Page 44 of Boyfriend
When I leave her on her doorstep again, we share an awkward goodbye, wishing each other Happy New Year, before I turn and go.
* * *
The truth is that I never meant to be Abbi’s fake boyfriend for longer than it takes to eat a turkey dinner. But now Price is working regular weekends at the Biscuit. And so—as January rolls on—I consider it my sacred duty to keep up the charade.
And I have to say—it’s not a bad life. Over the next couple weeks, Abbi and I have lots of late-night talks as I walk her home. She brings me free wings on the regular. And then there are our lengthy text conversations about hockey, wing flavors, and school.
Honestly, if we could just have sex, all my needs would be met. She’s basically perfect.
Abbi keeps telling me that I shouldn’t bother to walk her home anymore. That Price isn’t threatening enough to warrant all this extra attention. But I don’t trust Price, so I keep up the vigil. Some nights I arrive late, have a single beer, and do some homework at the bar while Abbi finishes up her shift.
I like it here. The music is good. And even though my teammates have already gone home for the night, I’m pleasantly tipsy, nursing my last beer and reading a short story for my English class on my phone.
“You really don’t have to do this,” Abbi says as she swings by to grab Tate’s abandoned beer glass off table seventeen. She says it a lot, actually. “I can leave with Carly, or sneak out the back while he’s escorting someone else to her car.”
“Hey, I know,” I say with a shrug. “But I like the Biscuit, and it’s easier to read when there aren’t hockey players calling me to watch a game on TV. This is like the library for me. But with excellent beer.”
And, fine, I’m hung up on Abbi. I’m man enough to admit it. So where else would I rather be?
She gives me a sweet smile and a confused shake of her adorable head. And then she runs off to wipe down another table.
This is my life right now, and I’ve accepted it. Away games are a problem, though. Two weekends a month I’m on a bus with the team, playing U Mass or Maine.
Luckily, I have friends on the women’s hockey team. Women love me almost as much as I love women. So it’s really no problem to ask my friend Chrissy to have a drink at the bar until Abbi gets off shift the next weekend, and then walk out with her.
You really didn’t have to send a friend to babysit me! comes Abbi’s text the next morning. I’m a big girl. I can look after myself.
I know that, I quickly reply. But a good fake boyfriend looks after his fake girlfriend even when he’s busy making U Conn cry.
Nice win, by the way. Your fake girlfriend was super proud. That assist in the third period was extra sexy.
Thank you, baby!
See? We have the best relationship on campus. We have great chemistry. We’re mutually supportive of one another.
Except I haven’t been this horny since ninth grade, when Joey Birnbaum showed me how to find porn on my phone. And, sure, I could have hooked up on my road trip. The female hockey fans in Maine appreciate Mr. Smooth almost as much as the ones in Vermont.
But it just wouldn’t feel right, you know? Maybe I really should consider a career in Hollywood. I’m better at this acting thing than I’d thought. I’ve gone and convinced myself that Abbi and I are sexual soulmates. I can’t cheat on my soulmate.
So I haven’t hooked up at all. In fact, I haven’t gotten any action since before Thanksgiving—since the night I’d hoped to hook up with Abbi and then realized why we couldn’t.
After that, she was sort of under my skin, I guess. Now I’m looking at the longest dry spell in my adult life. It’s hard. I mean that literally. Some nights I can’t even concentrate because I’m so pent up. The guys are getting used to the way I space out in the middle of conversations.
Yesterday after practice I was sitting on the bench thinking lustful thoughts about Abbi when I spaced out in the middle of an argument between Pax and Patrick about a new defensive play we’re working on.
Coach Garfunkle tried to get my opinion, but I had no idea what they’d been saying. “You okay, son? You look a little unsteady.”
“He’s just horny,” Tate had cracked. “He’s got it bad for a girl he can’t have. Wait—is there a crystal for that?”
The whole team laughed, but Coach Garfunkle pulled a stone out of his pocket. It was—wait for it—oblong and pointy at the end. Like a rose quartz dick. “This is what you need.”
Two dozen hockey players roared their approval. “Really?” Lex Vonne had gasped. “Quartz can make you less horny?”
“Well…” Coach Garfunkle shrugged. “At least it will remind him that there’s something in the world harder than his junk.”
Yup, I’m the laughingstock of the team now. But at least there’s a good reason for it, and that reason is Abbi. I’m waiting for her at the bar again until she’s finally ready to leave the Biscuit.
She eventually arrives at my elbow, her apron and visor missing. She’s touched up her lipstick, and now I’m staring at her mouth again, the way a puppy eyes the burger on your plate. Hungrily.
