Page 46 of Rival Summer

I leaned closer to Willow, our shoulders brushing lightly. "So, what’s this weekend's tournament about?"

“It’s the annual pitch invitational. We hosted it last year, but this year it’s a couple hours away," she whispered back, her excitement palpable. "It’s much more exciting when we get to travel. Run around the hotel, get into some trouble."

"Trouble is the last thing I need," I responded, but a hotel suite with robes and an oversized bathtub didn’t sound too bad.

Willow leaned in, the mischievous twinkle never leaving her eyes. "Speaking of trouble," she began, teasingly tucking a strand of her curly blonde hair behind her ear. "It's dollar beer night at Gin & Jerry’s tonight. The team usually goes. Feel up to it? Or did you have too wild of a night last night?" Her smile was infectious, the corners of her mouth curling up in anticipation.

I laughed lightly, rolling my eyes. "I think I can manage that," I said. The thought of another night out with the team—and one person in particular—made me a little more excited than I cared to admit.

"Am I interrupting something?" The question popped our bubble. Caroline stood there, eyebrows arched, looking at us impatiently.

We both flashed our best attempt at genuine smiles. "Not at all," Willow said.

"Good." Caroline didn't seem convinced, but she pressed on regardless. "You two are in charge of laundry duty. You need to wash, iron, and hang the away jerseys in each boy's game outfit bag." Her tone left no room for argument—an order, not a request.

"Isn't there a team manager for this kind of stuff?" Willow's bubbly personality never wavered, even as she was questioning the fairness of the task.

"Nope, maybe when you're on the coaching staff one day, you can see about figuring that out," Caroline retorted, giving a sly smirk.

"Maybe I will," Willow shot back, undeterred by the challenge.

The washing machines hummed a rhythm in the background as Willow and I tackled laundry duty. Steam from the iron mingled with the scent of detergent as we pressed each jersey completely wrinkle-free, since, according to Caroline, wrinkles would tarnish the team's image on game day.

"Hey, Will," I ventured hesitantly, breaking the silence. "Question."

"Answer," she quipped without missing a beat, her eyes never leaving the shirt she was ironing.

I took a deep breath, the words tumbling out almost of their own accord. "What was your first time like?"

Willow paused, the iron hovering above the fabric as a smile played upon her lips. "Eh, the typical story. Prom night." She carefully placed the iron down and hung the jersey with practiced ease. "My boyfriend and I had been together three years, and then we went to different colleges after that."

"Did you both decide it was going to happen that night? Did you have to convince him?"

"Umm, yeah, we both agreed, but it was a disaster. There should be at least one member of the party who knows what they’re doing. That bear could not find the cave, if you know what I mean." A knowing look was in her eyes. "Why? Are you thinking about it?"

I nodded, pressing my lips together as I passed her another jersey to iron, thinking about how I might see it happening for myself. What that night might look like—who I’d want it to be with.

"I mean, yeah," I began, the hum of the washing machines filling the silence. "I'm in my second year of college, and basically the only one who hasn't had sex." I fidgeted with the hem of another jersey, a blush creeping onto my cheeks. "I could see it being with Boston. I trust him, and we've known each other forever."

"I love that for you," Willow mused, her lips curling into an impish grin. "If you’re ready. I’d just talk to him about it."

"That’s the problem," I sighed, imagining how long it would take me to persuade Boston that I was ready. “Since he’s known me my whole life, and because he’s Parker's best friend, he’s so protective. I feel like he’d never believe me.”

"Okay, I have an idea." Willow's eyes sparkled with mischief, and suddenly I was all ears.

"What?"

She leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. "What kind of underwear are you wearing right now?"

"Umm, black lacey ones?" I replied, unsure where this was headed.

"Perfect. Take them off. Right now."

"Are you serious?" My voice pitched high with disbelief.

"Dead serious. Do it, right now," she urged, nodding towards the privacy of our corner in the laundry room.

With a nervous laugh, I complied, pulling my oversized t-shirt down to cover me as best as it could. I shimmied out of my shorts, and I let my underwear slide down to the floor before stepping out of them. Quickly, I redressed in just the shorts, the absence of my underwear feeling a bit bizarre.

---