The End Zone

by L.J. Shen

He slowed when he saw her, so she picked up the pace. Later in life, she’d learn that this was their special tango. One pulls, the other pushes. One wants, the other gives. One loves, the other hurts.

She squeezed hard; he inhaled harder. He jerked her to his body, buried his head in the crook of her shoulder, and shook with tears she couldn’t see. They hugged in the rain, just like in the movies. They hugged long, and tight, and desperately, his skin soaking into hers like a kiss. The girl thought to herself, this is how beautiful love stories begin. She pressed her ear against his thrumming pulse. His body was warm, but his muscles were rigid like ice.

And on the eighth night, the girl gave the boy more than friendship and a hug, without even meaning to—and definitely without agreeing to. On the eighth night, the girl gave the boy her heart. He took it silently, never offering his back.

I snort a laugh on an eye roll. “You’re one of the most sought-after quarterbacks in Louisiana. Going pro next year. At this point, you can flake your way to being a brain surgeon if you’d like. Every professor in this college would kiss the earth you walk upon if they didn’t fear you’d file a restraining order against them.” Sadly, it isn’t even an exaggeration. Don’t get me wrong—I’m thrilled for my best friend. He deserves everything he’s achieved, which is a lot. At twenty-one, he has his own shiny, burgundy truck, a brand new apartment he rents all by himself (I pay the bills in exchange for my room), and three NFL teams courting him like he is a damsel in a Disney movie. Despite all his success, he’s never once been uppity or conceited to me about it. Instead, he gives me access to his new place, new truck, and new life. He is still the good Southern mama’s boy who takes off his hat whenever he visits the small farm we lived on. The only downside to being Sage’s best friend is, well…

A month ago, Sage and I accidentally bumped into each other in the hallway while I was butt naked after a shower (forgot the towel in my room). He was on his way to pee, sporting impressive morning wood through his gray boxers. I was looking down, head hanging in shame as I hurried to my room. He was looking down, rearranging his junk. That’s how we ended up colliding, limbs tangling together, with me tumbling down and him reaching for my ass to make sure I didn’t fall. What a gentleman, right? From that point forward, Sage has been adamant that we need to hook up. Emphasis on the word ‘need’ and not ‘should’.

And, Lord, forgive me. If he were any other guy, I’d be all over him like a rash after a torrid Vegas vacation. The man looks like the love child of Matthew Noszka and James Dean. The fact that he is six feet four inches of tight abs and only five percent body fat does not—I repeat, does not—make it easier for me to constantly reject him. But you know what makes it really easy for me to say no? The notion that Sage, whom I grew up with and know better than anyone else, is going to break my heart into a trillion pieces, smash it to dust, then skip over all the leftovers on his way to the next pink sheet-covered bed. Because. My. Best. Friend. Is. A. Whore!

I love him, but he is a manwhore who can’t keep his dick in his pants for longer than twenty-four hours. I’m pretty sure this fact could be backed up scientifically, if someone put effort into researching the subject. Anyway, I’m too attached t...

“I’ll turn it into a ‘yes’ before the end of the semester.” He stands up, curling his fists as he stretches and yawns. His black shirt rides up and the prominent V leading to his crotch is on full display. In a last-ditch effort to save my panties, I avert my gaze, my eyes hard on the MacBook screen, and furrow my brows as the words in my lit essay slip from my vision. I decided to major in English lit because I’m good with words, but whenever he’s around, I’m nothing but a blubbery mess. He continues, “No girl has ever said no to me yet, and I’ll be damned if the one who does is the chick I care about the most.”

Why? “Why?” I look up, huffing. Yep, I’m actually huffing. And huffers are my pet peeve, but boy, does Sage make me want to huff lately. “Do you really want to throw away ten years of friendship for a quick lay?” He smirks. “First of all, it’s not going to be quick. I know what I’m doing in the sack. We’re talking a minimum of twenty-five minutes, lady, and I’m being humble here, because I might be a little on the excited side when I finally get you in my bed.” He cups his groin and winks, and I would roll my eyes if it weren’t for the fact that his room is down the hall, and the thin walls confirm his statement.

