AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I couldn’t lose this job.
More to the point, I couldn’t sleep with Catya.
Chapter 12
Catya
The following day passed by quietly. Or at least, quietly in comparison to your soccer coach seeing you masturbate. By those standards, World War III might be quiet.
I did normal college stuff and tried like hell to keep my mind from straying to Simon. This meant catching up on the classes I was now behind in, drinking bubble tea and laying on the Quad. Nice, safe, boring stuff. What a relief.
Did Simon still occupy about half my brain space? Sure. But I at least managed to get some shit done, which was a big change from the last few days. I guess, if you pressed me on it, I’d have to say I was so effective because that was the only to avoid the thoughts. Like, it was hard to simultaneously think about deep throating your coach and chromosome splitting. Even Einstein couldn’t hold those two ideas at once.
So, using a tactic that had shielded me from harm my entire life, I threw myself back into my work. I caught up on the classes that I had, mentally at least, missed a week of. There wasn’t much else thrilling about the day to report, sorry.
I was busy reveling in this newfound calm and distraction when I got a text from Sharon-Ann which read:
Pre-game, tonight at 10. You in?
My brow furrowed. Was there a DOU mixer I’d forgotten about? Ugh, not in the mood. But, as a sorority member, it was my responsibility to go to a certain number of mixers in a semester. It was unclear why this was an actual rule, but if you missed too many, you get fined. Like, real money, not Monopoly dollars. So I was careful to go to the requisite number of events.
With what frat?
Just as I was thinking, Please don’t let it be Alpha Delt, Sharon-Ann responded:
Not a frat. For midnight practice.
Well, there went all my good work concerning not thinking about Simon. Midnight practice. Shit. I’d completely forgotten. Needless to say, other things had been on my mind last night.
How could I even go to practice after everything that had happened? Don’t get me wrong, I wanted more than anything to see Simon, but I also knew it just wasn’t a smart idea. After last night, a single extra push in his direction would completely defeat all the resistance I’d put up to our coupling. I was teetering on a very precarious emotional edge.
Them’s the breaks of being team captain. Sometimes you had to do shit you just didn’t want to do. Like, for instance, attend practice. Okay, maybe that wasn’t captain specific. But any other team member might’ve taken the following day for like, mental recovery, right? Maybe I was just being self-pitying, which wasn’t like me.
Having allowed that I would, indeed, go to practice, I then set about the task of doing actual “captain work.”
Is pre-gaming a good call? I texted Sharon-Ann.
My phone buzzed — the response had come back instantly.
Don’t be a wet blanket.
Hate to admit it, but she had me there. I didn’t usually mind everyone’s taunts about me being a goodie two-shoes, but lately, it felt like I was living two different lives. The one where I was a perfect student, sorority girl and team captain, and one where I was fantasizing about fucking my coach. Maybe those latter fantasies were trying to tell me to loosen up a little, let my hair down. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel like I’d been torn into two pieces of a whole human.
Plus, like with any college activity, drinking was a big part of ULA sports. Tailgates, celebratory victory parties, etc. It would be almost unpatriotic to deny them this fun.
Or so I told myself.
With that in mind, I replied to Sharon-Ann.
Okay, fair enough. Where should we meet?
About five hours later, around ten, the entire women’s soccer team descended on the DOU house. Apparently, Sharon-Ann and Grace had conspired to hold the event at our place, both because it was convenient for us or them — at least — and it meant we could supply liquor to the underage girls in an area where we knew the cops wouldn’t come.
Don’t lecture me about underage drinking, I just don’t care. The drinking age should be eighteen. Have I made my stance clear?
Anyhow, for the roughly two dozen of us who were set to pre-game the practice, Sharon-Ann had purchased five cases. Some quick math tells us that averages out to roughly six per girl.
Six?!
They’d come back into the house with their haul, courtesy of the local liquor store which was renowned for having never refused an ID in twenty years of service — this include IDs literally drawn on printer paper. I had, predictably, inquired why on earth we needed that much beer, and Sharon-Ann had shrugged.
