The End Zone

by L.J. Shen

Twenty minutes later, he walks through the door clad in a navy varsity jacket, dark distressed jeans, and his I-just-fucked perfect hair, looking like the perfect sin. Forty minutes later, Chelsea appears at my door armed with Halo Top ice cream. (I liked Brandon, but not enough to waste my Pilates body on real ice cream because of him.) An hour later, I get a stream of text messages. Sage: Dedication doesn’t have an off-season. Get ready for me, JoJo. Because I’m coming for you. And guess what? You’ll COME for me, too.

“So, Jolie and I are kind of together.” I prop my shoulder against my own locker, looking down at him. God bless my late father. He gave me the height to tower over most motherfuckers who aren’t signed with NBA teams. Mark’s eyes widen in disbelief before he schools his features and clears his throat like the good, rich boy that he is. “Oh, yeah?” “Yep.” I pop the P out with a grin. “Let me get this straight. You slept with her this weekend, after I asked you for the one-hundredth time to sniff around for me?” “Look,” I say cuttingly, evading the question, “I’ve known this girl since we were ten.” Since she promised me I’d always be a huge chunk of her world and I blossomed in her friendship, set roots in our companionship, and grew up to be someone strong. “This shit is not going away, so I suggest you move on.” “You’re kind of a prick, you know that, Poirier?” Oh, I know. Grew up with one. Became one. Vicious cycle, etc.

lips, “Game change: if you want me to stop whatever it is I’m going to do as your fake boyfriend, say the name Simon Cowell.” I groan. He’s giving me safe words now. I don’t have to ink them onto my brain, because I know I’ll never use them. His hips start to move, and he is sliding up and down, grinding himself against my needy pussy. I’m on fire, seeing stars, salivating at the intense friction. Every nerve in my body is buzzing with an impending orgasm, because it’s been so long, too long, and I open my thighs for him, my denim digging into my clit and rubbing against it. “Say Simon Cowell, or I’ll continue.” His voice is heavy and rough and raw. He is the kid I fell in love with at the age of ten, and the man I would give the world to at the age of twenty. I don’t even care that he is probably using me. Using me as a fake girlfriend. Using me as a sexual outlet on this carpet. I say nothing, because I’d die if he stops. Maybe not literally, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be the proud owner of the very first case of female blue balls.

Omg 😯

But, to my horror, he doesn’t do any of those things. She’s the one running away toward the door, and he’s the one chasing after her. “Amber, no, please!” he calls. Amber. No. Please. Sage never begs. Sage never pleads. Not to me and not to anyone. He chases after her. I stay rooted to the floor. I watch the door swinging back and forth with the force of Amber’s push. He’s trailing behind. He catches her. He’s holding her. He’s hugging her. Their images are blurry through the dirty, cloudy windows. I see their shapes dancing together through the dull glass and the mist of tears on my eyeballs. The way Amber pushes him away. The way he keeps on moving toward her. The sheer desperation in his body language. And that’s when I feel Mark’s hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know what it’s about,” he says, his voice quivering slightly, “but give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Oh, great. Now your new girlfriend is here!” Amber shrieks, throwing her arms in the air on an eye roll. Then she huffs. I think I made my opinion about huffing clear. I narrow my eyes at the not-so-happy couple. Sage turns around instantly, his eyes growing wide. “What are you doing here, JoJo?” The words struggle out of his mouth. “Standing in your way, obviously. Don’t worry, Sage. I’ll make myself scarce so you can go back to your…” I frown at both of them, standing so close to each other, “business.”

My phone starts pinging with messages as I see Sage’s burgundy truck careening after us. Well, that’s just dandy. Sage: Where are you going? Who is in the car with you? Sage: You can’t just leave. I didn’t know you were coming. I can explain. Sage: I know it looks bad. Sage: You need to answer me, JoJo. Sage: FUCK JOJO FUCK.

