Shut Out (4 page)

My usual good judgment has disappeared as I fall into the kiss with everything I have. My fingers curl into his shirt, then I slip one hand around the back of his neck. I rub my fingertips over the short hair and soft skin at the nape of his neck, and he groans into my mouth.

He lifts his mouth only long enough to tilt my chin to a different angle, then claims me again in another long, lush kiss. My heart is pounding, my blood rushing hot in my veins. I press my aching breasts against his chest and another rumble rises there.

Over and over our mouths meet and cling, part, then meet again. I lick his tongue, nip at his bottom lip. His erection is getting even bigger. I want to feel it, but dimly recall that we are in a kitchen with other people around.

We're not the only ones making out, I know that, and I heard that couple having sex in a bedroom upstairs. I want to be upstairs, in a bedroom, alone with Jacob, stretched out on a bed so we can twist ourselves up together.

Thick, liquid heat converges low in my belly, forming an insistent throb behind my clit.

Finally, Jacob lifts his head and gives me a dazed, hot look. “Jesus, Rapunzel. What a mouth.”

The tip of my tongue touches my top teeth. “Is that a compliment?”

“Hell yeah.” He lifts a hand to cup my face, his thumb petting the corner of my mouth. I turn my head, open my lips, and bite his thumb. His eyes darken, and I suck his thumb into my mouth. It feels so good and I can tell we're both thinking of me sucking on other parts of him.

“Holy hell, you're sexy,” he rasps out. He grinds his hips into mine and my belly does a flip of lust.

“So are you.”

I've never in my life done this—I mean, I've had sex, but I've never been the one to come on to a guy like this, especially someone I just met. But I want to have sex with him. It's crazy because I don't even know him, but I'm so attracted to him and I'm so turned on, my panties are soaked right through to my shorts. The intense ache there is obliterating reason. And I shock myself as I whisper the words that spring to my lips. “Want to go upstairs?”

He gazes at me, his hand curled around the side of my neck, his beautiful mouth wet from our kisses, eyes heavy-lidded. His eyelashes lower to rest on his cheeks. He pulls in a harsh breath, then slowly lets it out. “I can't.”

My body stiffens. Somehow, I never thought he would turn me down. He seemed as into the whole making out thing as I was, and his arousal is undeniable. But right, guys get turned on so easily. It's not me. It's just…a girl, pressing her boobs against him and throwing herself at him. It's a physiological response. Seriously, I just learned about that in Human Physiology.

I swallow and step back, and he releases me. His eyes are shadowed, his jaw tight. Mortification scorches me from the inside out until I swear I'm probably glowing red like a traffic light. I am such an idiot.

“Oops,” I try to say in a light tone. “Sorry.” I hold up my hands. “I obviously misread things there.”

“Skylar…”

I scrunch my face into a smile. “Hey, no worries.” I lift my chin toward the wide doors leading to the dining room. “You should see if your friends need any help in their beer pong tournament.”

I whirl around and resist the urge to bolt right out of the house. Instead, I saunter across the kitchen, plucking another bottle from the cooler, hoping I don't appear rejected and pathetic to everyone else in the kitchen. I head to the living room, seeking out Ella, Natalie, and Brooklyn. There they are, dancing. That's what I need. I need to dance.

They welcome me with hip bumps and smiles, and as I move to the music I try to ignore the humiliation burning inside me.

I walk into the South Quad Academic Complex for my first training session at SAPAP Monday evening. I've had two classes today and an intense workout and practice session, and I have homework, so this is the last place I want to be. I'm still not sure what to expect from this training. I've read the info online about the pilot program. I get it. But it seems like overkill to me. Is something like this really necessary? Not all guys are asshole misogynists.

I'm pretty sure I can't even spell that word.

I love women. I respect women. I would never hurt a woman. Why the
fuck
am I here?

Right, right, everyone has to be here. I heave a sigh as I walk into the office that houses SAPAP, summoning my most charming smile. A girl standing at a printer glances up at me and smiles. “Hi. Can I help you?”

“I'm here for the new student training.”

She's cute, with shiny brown hair and a nice rack.

“Oh, come on in, then, I'll show you where the training room is.” She leads me down a hall and we enter a large, gray-carpeted room, tables and chairs arranged to face a projection screen at one end. It appears this room can be divided up into smaller meeting rooms, or with the partitions pushed back, opened into this huge space. There are already a bunch of people there and I spot one of my teammates, Dan Churchill, who's a freshman. I head his way. “Hey, Danny. How's it going?”

“Good.” He gives me a friendly smile. As a rookie, he doesn't have the same animosity some of the other guys have toward me.

More people are coming in, so we grab chairs at a table at the back of the room.

An older woman—and by “older” I mean about thirty—who is smokin' hot, moves to the front of the room. “Okay, it's a little after eleven already, so let's get started. Welcome everyone. I'm Victoria Meyer, director of SAPAP.”

She makes eye contact with a bunch of people, even me, sitting as far at the back as possible.

