Page 68 of Boyfriend
"Could you help me invert it?" Abbi asks. “I need a largish plate if you've got one.”
“Plate. Large. Yup,” I say, stumbling badly. “I’ve got that. Baby.”
Abbi gives me a sideways glance that seems to wonder if I’ve sustained a hit to the head. “Okay. It needs to cool for five more minutes, but then it’s go time.” She kisses the underside of my jaw before peeling away, heading back to the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Cara keeps turning redder. “Looks like you’re a little busy,” she says quickly. “Take care.” Then, before I can say anything, she slips past me and heads up the stairs in the direction that Amy disappeared.
Several of my teammates watch her ascent. And when she’s good and gone, they turn to me.
“Awkward,” says Vonne. “I sense a story there.”
“It’s a short story,” Paxton chirps from the sofa. “They always are with Weston.”
“That’s not true,” Vonne points out. “Weston has a girlfriend.”
“You’re a freshman,” Tate says. “You haven’t seen how it goes with him. We’re all a little surprised that he and Abbi have been together these past couple of weeks.”
“Right?” another of my teammates puts in. “Weston doesn’t date. It’s an unwritten rule of hockey.”
“You mean, like, the fight ends when your opponent goes down?” Vonne asks with a smirk. “And never step on the logo in the middle of the locker room floor?”
“Like that,” Tate assures him. “But Abbi is breaking all the rules.”
I give him a withering glance that suggests he should keep his voice down. “Abbi is the exception that proves the rule.”
Vonne raises his hand, like a second-grader. “What does that even mean? That phrase makes no sense.”
“Sure it does,” I bark, even though this whole conversation makes me uncomfortable.
“What it means,” Tate whispers, “Is that Abbi graduates in the spring. Weston here doesn’t have to worry about a real commitment.”
“Ooh, an older woman,” Vonne says. “Love it.”
I roll my eyes at both of them. Tate isn’t wrong. It’s just that I’m not enjoying listening to my love life being picked apart.
So I leave them behind and head into the kitchen to help Abbi find a plate for her cake. The air here is heavy with the scent of nuts and sugar. “Holy shitballs, that smells good.”
“Doesn’t it?” Abbi says. “This was the cake my mother made for my birthday every year. It’s a straightforward cake recipe, but with this crazy pecan icing. You can only eat a small slice before you start to slide into diabetic shock. So a whole cake would last us a week in the refrigerator.”
“I give it a half hour in this joint,” I tell her. “So cut yourself a nice slice. You have to look after your own needs at the hockey house.”
“I’m starting to understand that,” she mutters to herself.
Twenty-Four
A Lot of Broken Hearts
Abbi
I'm on my back in Weston's bed. He's hovering over me in the plank position, languorously thrusting, while I pant against his tongue and try not to moan too loudly.
“Fuck, Abbi,” he curses. “I don't want it to end. You get me so hot.”
He says this as if I might not understand. As if I’m not the one who's splayed naked on his bed, legs wide apart, worshiping at the altar of Weston's dirty talk and growly kisses.
Is this real life?
“Touch yourself, baby.”