Sage: Tell her to stop the goddamn vehicle or I swear I’ll slam into you from the side to pull you over. Sage: Bitch is crazy, JoJo. She’ll get both of you killed. Sage: IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK. “You have to stop.” I swivel my whole body toward Trish. “Like hell I will!” she exclaims with an evil laugh. Dude. Okay. Trish might be a little on the psychotic side. Plus, she is plucking out another cigarette from her magical, never-ending pack. I grab her shoulder and squeeze lightly so she doesn’t do something reckless in an attempt to gain her full attention. “Trish, you’re spinning. Stop the car or I’ll take all your tips,” I threaten, and the car pulls over so fast my head is swimming again. We’re on the shoulder of the highway, in the pitch-black, and Trish leans over my body, throws my door open, and points outside. “Get the hell outta my car, girl. If you’re taking this cheating bastard back, I don’t want to hang out with you no more.”

My cheeks are wet, and my heart is pounding loud enough to hear from across the room. “You’re in my blood, in my veins, in my fucking soul. You’re in my heart and in my fingertips and on my fucking lips like a prayer. You’re fucking everywhere, Jolie Louis. Always will be.” He pushes me to the wall. My back slams against it. I growl, pushing him away. He lets me. We’re angry. We’re desperate. We’re frustrated. “That Amber chick called me a slut today! And you ran after her! Pleaded for her to stay when you thought I wasn’t there!” “I don’t want Amber,” he says, his lips pursing and his eyes thinning into slits. “I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.” “You have a funny way of showing it,” I huff—oh, God, since when did I become a huffer?—turning my back to him and walking toward the hallway. He pins me against the wall again, this time bracing his arms above my head and locking me in. I can’t run. I can’t hide. I have to stay here and see this through. His eyes are burning. My body is heaving. There’s an impending storm between us and we’re both exposed. “She just had a miscarriage,” he growls into my face, his breath laced with beer and cinnamon gum. “We hooked up a few months ago. The condom broke. She wanted to keep it, and I couldn’t exactly tell her not to. She found out last month, and she is a mess about it.

“I love you.” His breath tickles my sensitive nipple, and he works his way down my torso, peppering feathery, wet, hot kisses all over my shivering body. “I love you, I love you, I fucking love you. No matter what happens in my life, you’re the constant thing I can count on. The shelter in the storm, the calm in my chaos.”

The dirty beige hallways don’t feel quite the same the day after. Neither does the cafeteria, which constantly smells of stale pretzels and burnt coffee. Neither does my body. Nope. It feels lighter and much more capable. And if I were anyone else, I’d probably say some bullshit about being a different man, but unfortunately for the world, I’m still the same douchy jock. The only difference is I now have sex with my best friend (six times in less than twenty-four hours, but who is counting?), and I don’t want to read too much into this, but damn, it puts a stupid-ass smile on my face, which I can’t seem to wipe off. Enter: Amber.

My eyes darken, and my thoughts jumble in my head. So when Amber seeks my warmth, burrowing into me for a hug, I give it to her. Because I gave her something else without meaning to. And now she lost it. Because I need to make this right for her somehow. And because I’m afraid that she is right about JoJo.

Hi, Julie. Trish told me you had a falling out yesterday. I’m going to be completely honest. She’s been with us for a decade now and this could be a problem. I think it’s best for everyone if you just hand in your resignation tomorrow after your shift. Thanks for your service and stuff. – Trav. At first, I think about firing him back my unfiltered response: Hi, Gravis (oh? You’re not Gravis? Well, guess what, I’m not Julie. It’s Jolie, you prick!). No need to sugarcoat it. You want me gone because you and Trish meet at the kitchen three times a week before her shift and do some ungodly (and unsanitary) things on the counter. I am more than happy to offer my excellent services to someone who appreciates them. Have a nice life. –Jolie. But, of course, like the good Southern girl that I am, I settle for being agreeable:

That’s one of two dreams down, one more to go. “Just a sec!” my girl calls out from the bathroom at the fancy hotel room. Even though I’ve known her ever since we were kids, there is a lot I’m finding out about her, now that we’re dating. Like how it takes her literally two hours to get ready to go out, even though she doesn’t need more than two minutes to get ready for school when we leave for campus every morning, or that she is really (ironically) horny when she’s on her period, which makes us hella creative in bed (I don’t mind a little blood on my sword), but she does.

