Page 10 of Best Things in Life

“Then I’ll email—”

“How about you just tell me in person. You’ll be around often enough.” Majik gives me a side glance and I hold up, tightening up on the flinch that wants to escape, the knot in my gut confused about whether to dread Sarina’s presence or to crave it.

I could swear she smirks at me, that she knows Sarina being around will bother me.

“So you two are old friends?” she asks, folding her arms across her massive chest.

“So old that we’re now enemies,” Sarina says. Majik switches her gaze from me to her, nods like she knows she’s being dished a pile of shit, knows there’s a lot more going on. I don’t know if she has secret microphones hidden around the place or if she has an uncanny ability to read people—or maybe I’m just that fucking obvious. I snort a laugh and head up the stairs.

“Lunch in ten minutes,” she calls up to me and I hear the snicker in her voice.

When I run into Bigs in the hallway wearing a grin of anticipation, my gut won’t let me eat in the same room with him and Sarina. I talk Bane into bringing my lunch upstairs for me. He grumbles, but keeping the peace is high on his list, so he does it. He delivers my meal—Nikuman, otherwise known as Japanese steamed pork buns, and the best Mongolian beef on a bed of rice—with a message.

“You can avoid them today, but you’re not bagging out of going to my game Saturday. You need to deal with this. Bigs is one of us, he’s your good friend and that’s what you need to remember because I don’t want this to turn into bad blood between you two. It’ll mess up the mojo in the entire house.” He pauses, his eyes alternately glaring and begging me to rise to the occasion. Somehow I need to continue to be friends with Bigs like nothing’s changed.

I nod. But in my gut, there’s no denying that everything’s changed.

* * *

At my next class with Sarina I manage to arrive late and leave early, sitting as far away from her as possible. Neither my ego nor my dick can stand being near her. The prof assigns each team—I can’t fucking believe we’re a team—a one-page summary proposal for our restaurant business plan project. I text her that I’ll send her a draft and she can revise and submit it. I’m determined to stay as far away from Sarina as I can. The only way I can survive this semester and maintain my civility as expected by the team and Bane is by avoidance.

But hell if it’ll be easy since I’m in the same house with Bigs and he talks about her constantly, about inviting her over. Thank fuck my bedroom’s on a different floor or I’d have to move out of BMOC house. No way will I be able to tolerate them spending the night together here. I need to talk to Bane about drawing the line for Bigs and forbidding any hanky-panky here. I’m sure they can find another place to…

Fu-u-uck. I can’t think about Sarina and Bigs and hanky-panky. I’m turning into a fucking head case. Spending my free time working out instead of hanging in my room is the pattern I’m falling into this week. One of the younger guys on the team comes in there all the time too, a sophomore named Carrick Hennessey. Irish much? We call him Whiskey and he’s embraced it.

Late on Friday night, instead of catching beers at Wildbeast Pizza with some of the guys from the house—I head for the gym. I overheard Bigs on the phone asking her to meet him at the at the pizza shop so there’s no way I’m going there. The prick can’t text her like a normal guy, claims that he loves the sound of her voice, and I’m not the only one who wants to gag at that.

“You going to the game tomorrow?” Whiskey asks after dropping his barbell to the floor with an unapologetic clang. He’s stronger than he looks—and he looks pretty damn strong. I’m doing push-ups because they’re good for the core, four sets of fifty, and I grunt in response before I finish the set.

“Don’t remind me,” I say, getting up from the floor and sitting on a bench. He raises his brows.

“You don’t like football?”

“No, that’s not it—don’t mind me. Long fucking story and one I’m trying to forget.” He puts up his hands and doesn’t press me.

“How about we get a couple of beers over at Wildbeast’s after this?”

“And undo all this hard work?”

“We got to show off our glistening buff bodies or what’s the fucking point?” He laughs.

“You have a point. But I’m not up for Wildbeast’s.” I search my mind for an alternative where we might find girls because he does have the right idea—another female would help take my mind off things. “How about if we go to a party I heard about over at the Union?”

“We invited?”

“We’re on the hockey team—we’re always invited. But seriously, a girl in one of my classes practically begged me. I’d be her hero if I brought a teammate.”

Whiskey laughs. “It’s a date. I’ll shower and dress—unless we need to dress up because all I have is gym shorts and a T-shirt.”

“That’s how I’m going. No one cares. Where are you from?”

“New York City.” He grins.

“I don’t hear the accent.”

“That’s because I grew up in Cali mostly. Didn’t start playing hockey till I was twelve and moved to the East Coast.”

“You’re shitting me? I was on skates since I could walk.” I shake my head because I’ve never seen a guy who was more a natural on ice, even though the kid didn’t get much playing time last season. Things are looking good for this season. I don’t share my thoughts because the last thing I want to do is add to Whiskey’s confidence level and create an ego monster.