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So, yeah. I’d never had a serious boyfriend, but I think the way I spoke with Simon was how people in committed relationships talk.
And he’d listened. I know, I know, that shouldn’t be so amazing, but the men my crew hung out with most — that is, fraternity brothers — weren’t big on the whole listening thing. They were fans of quick one-night stands and ranking girls based on their hotness, but listening? Not so much. Emotional literacy was something none of their litany of prep schools could teach them.
Landing on top of him, my body running the length of his — minus half a foot, of course — Jesus. I’d had sex before, but had never been as turned on as I was in that moment. I was already straddling him, it would’ve only taken a slight shift and a little pressure, and we could’ve been fucking. My pussy ached at the thought, as if to say, ‘You’d deny me a catch like that?’
Amen, I thought in response, and then immediately, Enough, Catya. Stop it.
I hadn’t even had time to study his tattoos. They’d peeked out of his shirt the day before, but without his top, they were fully on display. His upper body was littered with them, though more like faint outlines on his skin than deep, black marks. I wondered if they were somehow a map to his heart.
With the mental fortitude forged by years of competitive sports, I willed my mind to settle on something besides Simon and his delicious body.
Class, my brain helpfully provided. You have class.
Right. Good point. I dusted myself off from the fall, reoriented myself, and with no further ado, took off running in the direction of campus, as far away as humanly possible from that fateful spot in that fucking forest.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully — or, not quite as eventfully as the morning, no surprise. Needless to say, I was, for the second afternoon in a row, hopelessly distracted in class. At this rate, I’d be toast on the next pop quiz. I made a mental note to do some extra studying later in order to catch back up.
After class, it was back to the sorority house to change for practice. Sometimes, it seemed like half my day was devoted to going back and forth between locations. Luckily campus was tiny, so this amounted to maybe thirty minutes of walking.
The house bounced with girls who were also in between their classes. People called across rooms for, in no particular order — Adderall, problem send help, Tinder advice and hugs. Delta Omega Upsilon was a sorority of highly stressed overachievers, so I fit right in. Nobody paid me any mind as I made my way to my room and began opening drawers in search of clean workout clothes. It didn’t take long for me to alight on something… shall we say, promising.
In the back of the drawer, stuffed between other spandex items, was a workout push-up bra. You know how, like, the average sports bra makes your boobs into one mega-boob? This one had a built-in regular bra, and a zipper, and basically it pushed your tits together and up. It was the kind of bra off-duty celebrities wore in case the paparazzi were out. With a little trace of guilt, I threw it on.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Close near to the bra, as if in a sign of universal kismet, were a pair of short shorts that sat high on my small waist and allowed the edges of my butt cheeks to peek out. I added those to the ensemble then went to look in the mirror.
Hot. No doubt about it — the get up was objectively hot. Pleased with myself, I put on an outer layer, grabbed my bag, and exited the house once more.
Simon had instructed us to meet on the field today, so I went straight there. Half the team was on time. I guessed the punctuality-inducing wonder of a new coach had worn off, and we all quickly stripped down to our gear. Simon himself had yet to put in an appearance. Maybe he was still reeling from the morning?
Max, standing close by, took one look at me and hollered, “Oh shit, ladies, look at what Captain Catya’s got on!”
“Damn, get it, girl!” Sharon-Ann crowed.
There were the requisite accompanying shrieks and vigorous signs of approval. I waved away the praise, but secretly enjoyed it, basking in their affectionate support.
Grace walked up next to me, leaned into my ear, and asked with false innocence, “This little outfit wouldn’t happen to be for anyone in particular, would it?”
I whirled around. “What do you mean?”
She smirked, “Oh, nothing. Never mind,” and strode away to stretch.
Her comment unsettled me. Ok, it was a touch out of character for me to get all dolled up for practice, but everybody else seemed to take it as a sign of my empowerment, if they took it as anything at all. There was no way to be sure, but Grace appeared to have an entirely different thought — one closer to the truth.