On the eighth beat of silence, she finally opened her mouth. It was dry, and numb, and painful from smiling all day, but she wanted to utter these words, even if they were the last she’d ever say. “I, Jolie Alexandra Louis, take you, Sage Albert Poirier, to be my best friend, my faithful partner, and my one true love. You’ll be my storm in the summer, my calm under the winter sky, and all the seasons in-between. To have, to hold, to cherish, and to comfort.” She slid the ring with shaky fingers, their childhood tree standing in the background, wrapped in red and white sateen bows. It was a small ceremony, with only their beloved family members and college friends as witnesses. No matter how much of a superstar the boy grew up to be in his career with the Raiders, they were still the same kids from twelve years ago. Humble. Quiet. In love. In love. So, so in love.

Sage is quick to deliver on the text messages front. Sage: I can explain. Sage: But not right now. You’ll have to wait a few weeks. Sage: You’ll need to trust me on this one. Sage: You really think I’m cheating on you? Are you high or something? Have you been asleep the past DECADE? Sage: I hope you weren’t upset in front of Elle. Sage: Answer me. Sage: I’m coming back home, and my coach and manager are not going to be happy about it. Sage: There’ll be a lot of ass-kissing afterwards. We’ll have to entertain them AND their wives to smooth things over. But you asked for it. Sage: You better be naked when I get there. I’m taking the next flight home. Sage: At the airport now. So. You think I’m cheating on you. Do you also think I’m brain-dead by any chance? Why the hell would I cheat on you in our house? I can afford a nice hotel room. Sage: Although I’m guessing that’s not what you want to hear…

Like, when she starts to have random, weird, unhealthy thoughts that are completely unwarranted. I can’t tell her who the lipstick belongs to, because it’s part of a surprise. A surprise I’m hoping will result in a lot of anal. Not—in fact—a divorce. “What the fuck, JoJo?” I drop my duffel on the floor and advance on her. We are twenty-five now. Older and wiser than we were when our one-time roomie hookup took place. She should know better than to think I’d bang some random, and in our house, of all places. Jesus Christ, who does she think I am? Sage Poirier. The guy who banged his way through every girl in college. What else should she think?

“Ohhh…” She shivers all over, her knees wobbly. “Oh-in-fucking-deed. Now tell me again. Do you really think I would cheat on the love of my life? Bring a stranger into the home I built with you, to the place where we raise our daughter?” “I…I…” she stutters. “Bring me that lipstick. I know you kept it. Now.” It takes Jolie a few seconds to compose herself, straighten her posture and stalk out of the bathroom to get the red lipstick. She returns naked from the waist down, a pink camisole hanging loose around her chest. I snatch the lipstick from her hand, pop it open, and whaddayaknow, it is brand new. I’m happy the person it belongs to didn’t use it yet, or I would get a lot of shit for what I’m about to do. “Come here,” I seethe. She does. When

Boy, do I regret drinking those few sips of wine the day Sage came back from Colorado for me. “Show it to me again.” My husband snatches the ultrasound photos from my hand. Oh, God. If guilt was water, I’d be drowning. No matter that I drank two weeks ago, and my doctor told me that I was perfectly fine, and that it didn’t matter—I still feel incredibly guilty. Funny thing is, I am on the pill. I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant again anytime soon, but it just happened. I wasn’t on antibiotics or anything. But as my OB/GYN said, “There’s always that small percentage. And you fell right into it.” We look at the ultrasound photos again. Our baby looks like a bean.

“Guess what, Daddy?” “What, baby?” “Mommy said I can have a cock.” Sage’s face turns from smiling to stunned. He twists his head to me, still talking to our baby girl. “Baby, you will not be getting a cock any time before I’m six feet under.” “Sage.” I slap his chest lightly, giggling. He grins. “She means a chicken, right?” I nod. “I made the same mistake.” Sage pinches my waist. “That’s because you’re horn—” I flick his ear, so he catches himself, “horribly imaginative.” “I think so, too. By the way, you know what else you are going to get, baby?” I turn to my sweet, beautiful daughter who looks just like her father. “What?” “A brother or sister.” Her mouth falls open, and I can’t help but laugh. She frowns. “But…I’m still getting a cock, too, right?”