“That Brandon dude was my boyfriend for seven months,” I deadpan. Funny he should mention it, since Brandon and I broke up last year because he was adamant that there was something going on between Sage and me. Which was insane, inaccurate, and incredibly annoying. But what was even more disheartening was the fact that Sage did everything he could to nurture this false assumption by constantly touching and calling me whenever I hung out with Brandon like he was trying to sabotage our relationship. Sage was only a few weeks short of pissing on my leg to claim his ownership, which was kind of rich, considering how Sage’s dick has been passed around like community property. I’m surprised he’s not partly funded by the government.

“I have an exam, remember?” I open the fridge and take out a carton of OJ. I slam the door and when I turn around, he is caging me in, bracing the counter from each side of my waist, his mouth so close to mine I can see the dimple in the center of his full lower lip. He stares me down predatorily. My heart is in my throat. My soul is most probably in my eyes. And I am scared. Completely, utterly, and desperately frightened of what he can do to me if I let my guard down. If I let him.

“Wasn’t talking about the party, Jo. Let’s go to my room. Forget about Brandon. About people. About all the bullshit. I want to make you feel good.” “Sage,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes. “Please don’t make this an issue. I’d hate to move to another apartment, but I will, if that’s what it takes to save our friendship.” And my heart. He throws his head back and shakes it, staring at the ceiling, exasperated. Then he pushes off the counter and I’m left to stand here, watching his tight ass walking toward the hallway. What’s with this dude? Did he actually not know I had lady bits before he saw me naked? I refuse to sacrifice our friendship because he suddenly sees me as a convenient fuck. He’s been acting so strange lately.

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.

Sage: Also, we’re out of milk, but don’t worry, I’ll buy some on the way home. Notice how I don’t didn’t use any sexual innuendo even though it’s white and sticky…

Ever since Mark Tensely struck up a thirty-minute-long conversation with Jolie when he swung by to pick up some football gear the other day (specifically the day before I ran into her naked in the hallway—insert fucking fist-bite) he’s been eyeing my best friend and begging for me to hook him up with her number. Yeah. No.

Look, I know I’m a hypocritical bastard. I fuck around, but the minute my roommate gets a suitor, I go all Jason Momoa on his ass. But I can’t control it, can I? And if it makes things slightly better, I haven’t porked anyone since Mark made that comment about JoJo.

Between throwing him off, dealing with my latest disastrous fling, and jerking off to memories of Jolie’s naked body, sex with strangers is the last thing on my mind.

Inside, there’s a green angry monster wreaking havoc in my body. If Mark takes Jolie on a date, it wouldn’t be the first time she went out with someone else. JoJo had two serious boyfriends in high school and dated a string of douches ever since we started college. But they all seemed so temporary. Her mind was always elsewhere. School. Family. Even the Pilates classes that gave her that bangin’ body. But this is all going to change at the end of May when we graduate. I know my best friend. Know her well. She’ll want to settle down. Find a nice teaching job. Get married. Have babies. Mark’s babies. No way is she having Mark’s babies.

He’s not the type to run in the mud and rain for her. To climb on trees with her. To sit on the sidelines at school and talk shit about people in codes only she and he know. I’m that person. I’m her person.

By the time I drive back home, stone-cold sober, making a stop at a gas station to get some milk, my plan is bulletproof. Jolie is not dating anyone. Jolie stays with me.

My bed dips under the weight of my quarterback guy friend and I bury my face into my pillow, inhaling the vanilla, lilac, and lavender of my body creams and shampoo. His warm hand sneaks under the covers, cupping one of my feet and tugging me away from the pillow and toward him. With my ankle on his lap, he massages my foot. And I should really get a gold medal, or maybe a simple acknowledgement, for not spreading my legs for him right here and now and giving him exactly what he has been begging for. Because. Sage. Poirier. Is. A. God! That’s why he’s a manwhore in the first place. There is no denying his masculine appeal, raw beauty, dirty mouth, and cocky confidence.

