Page 65 of Faking It with the Forward

“Hey,” I say, giving her a tight smile. This is what we do now. We greet one another, and ask basic questions, but personal stuff has been off the table for a while.

My heart is still pounding from rushing across campus and from what just transpired between me and Reese.

I gave him a blow job. In the middle of the day. On campus.

What is this life?

I’m not embarrassed about it, but I am a little shocked at myself. Maybe even a little proud? Reese makes me think and feel and do things that I’d normally be too hesitant to even consider. His confidence is contagious.

Keeping this relationship a secret isn’t nearly as easy as I thought it would be. I did my best to ignore him during his workout this morning, but ultimately, it proved impossible. His presence is commanding. He’s a natural born leader. And holy shit, he’s so hot. From that cocky grin to the ripped muscles that line his lean body. And now I get to touch them.

I fan my face and try to settle in my seat, giving my attention to Dr. Kent, who is speaking to a TA. This week we’re moving to the eighties. Hair bands and new wave. An image of Duran Duran fills the screen at the front of the classroom, and I make note to tell my mom. She loves them.

My heart rate finally slows, and I glance over at Nadia. Her eyes are narrowed and she’s watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“You look… different.”

Her scrutiny makes me fight the urge to wipe my lips for any lingering evidence that Reese’s cock has just been in my mouth. I can’t help but notice she’s got dark circles under her eyes. Too many late nights out, I guess.

“Nothing’s different,” I say, lifting my shoulder nonchalantly. “I had to run across campus to get here on time. I’m out of shape.”

“No, it’s not that.” Her mouth purses and her eyes skim over me. “Something’s definitely different.”

This may be the most we’ve said to one another in weeks that doesn’t involve toilet paper or a spider in the kitchen. The urge to confess everything builds on the tip of my tongue and I swallow it back. We’ve never kept secrets even if that meant me telling her the horrific truth about Ethan, or her oversharing about her sexcapades with half the Wittmore athletes.

I asked Reese to promise not to say anything, to anyone. No one can know. Not even our friends. But I know Nadia. She’s like a dog with a bone. A gossip bone. She’s not going to give up until I reveal something.

“Reese and I broke up.” The lie sits like a stone in my belly.

“Okay, class, today we start our section on the eighties,” Professor Kent says from the front of the room, “the era of big hair, eyeliner, and keyboards.”

Nadia’s hand shoots out and grabs my forearm. “Did he dump you,” she whispers, “because I’ll—”

“No,” I tell her quickly, and quietly. I feel like shit for lying because Reese deserves no one’s wrath. I offer a portion of the truth. “Coach Green saw a photo of us together and gave me the riot act about dating a player. He made it clear that if he caught me with him or anyone else from the team, I’d lose my internship.”

She sits back in her chair, eyes blinking. “Wow.”

Kent continues to talk, the slide show flipping through images. My focus is split between Nadia and the professor, although it’s kind of hard to ignore David Lee Roth in those bright, ball-hugging spandex pants.

“Are you okay?” she asks. I don’t miss the sincerity in her voice.

“It was never serious,” I reply without looking over. “I told you we were just having fun.”

She must buy it, because she quiets, and we both redirect our attention to the lesson. I’m thankful that the topic is fun and interesting, it helps keep my mind off of everything. When class is over, I don’t rush out like I have been doing. I take my time and wait for Nadia. As we fall into step she says, “I’m really sorry about the tickets. I knew how important it was to you and I let a guy distract me.”

Hearing the apology loosens something in my chest. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.” I step aside and lead us out of the way of the flow of students. “I apologize for judging you—because I was. I let my own hang-ups about guys bleed over into not supporting your decisions.”

Her hands grip the straps of her backpack. “You weren’t wrong about Brent. He’s a dick.”

“Oh no.” I cringe. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I saw him outside the coffee shop last week and when I went up to say hello and give him a kiss on the cheek, he totally brushed me off.” She shrugs. “All he wanted was a fuck buddy. Someone to come over after dark and leave before morning.”

“God, that sucks.” My heart aches for her because I know deep down that she wants something real.

“Apparently all athletes are asses.”

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