With a speed almost invisible to the naked eye, Leah sets her vodka on the coffee table and snatches both the note and condom from my hand. Handing off the foil packet to Paige¸ she reads the note with a gleam so bright I fear it’ll take out an eye. Leah’s been making noises for weeks about me meeting someone and double-dating with her and Hayden. This note has given her the perfect opportunity to ramp up her efforts.
She looks at me, frustration evident in her eyes. “You told him you were washing your hair?”
“Told who?” Paige asks, stretching her legs out on the coffee table and crossing them at the ankle. She turns the wrapper over in her fingers before bringing it to her nose for a sniff.
Having heard the full story already, Leah can’t contain her grin when she answers. “Jax Draper.” Her voice pitches low when she adds, “He asked her if she wanted to taste his banana.”
Paige’s blue eyes pop wide and her feet fall away from the table when she sits upright with excitement. “He did not!” She faces me where I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite the both of them. “And you told him you were washing your hair?”
“Newsflash, ladies. It’s not an invitation to go on a date. It’s an invitation to … to …”
“To get acquainted with his banana?” Paige prompts.
I jab a finger at Paige. “Exactly. So get your head out of the clouds, Leah.”
“I don’t know.” Leah sits back on the sofa, pursing her lips. “Jax isn’t the kind of guy that chases girls. He doesn’t need to. They chase him.”
“So?”
“So it looked like he was doing a bit of heavy duty chasing for you.”
I snort. “Rubbish. I barely know the guy.”
“His name is Jaxon Draper. He’s twenty-one, and he’s not only gorgeous, he’s pre-med and smart. He shares an apartment on the floor above Paige with Brody Madden and Damien Reiner, and he’s got a thing for female soccer jocks with blondish-colored hair and blue eyes.”
I snort again, and Paige’s head lolls back against the sofa as she gives a dreamy sigh. “I’d totally taste his banana if he asked me.”
“You’ll get your chance,” I assure her, swirling the last of the vodka and soda in my glass before downing it quickly. “I’m sure he flirts with all the girls like he did with me.”
“Uh huh.” Leah shakes her head. “Not all the girls have your Australian accent. It’s husky and deep and sounds like sex. Guys go mad for that. Isn’t that right, baby?” she yells in the direction of the kitchen.
“It’s how you sound after deep-throating my dick, so yeah, it’s hot,” Hayden yells back.
While I’m flushing deep red from the visual of Hayden naked with an impressive erection, Paige deepens her voice and tries to affect an Australian accent. “How does this sound?”
Leah snorts with laughter. “Try it with a little less Russell Brand and a little more Russell Crowe.”
Paige tries again and whines because she can’t get it right. Meanwhile Leah is rummaging inside my bag that’s set by the foot of the sofa. Plucking out my phone, she glances from the note to the screen and commences tapping. Sensing subterfuge, my pulse kicks up in mild panic. “What are you doing?”
Intent on my phone, she doesn’t look at me. “I’m adding Jaxon’s number into your phone so you don’t lose it.”
“I’m not calling him.”
“Okay,” she says soothingly, and because it’s a tone I recognize well, I know she isn’t going to let this go so easily.
“Baby, catch!” Hayden shouts as he leaves the kitchen and fastballs a packet of Doritos at Leah.
With lightening reflexes, she holds up an arm and catches the bag single-handedly. Hayden swoops in and scoops her up off the sofa with ease, spinning her around with a grin. “That’s my girl.”
Becker dodges the twirling pair as he walks into the living room carrying a tray of carrot and celery sticks, cottage cheese, and water crackers. Hayden might have scoffed when Leah told me he’s a man madly in love, but when you stock up on healthy snacks for your girl when she stays over, it means you’re completely sunk.
Paige slings her arms around Becker’s neck when he leans over to place the tray on the table. “Can I marry you, Becker? You’d make an awesome wife!”
Becker rolls a set of bright green eyes. He plays on the baseball team with Hayden, but he’s not quite as big as his roommate. His body is leaner, and his dark hair short and always styled carefully in a mini Mohawk. Paige rubs her hand over it roughly, mussing it, and he ducks out of her way. “Suck my dick, Paige.”
“Not tonight,” she replies, and amusement lights up her eyes. “I’m washing my hair!”
Leah and Paige both scream with laughter and I flop back on the floor with a loud groan. I fear I’m never going to hear the end of that particular joke.
The following Friday rolls around and despite Leah’s daily insistence, I haven’t called Jaxon. He’s not the kind of guy who sits around pining for a girl to ring him, so I’m sure it’s safe to say I haven’t doomed him to a lifetime of disappointment.
My cleats crunch on the bright green turf as I head for the locker room. It brings with it the fresh scent of grass and dirt, and I relish it because no matter where I am—Austin, Texas or Sydney, Australia—it’s the smell of the field. It’s where I belong and will always be home to me.
Leah catches up to me. I hook an arm around her shoulders and yank her close. The final whistle blew just minutes earlier, and despite the heat and exhaustion oozing from my every pore, it’s nothing on the elation I feel at scoring two of the four goals that left our team undefeated for another week. “Drink’s are on me tonight,” I declare rashly.
Leah shoves me away with an eye roll and a laugh because she knows the impoverished balance of my bank account. “What are you shouting? Shots of water?”
“Har, har,” I retort. “I’m sure we’ve got lemons and mint sitting somewhere in the bottom of the fridge, so I can at least make them classy.”
“Sounds delicious, but I’m in need of a real drink,” she grumbles and then grabs my arm. “Speaking of needing a drink, you never mentioned what happened with Professor Hardass the other day?”
I groan and shake my head. I’d caught up with the professor three days ago and the outcome had been so much worse than I’d anticipated.
Rapping smartly on his office door, he invited me inside with what I likened to an evil smile. Positive he could smell fear, I straightened my shoulders and walked in, reminded of the one and only time I’d been in trouble at school. It was back in high school, and I’d caught Alex Thompson leaning over beside his desk in front of me during class, not even pretending he wasn’t peering up my skirt. Anger and shame rose swiftly—my uniform was secondhand and seriously short because I’d outgrown it two years earlier—so I aimed a hard jab at the leg of his chair. My mouth fell open when it collapsed beneath him and skittered sideways. Alex went down hard, his head smacking his desk and bouncing off it. After visiting the school nurse, she diagnosed him with a concussion. The episode cost me a three-day suspension and two weeks of detention.
It’s hardly the same situation, but I felt the same sense of impending anxiety as I stood in front of my professor’s desk.
“Take a seat,” he said, eyes focused on the screen of his laptop.
Resting my armload of books on the edge of his desk, I sank into the seat behind me. “You mentioned an extracurricular task, Professor?”
“I did.” With a furrow in his brow, he tapped a few more strokes on his keyboard and then gave me his full attention. I offered him a strained smile, which he didn’t return. “I have a student who needs a tutor and I want you to do it.”
My insides unclenched with relief. “I’m not a registered tutor, Professor. I can’t—”