“Our goals are to educate the Bayard College community about sexual assault, intimate-partner violence, sexual harassment, and stalking, and to raise awareness and promote a non-violent campus community. We work with various campus organizations and community agencies on a number of different strategies. Last year, the college administration asked us to develop a program that would be part of the orientation for all freshman and transfer students at Bayard, and we're very pleased to be offering it this year. Welcome to Bayard College and thank you for being a part of our pilot project. Your feedback will be valuable in helping us determine the effectiveness of the training and how we can improve it.”

She continues. “Your training will take place for an hour each evening this week, concluding on Friday.”

I cringe, although I knew this. My schedule's already crazy with classes, study groups, workouts, team meetings, and practices, and we haven't even started the hockey season yet.

“We'll be covering topics such as sexual assault.” She pauses to make more eye contact and let the seriousness of these topics sink in. “Intimate-partner violence. Stalking, sexual harassment, rape culture, healthy relationships, and bystander intervention.”

I shift in my seat and pick at a piece of cuticle that's loose on my thumb.

“After the training, if you're interested in being actively involved in the movement to end sexual and intimate-partner violence at Bayard College, and society in general, we have three student volunteer groups: the Men's Activism Program; our Networking, Publicity, and Activism Program; and a Peer Education Program. As well, there are a variety of opportunities to participate in some of the awareness events and fundraisers we work on throughout the year.”

She smiles.

“Now I'll introduce you to your facilitators: Grace Smith, Skylar Lynwood, and Chad Bukowski.”

My head whips around as two women and a dude join Victoria at the front of the room. My jaw drops. Rapunzel.

I barely hear Victoria introduce Grace, but then focus as she outlines Skylar's experience with SAPAP. Skylar smiles at everyone, but when her gaze skims past mine and hesitates, and her smile falters, I know she already saw me there. So she had a few minutes to get her shit together, while my own shit is all over the goddamn place, totally messed up by seeing her there.

I've been trying to put her out of my head since Friday night, not totally successfully. Remembering the hurt look on her face when I turned down her so sweet and sexy invitation. Goddamn, I wanted to go upstairs with her, toss her onto a bed, kiss that hot mouth, and bang her into next week. But hell, I've been at Bayard a few weeks; how could I abandon my plans that fast?

I haven't quite figured out how I'm going to go all year without sex. On the one hand, I think I've read that monklike abstinence can make you stronger. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up in the hospital with blue balls as big as bowling balls. They're going to have to do some kind of emergency procedure to save me. Possibly involving a hot nurse, in a short, tight uniform.

And just like that the hot nurse morphs into Skylar. God, what is wrong with me?

Putting aside thoughts of sex, which intrude into my mind with disturbing frequency, the last couple days Skylar featuring prominently in my porn fantasies, I again try to focus on what's happening.

“So as Victoria said,” Skylar says with a sweet smile that I can tell wins over everyone in the room, “this is our first time presenting this training program. We want to make it not just relevant and informative but interactive and fun.”

She's well-spoken, making the same eye contact Victoria had, at ease in front of people. I admire that. I have some experience with it too, talking to media after games, dealing with fans. For me it's easy, and for her…it seems easy as well. I smile.

I'm here because I have to be, and I seriously doubt it's going to be fun. But this is what I have to do if I want to play hockey and if I want my shot at being drafted into the NHL. As far as the awareness stuff goes, once I'm done with this training, I'm done. No way will I be volunteering on one of those committees. The team's schedule of workouts, team meetings, and practices is rigorous, not to mention our upcoming game schedule.

I'm here, as in, I'm present. I'll do what I have to do. But I won't do more than that.

“First a few housekeeping things.” Skylar talks about where the bathrooms are, when breaks occur, how the facilitators are committed to starting and ending on time, ground rules about sharing and privacy, blah blah blah.

Then we break into smaller groups. Victoria directs Skylar to sit with my group, which clearly does not thrill her. But she smiles and asks us all to introduce ourselves. Ugh.

I give my best smile as I tell them my name and a little about myself. When I mention I play for the Bears, a bunch of freshmen girls sigh.

And Skylar's lips tighten. She gives me a glare before moving on to Danny, but hey, he gets the same reaction.

After we've all heard each other's names and a bit about one another, we return to the bigger group and move right into the first module—sexual assault.

Yeah, I'm sweating.

“This training will draw on the experience and viewpoints of the participants,” Skylar says, having completed all the bullshit introductions. “It will be dynamic and interactive and result in skills that you'll be able to use in a variety of situations. One thing I want to mention is the use of pronouns. In most cases, gender-neutral plural pronouns such as ‘they' and ‘them' are used throughout this training to refer to victims. But because most victims of sexual assault are female, we do occasionally use female pronouns. In the module dealing with male sexual assault, we will, of course, address all victims/survivors as males.”

My eyebrows lift. I guess I've never really thought about male sexual abuse victims. I rub my forehead and shift again in my chair.

With PowerPoint slides projecting onto the screen on the wall, Skylar, Grace, and Chad take turns talking. “The definition from the U.S. Department of Justice is ‘any type of sexual contact or behavior that occurs without the explicit consent of the recipient.' ” Skylar surveys the room with unsettling gravity.

