The Jock and the Fat Chick (9 page)

I take a sip. This tastes like that.

Viktor and I hike across the parking lot with our gear and sticks in tow. This time next year, who knows where the both of us will be. Before reaching the arena’s door, I say, “Here’s to our final season.”

“Hear, hear. To bigger and better prospects.”

I’m curious to hit the locker room and check out the freshmen trying to earn a spot on the Huntsville Hurricanes. Wait till the kids get a load of Coach’s dreaded finger.

I make sure to suit up and leave the locker room before anyone else. There’s something about metal meeting ice that makes me happy, and for a brief moment, it’s like the entire place is mine, all perfect and slick. Behind me my teammates hit the ice and fan out. Coach blows his whistle and wastes no time putting us through grueling drills, whipping us into shape by focusing on quads and hams. He gets us doing stops and starts, touching the painted blue line, then skating down the arena at full speed to stop hard ’n’ fast to tap the other blue line, and then it’s rinse and repeat. Once he shreds our legs, we line up for passing and stick work, slapping pucks at the net. Only after ninety minutes pass and we’re dripping with sweat does he show mercy by letting us go. Me and twenty guys amble back to the change room. I can hear groaning. I’m not doing too badly, though, thanks to all the off-season training.

When Viktor drops me off, I’m starving, but at the same time, I’m too tired to make anything, so I grab a protein bar. I tear back the foil wrapper and take a big bite. I chew for about three seconds before spitting it into the garbage. It’s either a skunky bar, or my taste buds have changed. I put what’s left back into its package and declare the box as “emergency use only.” I bust out my new knife set and remove some chicken from the fridge. I prep and season it with salt and pepper. While it bakes, I steam some brown rice in chicken broth and flavor it with curry powder (that René
gave me and swears by), a handful of blanched almonds, and some dried cranberries. I understand food combining now—the blending of sweet, sour, salty, spicy, and savory. I learn from Claire every time she helps someone in class. I get why she recommends particular ingredients to correct certain mistakes. Like, if it’s too spicy, she adds sweet—sugar, or honey, or orange juice. Food combining is cool. I can totally relate it to science.

I chow down, enjoying my home-cooked meal, which is a million times tastier than an artificial energy bar. I make a plate for Mom, then head to my room and pass out with Buddy next to me. I wake up hours later with the afternoon light shining in my face. My legs are a little stiff from drills, but it’s a good feeling. I get up and stretch my hamstrings, breathing deeply to push past the discomfort. I grab my phone and text Claire.

Hey! ’Suuuup?

I’m good. U good for Monday’s meal exam?

Yup.

Good. How about the written part on Wednesday?

Yup x 2. Memorized Mrs. A’s torture notes.

Cool. My folks are in NY tonight. Want to come over and watch a movie?

Sure! There in 25.

Make it 20.

Ha-ha. Yes, Coach!

It’s closer to thirty minutes before I arrive because of the snow-dusted roads, plus, my legs are spent. The second I walk through the door, Claire grabs my hand, pulls me inside, and greets me with an incredible kiss that has me melting into a puddle. I raise her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist. Pain rips through my quads and hams, but I push past it because there’s no way I’ll let her go.

Claire slides down my body, her bare feet slapping the tile. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, tough practice today,” I say, and notice her V-neck sweater. The deep valley between her breasts seems endless. “Coach busted our boobs—I mean, balls—I mean, butts. He, uh, busted our butts.”

Claire tilts her head and gives me a mock-sad look before running a finger across my sternum. “You poor baby. I suppose you want to just watch a movie.”

Sore legs be damned, I tear off my jacket, dropping it to the floor, and kick off my boots. I scoop her into my arms. Impressed, Claire’s breath hitches in excitement. She wraps her arms around my neck, and I take a bold step, then stop. I’m not sure where to go. I’ve only visited their dining room, kitchen, and, uh, pantry.

“Upstairs,” she says.

My face must register shock because she adds, “You okay with that?”

I can’t remember how to form sentences, so I nod, and
Claire nuzzles her lips into my neck. Her hot breath nearly makes my knees buckle.

I start climbing. Step after step my muscles, battered and torn from Coach’s pummeling, flare up and start yelling,
Come on, buttercup! Move it! Let’s go! Move! Move! Move!
I reach the landing, relieved.

“I’m on the third floor,” she informs me, giggling.

I mock-yell, “Damn you to hell, Coach Barker,” and Claire roars with laugher, which makes me chuckle too.

