Page 97 of Goalkeeper
I put the gloves on, stick my hands in the bowl and massage the hair like it’s my job. I’m used to being coached, and something tells me not to mess with Paige Underwood.
It’s all good for a solid five minutes. There’s something oddly satisfying about what I’m doing, but I’m not gonna dwell on that.
Then Paige comes out of the bathroom in a wet tank top. Like, seriously wet and totally see-through. The appropriate thing to do would be to look away, of course, but I can’t bear to. Her perfect breasts are totally visible through the now-sheer fabric, her nipples like fucking raspberries I want to taste.
She stretches up to reach a brush on the top shelf, and instead of grabbing it for her, like a nice person, I sit here and stare at the band of skin between the hem of her tank and the waistband of her leggings. The same leggings that cradle her perfect ass.
Jesus. Thank Christ for this big-ass bowl on my lap. The sight of her makes me hard.
“Here, I’ll take the bowl.”
“Uh…”
“Spence, gimme the bowl or I’ll have violet clip-ins and I’ll hate you forever.”
I give her the bowl.
She takes it and spins back into the bathroom. I need to chill. She was in the room for two minutes. There’s no way she saw my hard-on.
“By the way,” she laughs, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting used to that sound, “I totally get why they called you Big Red.”
Paige
Spencer Briggs’s dick is hard as a rock, and he’s currently lounging on my bed. I damn near fainted when I took the bowl from him. That boy’s bigeverywhere.
As I rinse the toner out and gently pat my extensions dry, I think back on that night at the hockey house. We made out for a hot minute, and yeah, it was part of the game, but I distinctly remember thinking he was about to ask me up to his room. He was into me, just like I was into him. And he still is, if the state of his grey sweatpants is any indication.
But if that’s true, then why the awkwardness? Why could he barely look me in the eye for the past two weeks? I don’t like the conclusions my brain is coming up with, but I need to face facts. Yeah, he might be physically attracted to me, but I’m pretty sure my personality is a lot to handle. I get it. I’m an acquired taste. Just ask my family.
“Do you dry the fake hair? Like, with a hair dryer?” he calls from my room. Ugh. My heart can’t take it. Could he be any cuter?
“Yeah,” I say, walking back in with the still-damp strands in a towel. “But I can do that later. Or it’ll air dry and I’ll straighten it later. No big deal. You came to work on our speeches and I got caught up with unboxing all my new goodies and then got a late start on my hair.”
“What’s with all the boxes? Do you buy that much product often? Where do you even keep it all?”
Is it wrong that I’m loving his interest in my hobby?
“Oh my gosh, no. I don’t buy any of it. These products are all from companies who want me to try their stuff and review it on my channel or use it in one of my videos. I usually get a few boxes a month, but these all came on the same day. And as for where I put them all,” I gesture to the closet, “go have a look.”
He stands and walks over to the closet. It doesn’t look any different than a regular dorm closet, at least on the outside.
“Holy shit. It’s a teeny tiny studio!”
“Yep,” I say, standing behind him. Lordy, he’s big. I don’t even clear his chest. “It was a bitch getting that stool in here, but how awesome is it? A hairdresser was selling it online, so I made Jake drive two hours to pick it up. It was all good until we couldn’t fit it through this doorway. We had to disassemble the top to get it through, but it was so worth it,” I say, still admiring my pretty leopard print chair.
“Does it do the up/down thing?” he asks.
I scoff. “What self-respecting hairstylist’s chair doesn’t?” I scan my make-shift studio with the mirror positioned just so, and the ring light at just the right angle. I’ve lined two walls with shelves for all my products and I have one of those wheelie carts for all my makeup and another for my hair tools.
“This is pretty badass,” he says. I look around the room, and I think he might be right. The walls are a pale pink, and I have rose gold shelving covering one wall. The mirror is this gorgeous piece I found on sale and my vanity is a kid’s desk I bought online and repurposed. Fairy lights hang on the open walls and bathe the room in a subtle glow. Every color in the room is soft and warm, except for my pièce de résistance, the leopard print chair. The wall on the right is where I keep my clothes and it’s lined with a clothing rack and a bunch of stacking shelves.
“Thanks.” I smile, because, as small as it is, and as temporary as I know it has to be, I’m really proud of it.
“So, we should start. I feel like I’ve taken enough of your time. Just let me put a little product in my hair and I’m all set.” I undo the T-shirt I wrapped around my head, and shake my tresses out, then run a little smoothing balm through my hair and twist it into a quick braid, so it’s not a frizzy mess in half an hour.
He resumes his seat at the foot of my bed, and I sit near the headboard, tossing extra pillows to the floor.
“So, we have to give two-minute intro speeches about each other, right?” I say.