My armpits are prickling with sweat and my muscles are tight. I slouch into my chair.

The visual on the screen changes.

“Let's talk about victim versus survivor. It's difficult for anyone other than the individuals themselves to determine when the shift from
victim
to
survivor
occurs. Some people feel they are survivors from the moment they escape their assailant.” Skylar pauses. “Or assailants.”

I slump lower. Skylar flicks me a brief frown.

“They may prefer the term
survivor
even in the emergency department, where others use the term
survivor
for someone who's achieved progress in recovering from their experience.”

It's hot in this room. Is it hot is this room? I glance at Danny, who's nodding and attentive. He's not sweating like I am.

About an hour later, we're done. We have homework—reading to do before our session tomorrow evening. Crap. Thankfully the training will be done before hockey season starts, because I already have enough homework.

I pick up my messenger bag and lift the strap over my head, my gaze going to Skylar. She's talking to a couple other people but, as if she feels my gaze on her, like she did that night at the party, she meets mine.

Her gaze is cool. Hell, I don't blame her. I should apologize. But maybe that would make it worse. I can't really explain to her why I turned her down, but I want her to know that it wasn't her, it was me.

Fuck, that sounds lame.

The next day, I've sat through three classes by noon. I make my way across the Quad to the dining hall, hungry enough to eat my shoulder pads. Although we live off campus, my housemates and I have meal plans so we can eat on campus if we want. It's actually good because the dining hall has buffets with tons of choices and we all eat a lot. And none of us are great cooks.

But that's okay. Despite these guys still not totally accepting me, living with them is kind of cool. Last year I was billeted with a family who had a seventeen-year-old son who played hockey on my team. We ended up driving back and forth to the arena together. He was a good kid, and the family was awesome, but I have to say living on my own with a bunch of guys my age is a lot more fun. Or it could be.

I spot Buck, Rocket, and Soupy at a table and I stride over to them and drop my bag onto an empty chair. They look up. “Hey, Flash. What up?”

Their greeting is cordial but not warm. Tightness squeezes my chest. Everyone is supposed to like me.

“I'm starving,” I answer. “Gonna load up. Be right back.”

I fill a plate with chicken, pasta, salad, and a couple rolls, plus I add a piece of pie and a brownie for dessert to my tray. I have a sweet tooth. I'm supposed to avoid too much sugar, but it's not like I'll get fat. I have a hard time keeping weight on, in fact, with the way I'm built and how much I work out. When I was under two hundred pounds, I was scrawny by NHL standards, so I worked hard over the summer and put on fourteen pounds—but that was muscle, as it's supposed to be.

Back at the table, Soupy and Rocket are ragging on Buck about his clothes. He's wearing a pair of narrow beige pants, argyle socks, and a pink T-shirt.

“Do I look like a fucking girl?” he asks mildly in response to Soupy's comment about the shirt.

He does not. His shoulders are wider than mine and his dark beard stubble takes him about two hours to grow. If anyone can pull off a pink shirt without his masculinity being questioned, it's Buck. But what are friends for if not to bug you about your fashion choices.

“That shade of pink is good with your skin tone,” I say helpfully.

Buck meets my eyes and I lift one eyebrow. His lips twitch. “Thanks,” he drawls. “I thought so.”

Not only is the shirt pink, it probably cost a hundred bucks. Buck likes nice shit, including expensive clothes.

“Wait till he wears one of his hats,” Rocket says. “You'll want to walk a few paces behind him.”

“Fuck you. My hats are cool.”

“Uh-huh.”

These guys all know one another and are comfortable enough to trash talk, and I try not to feel like an outsider as I eat my meal.

A girl passes by our table and shoots Soupy a disgusted scowl that none of us miss. She continues on and sits with some friends.

“Dude,” Buck says in a low voice. “Isn't that the chick you left with Friday night?”

I'd been the designated driver, but only Rocket had come home with me that night. Buck and Soupy had both left with girls, which had depressed the hell out of me since I'd actually
turned down
an offer, for fuck's sake.

“Yeah.” Soupy drops his gaze to his empty plate.

“Apparently she's not too impressed with your mad sex skillz.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oooh.” We all exchange glances. “It must be good. Come on, bro, tell us all.”

Soupy rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine, I didn't get laid.”

“Couldn't get it up?” Buck's eyebrows shoot up. “It was probably just whiskey dick—”

“That wasn't it.” Soupy frowns and picks up his paper napkin. He sighs. “Fine, here's what went down. We went back to her dorm. I didn't have a condom, so she told me to go get one from this box her RA has on the wall outside his room. I grab one, jump into the sack with her, and things are going great. Then I get ready to glove up. I open up the package, and bam, powder everywhere.”

We all frown.

“The whole bed smelled like chicken. I know, what the fuck? I turn on the light and discover it was a packet of soup mix from some goddamn ramen noodles.” Soupy scowls. “Needless to say, that kinda killed the mood.”