I only want one night, but it was memorable.

When we get back to BMOC House, it’s best if we avoid each other, same as before. We both have reasons not to be more than acquaintances—your mother and my brother.

Brick

p.s. Dylan will give you and Majik a ride home because I needed to leave early.

The tears start before I finish the second line. Why did I think I would be different? That he wouldn’t insist on a one and done with me? That I’m special—and not just that one night? Because we have a connection? Apparently Brick doesn’t believe in connections. He doesn’t believe in weddings, marriage, girlfriends, dating, or love. Except when it comes to his family and teammates of course. Then I can see the love even when he’s not aware of showing it.

I want some of that love. So much. I deserve it. I understand him and know who he is deep down, maybe better than he knows himself. And therein lies the problem. He doesn’t want to be that vulnerable little boy he once was ever again. He doesn’t want to allow himself to feel that kind of loss that he’s witnessed his dad go through. And most of all, he doesn’t trust females not to lie to him, to take advantage of him.

With the experiences he’s had in his life, three step-mothers and girls like Willow out to use him, maybe I can’t blame him. But maybe I can teach him, give him something real and genuine that will last.

Glancing at the note again, the words it’s best if we avoid each other jump up and smack me in the face so that I feel the sting down to my soul. I fist my hand, scrunching the paper, ready to toss it across the room, but I don’t. Tears blur my vision, but I ruthlessly swipe them off my face.

I force myself from the bed because I’m not a wallower. I survived the last time Brick kicked me to the curb and I’m stronger now, right? Getting my legs back, I pace around the room to eat up my nervous energy, I don’t care that I’m bare-ass naked. I allow myself a minute to be sure the tears aren’t going to start up again so I can think straight. It’ll be okay. I’ll live. My gut drops like lead, threatening to drag me back into torrential tears, but I close my eyes.

I wanted so much more than this from him, from fucking Brick who has the bad grace to live up to his name. He’s so, so hard to crack, to open up and console and I wanted so badly for this, for our first time, to be life-changing.

“What a letdown,” I say out loud to my reflection and then laugh at myself. As if that’s all it is. As I’m not devastated. As if all the hopes I’d been secretly harboring for four years under the anger and resentment, the pretense that he was my enemy, wasn’t just dashed by his stupid curt note blowing me off.

Wiping the tears from my face with the back of my hands yet again, I’m heading for the bathroom when there’s a knock on the door. Solid. Three raps. I know that knock. It’s not housekeeping. It’s the rap that wakes me every morning at BMOC House. My stomach tumbles in panic.

“Nyla, get the lead out. Let’s get some coffee.” Majik. Shit.

“Okay, coming. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Throwing on my clothes from yesterday, my usual uniform of baggy jeans and worn out over-sized t-shirt, I hastily pull my crazily tousled hair into an unpurposely messy bun and relish the last cold splash of water on my tear-stained face. The tell-tale look can’t be helped. No amount of make-up will hide the sad heartbreak in my eyes.

But I paste on a smile anyway as I grab my new designer bag courtesy of Dooley, the one relic from my failed Cinderella night at the BMOC House bash that I haven’t stuffed in the back of my closet, and I head for the door.

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