Page 25 of Playing it Safe

I take a deep breath. “What if you look at this like learning a new play or something? You just need reps. But you also need baseline stats.”

“Oh my god, you’re insane.” The tight laugh again.

I sit up. “I’m serious, Briar. Let’s get you a baseline number and build from there. You said you don't know how long it takes. Right? That's what you told me. He said you take too long, but you don't actually have a number."

"I ..." She sounds like she's calculating whether I'm serious. "No. I don't."

"Then you need to know how long we’re talking about. You can't improve a stat you've never measured." I keep my voice even. We’re just two athletes reviewing performance metrics. "How long do you think it takes?"

"I don't know. He'd get frustrated after ... I don't know. A while. So I'd just tell him to stop."

"Because you felt like a burden."

Silence. Then: "Yeah."

My teeth clench. I deliberately unclench them. "Briar, whatever the number is, it's normal. It's your number. But you won't believe me until you see it for yourself."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting you establish a baseline. And then work toward improvement. If you think you need that.”

“A baseline?”

I cough. “Um. With yourself?” Women do that, right? Take care of business? Not that I’ve been doing that much lately. I know that if I did now, my thoughts would linger on Briar and that skirt, and that feels dirty and wrong somehow. Savage.

The line goes so quiet I can hear Puck purring. Then Briar says, very carefully, "What, like ... now?"

"If you want." I glance at my watch. I’m strung tighter than piano wire. “I’ll start a timer. You let me know when you're done."

"Cameron."

"Think of it like a fitness test. Speed work."

She laughs — a real laugh, startled out of her. "You want to be my trainer now?"

"I'm already your fake boyfriend. Might as well diversify." I keep my voice light. Easy. Like this is the most normal thing in the world, not the single most charged conversation I've ever had while sitting next to a cat. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"I know." She's quiet for another few seconds. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Start the timer." And she hangs up.

I stare at the phone. The screen goes dark in my hand.

I start the timer.

And then I sit there.

It's fine. This is fine. I'm her trainer. Her fake boyfriend-slash-performance coach, who practices making out with her in parked cars. This is a clinical exercise. Establishing a baseline. Gathering data.

Briar is at her house right now with her hand between her incredible thighs.

I stand up. Puck looks at me with alarm, which is fair because I just launched off the couch like it was on fire. I pace to the kitchen, then back. The timer on my phone ticks upward. Three minutes. Four.

She's in her bed. Or maybe on the couch. Maybe she's still in that skirt. Maybe she peeled it off and is wearing whatever she wears under it — something simple, cotton, practical — and her hand is sliding between her legs, and she's thinking about —

I open the refrigerator and shove as much of my torso inside as will fit. I take out the pitcher of water and chug directly from the spout like my heathen teammates. Like the savage Lisa says I am.