I make my way up a second set of stairs, and she points to a door nearby. I push it open with my elbow and lay Claire on her bed. We continue kissing, and I climb on top of her, but prop myself onto my elbows, so I don’t crush her under my weight. When enough blood rushes to my brain, I realize it’s easier if I roll over and she lies on top of me.

We make out for a long time, taking detours and pit stops along each other’s necks and earlobes. I breathe in her soft moans and inhale her honey-scented skin as I kiss her smooth arms with a featherlight touch. My callused hands graze along the curve of her back, caressing the silky, delicate surface before nestling into the small valley just above her butt. Claire nuzzles into my neck and traces a finger along the length of it, causing chills to travel throughout my back. She heads for my lips again, hers barely brushing mine, and we open our eyes at the same time. It’s like time’s stopped, and the world’s collapsed into this tiny perfect moment. If
I were to die right now, get hit by a freak bolt of lightning, I’d die a happy man. She sits up, her knees straddling either side of me, so our groins touch. Her expression is sweet yet coy-like, and before I can wonder what she’s up to, she raises her sweater over her head, balls it up, and shoots it across her room. When it lands on top of her hamper, she makes crowd-cheering noises, like she’s won the playoffs.

I’d laugh, but I’m lost in everything that is Claire—her curves, breasts, and hips. She’s wearing the same deep-red bra she wore my first day in class. I place my hands on her waist and brush her skin with my fingertips. The gentle touch causes shivers, and her boobs shake a little. I grasp her fingers into mine and guide her down so she lies on top of me. Only then do I realize there’s a small decorative pillow under my back, the button digging into my kidneys. I chuck it across the floor and pull the covers aside for her to slide under. As she does so, I peel off my shirt, and she lets me know she approves by sliding her fingertips down along my six-pack. We make out again.

My heart of course thump-smashes like crazy. What do I do next? Can she tell I don’t know what I’m doing? Does she know what to do? Do I go for the condom in my wallet? She might not want to have sex with me. When Claire reaches for the button on my pants, I guess the answer to all of the above is yes. Yet I still lay my hand over hers, just to be sure, because I like her a lot.

“I’m on the pill, and I have a clean bill of health.”

I nod.

“Um, do you?”

Oh. “Yeah,” I say. Being a virgin makes me about as clean as you can get.

She smiles and reaches behind her to unclasp her bra strap and let the fabric slip away.

I WAKE UP FEELING LIKE A NEW MAN. I CAN’T tell if Claire knew I was a virgin or not, and if she did suspect, I guess she’s the coolest person I know for not pointing it out or making fun. I place a hand on her waist and kiss the top of her forehead. Claire’s eyes flutter open, and she utters a cute, breathy moan.

“Hey,” I whisper.

She smiles. “Morning.”

I sweep a piece of hair from her cheek. “Did you have fun last night?”

She nods. “Yeah. Mind blown. You’re like . . . Wow.”

“‘Wow’?”

“Yeah, hot wow.”

“‘Hot wow’?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says, then adds, “Superhot wow.”

I shrug. “I guess, but you’re hotter than that.”

She shakes her head and smirks. “There’s nothing hotter than superhot wow.”

I roll my eyes. “Please. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What? I do, too!”

I prop my head up onto my arm. “You know, in ninth grade science when Mr. Lane burns a magnesium strip and he tells everyone to look away because the light could fry your retinas?”

“Yeah.”

I smile. “
That’s
how hot you are.”

Claire slaps my chest and pushes me away. “Aw!”

I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight, enjoying the moment and feeling ridiculously happy.

“When are your folks getting back?”

“Sometime between twelve and one.”

I search for a clock. This is the first time I’ve seen Claire’s room in full light. Thank god, no unicorns, stuffed bears, or doily-lacy things. Her bedside clock reads 10:35 a.m.

Claire pulls the covers away and rises to her feet. With her back facing me, I gaze in wonder: her beautiful shape, silhouetted by the morning sun slanting through the curtains. She should be in a painting. She reaches for my shirt and slips it over her head. It fits snug at her chest and hangs to her knees with her hands disappearing into the sleeves. Wow. I wish it were my hockey jersey.

I stand and wrap my arms around her for a hug. I feel her heartbeat through my shirt, pounding against mine. I don’t want this moment to end. I want to stand here forever.

My stomach gurgles, then growls, and she breaks out laughing.

