Page 58 of The Goal

Oh boy. Our teacher is one big ball of energy, bouncing on her feet as she addresses the room.

“First thing I’m going to do is introduce our model! This is Spector—”

Spector?

Tucker sways in his chair, and I turn to find him fighting waves of laughter. I plant a hand on his knee to still him.

“Be nice,” I hiss.

“Trying to.” He chuckles while muttering “Spector” to himself.

A tall guy in a white bathrobe steps forward and waves at the group. His black hair is longer than mine, and he has those squinty James Franco eyes that make him look perpetually stoned.

“Hi,” is all he says.

Then he takes off the robe.

I choke on a gasp, because oh my God, his penis isright there. And it’s impressive.

Beside me, Carin is also quick to examine the goods. “Nowthat’swhat I’m talking about! Well, hello there, Manaconda!” she calls to the model before sweeping her gaze over the other females in attendance. “Ladies, I think Spector deserves a slow clap right now, no?”

Now I’m the one fighting laughter, because damned if the ladies don’t all break out in a slow, slow clap that leads to a burst of applause followed by whistles and catcalls. The shade of poor Spector’s face is so red it belongs on the palette in front of me.

Tucker snorts loudly in the chair next to mine, while Fitzy leans around Carin’s and asks me, “Is she always like this?”

“Usually she’s worse,” I say cheerfully.

He doesn’t seem put off by that. Our instructor, meanwhile, is starting to get annoyed.

“Guys!” She claps her hands together. “Focus! There’s beautiful art to be made!” Her stern expression cracks, replaced with a grin. “Which, of course, will absolutely include Spector’s equipment.”

This is the weirdest fucking date I’ve ever been on.

Aria gives us a rundown of how it all works. It’s not very complicated. We drink wine and paint Spector’s penis. Surprisingly, Tuck, Fitz, and the other men in the room are instantly on board. Paint tubes are opened, brushes are raised, and then we’re making beautiful art.

Sort of.

I awkwardly drag my brush over the canvas. I tried to mix yellow, white, and brown to create a peachy skin tone for my canvas Spector, but it looks like he has an awful spray tan.

Tucker runs one of his dry brushes across a knuckle that’s sporting a bruise. “I can think of a dozen good uses for one of these. Might take it home.”

I roll my eyes. “Paintbrushes aren’t sex toys.”

“Says who?”

We work steadily for the next hour. Carin is awesome at this. So is Fitzy, who, according to Tuck, designs his own video games. Tucker is surprisingly decent, though he seems to be avoiding the dick region on his canvas.

“You’re gonna have to paint his junk eventually,” I taunt.

He winks. “I’m saving the best for last.”

From the other section of the tables, a guy with floppy blond hair and a Red Sox T-shirt raises his hand. “Teach, I can’t do the pubes! They look like little ants!”

A burst of laughter roars through the room. I think Red Sox is on a double date too, because he and his date are sitting next to another couple, who are in hysterics.

“Seriously, Spec,” Red Sox’s friend calls out. “You couldn’t have done a little manscaping before you came here tonight?”

“Can’t,” Spector replies from his perch, sounding bored. “My contract doesn’t allow it.”

---