I won’t deny that our bowling date was a lot more fun than I expected. The orgasm was equally unexpected. I didn’t plan on fooling around with Jake. I thought I had more willpower than that, but the guy is irresistible. Even now, days later, I’m still thinking about it. His fingers inside me, his hot mouth glued to mine… Connelly is very good at what he does. I’d wanted nothing more than to make him feel good, too, until that phone call from Eric.
Each time I think I’ve made myself clear, that I’ve set firm boundaries with him, Eric reveals another level of persistence. And I don’t feel right being a bitch to him, ordering him to leave me alone, because our history holds me hostage.
History is bullshit.
Jake’s words, the thoughts he’d expressed at O’Malley’s, float through my head. History is bullshit. And trust me, I would love to put the past behind me. Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done.
At least this time Eric wasn’t making demands of me—he followed the call up with a text, apologizing for asking for money. But that doesn’t matter. It killed the mood as effectively as rain snuffing out a candle.
On the other hand, I’d been seconds away from having Jake’s dick in my mouth, so maybe Eric did me a favor. Saved me from blowing THE ENEMY.
But if I’m being honest, it’s been a while since I thought of Jake in that context.
Once I finish my dinner, I reach for my phone. “Your crush on me is getting out of control, Jakey,” I say after he picks up.
His deep laughter tickles my ear. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hottie.”
“You just called me Hottie—that is literally you flattering me.”
“True.” Another chuckle. “What are you doing right now?”
“Had an early dinner, and now I’m watching HockeyNet highlights.”
“Still no word from Mulder?”
“Nope.”
“What about Agent Scully?”
I snicker. “You’re hilarious. Did you have class today?”
I’m still amazed by the knowledge that he’s majoring in psychology—I found that out last night during our very long phone call. Before that, I’d assumed he was a communications or broadcasting major, like most other athletes.
“No, Wednesday is my day off. I usually use it to catch up on reading, clean the house, that kind of stuff. Any big plans tonight?”
“Not sure. I might grab a drink with Summer, do a girls’ night. You?”
“Grabbing some drinks, too. The boys and I are hitting the Dime tonight.” He pauses. “I’d invite you to join us, but you’d say no…right?”
“Duh. I can’t be spotted out in public with Harvard players. It’s bad enough that one gave me an orgasm last weekend.”
“I think you might be exaggerating this rivalry,” Jake says, humor in his voice. “Do your Briar boys hate us that much?”
“Oh, they absolutely hate you. Brooks, in particular. They don’t like his style of play.”
“They don’t like it because it works.”
“Really? So you’re telling me you’re perfectly cool with all his trash-talking? With all the penalties he draws and provokes? With how rough he is?”
“It’s part of the game,” Jake replies. “Even I do that shit. To a lesser extent than Brooks, sure, but I trash-talk and provoke with the best of them. And don’t kid yourself, babe—your boys do it, too. I’ve heard the filth that comes out of their mouths on the ice. That Hollis guy says shit about my mother all the time.”
“Is he any good at talking shit? Because he’s terrible with pick-up lines.”
“How would you know that?” I can almost hear Jake’s scowl.
“That boy’s been hitting on me since the day we met.” I don’t mention my drunken hookup with Hollis, because it’s completely insignificant. “Anyway, heckling is different than playing dirty,” I point out.
“Brooks never crosses the line.”
“Sure he does. He draws the line wherever he wants and then decides whether or not to cross it.”
“How is that exclusive to Brooks? Everyone has their own lines, right? And we all decide which ones we’re not willing to cross.”
“Fair enough.” Curiosity bites at my tongue. “What’s your uncrossable line? What is the one thing Jake Connelly absolutely refuses to do?”
His response is swift. “Sleep with a friend’s mom. I’m never doing that.” He stops. “Well, again.”
I burst out laughing. “You slept with a friend’s mother? When? How?”
“It was one hundred percent a Stifler’s mom situation,” he says sheepishly. “I was a senior in high school, and one of my teammates threw a huge kegger at his place. I got wasted, stumbled upstairs in search of a bathroom, and wound up in his mom’s bedroom by mistake.”
I’m hit with a wave of uncontrollable giggles. “Was she wearing a negligee? Smoking one of those long cigarettes like Audrey Hepburn?”
“No, she was actually wearing a tracksuit. It was bubble-gum pink, and I think it said Juicy on the butt.”
“Oh my God, you fucked the mom from Mean Girls.”