Page 66 of Blitz

Sullivan crows on for another twenty excruciating minutes. Finally, he leaves, taking his cadre of underclassmen with him. The three of us spread out a little.

“Any plans for tonight?”

Wes grunts, which I take to be no.

“There’s a Delta party I might hit up,” Barrett says, then sighs. “I don’t know. I’m over the whole partying thing. It gets old, fast.”

“That’s why I don’t do it,” I tell him. “It’s not fun being the only sober person in a group of people drunk off their ass. And they’re always drunk.”

He acknowledges this. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like we’re wasting our youth, staying in every Saturday night. And then, I remember I would rather stay in and hang out with you guys than try to be someone I’m not.”

“Life’s too short to be miserable,” Wes says, not looking up from his book. “Be yourself. Accept who you are. You’ll be happier for it.”

Chapter twenty-seven

Mason

The meet goes well. The after party is even better. Mark and Bryce buy enough alcohol for fifty people, despite the fact that there are only twenty people crammed into this hotel room. Melissa, Fred, and I are dressed to the nines in actual jeans and low cut tops that show off our small boobs. That’s the downside to being a sprinter in excellent shape: small boobs.

“Your boobs are totally bigger than mine!” Melissa tells me. She grabs one of mine and one of Fred’s to compare.

Okay, so maybe we’ve had a little too much to drink.

“Hey! Only Tucker gets to grab my boobs!”

She honks. “You and loverboy sure seemed chummy at dinner the other night.”

I laugh. “Not my fault you didn’t want to join us.”

“Yeah, maybe never,” she says. “The only football player I talk to is Sullivan, and that’s more because I see him sneaking out of Fred’s room than any other reason.”

“Hey, that’s over,” Fred says. “Sully and I haven’t hooked up in weeks.”

“He’s a dick,” I inform them.

“With three legs,” Melissa says.

Fred sighs. “Yeah, that was kind of nice. He knew how to use it.”

“Better than…?” I nod towards Mark, who’s wrapped up in a pretty blonde long-distance runner. I think she’s a sophomore.

“Oh, yeah. There’s a difference between skill and enthusiasm.” Fred bites her lip. “What if we combined them? Find a guy with a giant dick who knows how to get me off and doesn’t mind going down on me for, like, an hour?”

I grin.

“Oh, shut up,” Melissa says, smashing her hand into my face. “Stop looking so smug.”

“I’m getting laid tomorrow night,” I declare. Whether Tucker knows this yet or not, I don’t care. So what if having sex only makes me more confused? So what if I start doubting myself every time we hop into bed? It feels good, and he knows how to get me off—more than that, he wants to get me off. He cares about my pleasure as much as he does his own, if not more so.

I should tell him.

It takes three tries for the Face ID to recognize me. I go to my call log and click on the most recent name. He called me last night before bed, and I fell asleep to the pleasant hum of his voice in my ear. I woke up to a sweet voicemail and a dirty text, wishing me luck today.

I have the best boyfriend in the whole world. He should know that.

He answers on the third ring. The room is dark. There’s rustling as he shifts and turns on his bedside lamp.

“King!”