We change and head downstairs to whip up some scrambled eggs. Claire adds fresh mint and goat cheese to it, which at first sounds gross, but it actually tastes good. I serve it with some spicy salsa on the side and make us some fresh orange juice.

Sitting at the island, I eat with one hand while the other rubs her back. For a November day, it’s nice outside. The sun’s shining, there’s no wind. I might even go for an outdoor run.

Claire turns to me. “Hey. Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure.”

She stares at her eggs. “This isn’t easy for me to say.”

Dread creeps into my chest. I swallow my mouthful and set down my fork. I start churning out worst-case scenarios starting with last night; she thinks it was a big mistake.

“It’s about us.”

My gut plummets.

Claire turns away. Oh god, she can’t even look at me. I remove my hand from her back.

She starts off with, “I really like you. You know that,
right?”

“Yeah,” I say, although it comes out sounding unsure.

“It’s just that . . .” Her voice wavers, and she bites her bottom lip. Her leg swings under her stool.

“‘That’ what?”

She takes a deep breath. “I don’t want anything serious, okay?”

I hear her words, but at the same time I don’t know what she’s saying.

She continues, “We’ll both be leaving at the end of the school year. You’ll be at college playing hockey, and I’ll be in Europe somewhere, and I don’t want either of us to get hurt, you know?”

Her lips move, but . . . is she saying this was a onetime thing?

“So, if you’re okay with it,” she says, and again bites her lower lip, “I just want to be friends with benefits and keep it at that.”

A tightness grows in my chest. But we were just starting to get to know each other. I open my mouth to ask what’ll happen if I say no, but I don’t want to hear her reply. She’ll probably say we should end it. I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I? Especially if I want to spend more time with her. “Okay . . . ,” I say.

She sits up. “Great! Ooh, let’s make this fun and turn it into a game. We could sneak around and be all covert-like at
school. That would be hot.”

“Ah, yeah, I guess.”

She exhales a sigh of relief and stands to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Cool. It’s a deal: agree to only have fun, not to fall for each other.”

On the ride home the wind’s at my back. The trees are now stripped bare. Some of the leaves run alongside me, tumbling end over end. When I stop at a four-way, they continue onward and get smacked by passing cars. I think about my arrangement with Claire. On one hand, sneaking around would be kinda fun. Plus, I won’t have to worry about what the guys will say, because they’ll never find out. They’ll never make fun of her. But somehow her little deal and being all covert doesn’t sit right, and I can’t figure out why. It also bugs me that I’m even questioning it. This beautiful, smart, sexy girl wants to sleep with me again, and I’m finding fault? Am I an idiot? This is a good thing, a dream come true.

For the rest of the day, Claire and I text each other, but neither mentions our talk.

Tomorrow’s a big day.

Yup,
I type, and think about our exam, how we practiced hard to get our time under sixty minutes. I add,
Kick butt 4 sure.
Then I send her a ringtone file I downloaded the other day and add,
Just 4 us . . .

What is it?

Door chime

I give her a minute to open it and listen to the file before typing:
reminds me of how u ravaged me in the doorway.

Ravaged?

Yeah. . . .

Like a horde of Vikings???

Huh? No, you know, like a romance novel.

Ha-ha, you mean ravished. Ha-ha. Too cute!

I laugh.

Hey, getting late. Got to take Buddy out.

OK. See U tomorrow.

Yup. xoxo

Claire sends a final text,
G’nite loves
, and it leaves me with a strange feeling in my gut.

I WALK INTO DOM TECH LIKE I’VE GOT THIS and I’m about to kick some ass. Not even the surprise appearance from Coach, Principal Bandell, and some of the other teachers can throw me off my game. Claire says that it’s typical for staff to show during food finals to add a little pressure. She also says it’s because they want a free lunch when it’s finished.

“All right, class. To your stations,” Mrs. A instructs.

We make our way to our work areas. She gives Claire and me her main workstation, but has taped off an area equal to the other students’ space, so no one cries foul. I seriously doubt anyone will complain, anyway, not with the demonstration mirror hanging above it for everyone to watch. Claire and I climb the platform, grocery bags in tow. We’re allowed to set them down, but not unpack. It’s okay, though; Claire’s placed her stuff in the green recycling bags
and mine in the white ones, so we know who has which bags. We don our aprons—hers, the one with the hearts, and mine, the lucky ladybugs.

“You ready?” she asks.

“Ready, Coach.” I’d love to give her a smooch for luck, but settle for a “bring it” hand gesture instead.

Mrs. A turns on the electronic timer, which illuminates the sixty-minute number. With a dramatic arm swing, she pushes the start button like it’s the first pitch of the season. I dig Mrs. A.

She cries, “Begin!”

Claire and I kick into gear. We unpack and take a minute to set up what we need and where. We move with purpose, all the while talking about who’s doing what next. “Have you got oil in the pan?” she asks.

“Yeah, heating, same with oven. Now on to pastry.”

“Good, I’m on veg prep.”

We’re so involved, it’s only after I put the beef into the oven that I take a quick breather. Claire does too, and we’re shocked to see all the teachers sitting in seats, observing every move we make in the mirror. Good thing we didn’t grab each other’s butts for luck.

We push through to the end. When all our courses are cooked and just about ready at the same time, this is when it becomes critical. You want nothing to go cold, but if you overlook or forget something (like the crème brûlée
that’s under the broiler to form the golden crust), we could risk burning something else. Some of the other kids have finished ten, fifteen, even twenty minutes ago and have received grades. But we use every minute, right to the end. The room gets tense as all eyes focus on us and the clock. My nerves jump into high gear when I hear people do a ten-second countdown. I pull the nicely crusted crèmes brûlées from the oven, and Claire takes her time dressing the plates and wiping away any spills. The timer dings, and we step back and people erupt in cheers and claps. I’d love to give Claire a hug, but settle for an enthusiastic slap on the back, which throws her off balance and has her reaching for the counter to steady herself.

Once Mrs. A finishes tasting our dish and jotting down a grade, it’s a free-for-all taste-fest.

Claire and I wander around to check out what everyone else has made. Ruby and Tiara whipped up a vegetarian stew with salad, biscuits, and apple pie, and when I ask Ruby if I can try the stew, she says sure. She still won’t make eye contact with me. Maybe she’s worried I’ll make fun of her, or I’ll tell Viktor about this and he’ll make fun? He’s a dink. I scoop up a spoonful and give it a taste.

“That’s really good,” I say.

Her face lights up as she looks at me. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Her cheeks grow flush, which is something we have in
common.

Claire waves me over. “Kevin, you have to try this.”

I stare at what appears to be shiny, shredded black spaghetti. Next to it is this thing that resembles bright-green baby octopus tentacles.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Don’t ask, just try.”

I take a sample. It’s weird-looking, and I expect it to smell, but it doesn’t. It tastes different, but not gross, just different.

“It’s seaweed salad with sesame seeds,” Claire says. “Japanese. Like it?”

“Yeah, I could eat it.”

“Kevin says he likes it.” I turn to see who she’s talking to, and it’s Rat’s-Nest Girl. I should have known—weird food, weird girl. Although, she does look less space-punky wearing the same ladybug apron as me. Why does Claire even talk to her? What could they possibly have in common? Claire’s so sweet and nice, and Rat’s-Nest seems so . . . opposite.

“Huh,” Rat’s-Nest Girl grunts.

Coach calls me over. Instead of taking a small sample, so everyone in the room can try my dish, he’s helped himself to half the Wellington. I guess he came for the free lunch.

“Kevin,” he manages to spit between chews. “This is one heck of a dish. The meat melts in my mouth. You did good, son. I can tell— Heck, I can
taste
your grade.”

I want to fist pump and holler, “Yes!” but settle for a thanks instead.

“Like I said,” he goes on. “Ladies love a man who can cook.” He winks at me and once again, I have an urge to bleach my brain.

In the next dom tech class, I breeze through the written exam. Just as Claire predicted, Mrs. A tailors some questions to the dishes Claire and I made, like, “Who is beef Wellington named after?” and “Describe the cut of meat used to prepare this dish.”

That night we celebrate at Claire’s while her folks dine at a new restaurant in Innisville, one town over. We raid the fridge and pantry and put out an assortment of cheeses, meats, olives, nuts, and dried fruits. We play with flavor combinations. Claire’s all about the mango and prosciutto while I dig the taste of dates with blanched almonds and a thin slice of pear.

I never considered eating meat with fruit before. I’d never considered a lot of things until I met Claire. Whenever I’m around her I find myself trying different foods and taking more chances in the kitchen. I like the discovery of new tastes and sensations.

I close my eyes and lean in for a kiss, becoming aware of our constantly shifting mouths, the earthy salty-sweet taste of our lips, the sound of our breaths, the beat of the music,
the soapy smell of her hair, even my knee touching hers.