“I don’t need to be your fake girlfriend for that.” “You do. It’s important. Everyone at school needs to know that we’re a thing.” “But why?” “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. Now, I’m pretty sure I’d be a top in jail, not a bottom, but still—not really into dudes. So, yes?”

Sage scans me through his signature droopy, ink blue eyes, and I swear my ovaries are singing a cappella at the sight of his jaw of steel. He should come with a book-long warning label. I’m half-tempted to Google a question about getting pregnant just by looking at him.

“You’ll still get free rent, but for as long as you’re my fake girlfriend, I’ll also pay the bills. You’ll get free access to my truck—anytime you want. Last but not least: you’ll get me. All of me. No other women. No distractions. No games. Just you and me, JoJo. Because it’s always been the two of us, and it’s time we act this way, even if only for a little while.”

“What’s up?” Mark lifts his head, a towel wrapped around his waist. He slams his blue locker shut and uses a second towel to rub his black hair dry. Even though he’s on my team, he’s been riding the bench for the last year-and-a-half. I can’t help but internally curse him. Who the hell does he think he is, checking out my JoJo? Whoa. My JoJo? She’s not mine. Only that’s not entirely true. She feels a lot like something no one else can ever have, so who the hell says she’s not mine? And if she isn’t, I’m going to make her mine. Because I’m done fucking around after what happened last month. Done messing with a bunch of time-wasters while the Marks of the world are making moves on. My. Girl.

“Sit. I’ll put some X Factor on.” He pats the tangerine sofa he’s slouched on. Clad only in gray running shorts, he is naked from the waist up, which is not surprising—Sage has a strict no-shirt policy around the house.

🤤🤤

“You’re my fake boyfriend,” I correct, trying to set some boundaries. “Irrelevant. Everything that came out of my mouth was real.” I roll my eyes and dig into my pizza and salad, internally admitting that my best friend will one day make a kick-ass real boyfriend, just probably not to me.

“You know what’ll happen if you refuse, right?” I do. And I want it to happen. Shamefully, our tickle sessions are the most erotic thing in my life right now. I haven’t had sex in months, and I swear there’d be cobwebs all over my vajayjay had I not purchased enough sex toys to open a store. “I do not negotiate with terrorists,” I say adamantly. “So happy to hear, because I think I’m about done talking, anyway.”

His eyes hone in on mine and his ripped body tenses before he pounces on me, tackling me to the carpeted floor. I fall with a bang, but his huge palm is covering the back of my head as it always does. He’s on top of me. With me writhing beneath him. I’m pretending to fight him, throwing balled fists into his chest, waiting for the tickles to arrive, when… “Stop,” he breathes, and I notice that he is not moving. His pelvic bones are rubbing against mine, his erection is digging into my groin, and it is thick, and long, and tilted to the right. My mouth waters and my eyes gloss over. Jesus H, since when did my best friend become such a man? “What?” I croak.

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.

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.

He increases his speed, dry-humping me, one forearm propped near my ear and his other hand sliding to my neck. I want him to kiss me. I don’t want him to kiss me. I want us to break all the rules that helped us survive our turbulent childhood, that helped us defy When Harry Met Sally, that shows the world that men and women can’t be friends. I want to obliterate our friendship on this carpet. I want to show him that my stupid, reckless, defiant heart only beats for him.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growls, squeezing my neck softly. His throbbing cock is pushing between my thighs, digging deeper into my slit, even through the denim, and I know it must be painful for him. He is half-penetrating me, and my eyes roll back despite my best intentions, the darkness behind them littered with stars and fireworks.

The words barely leave my mouth before his mouth crashes down on mine, devouring me like a starved wolf. Like that boy who cried to the moon, and the moon finally answered back. It strikes me like lightning. Sage is hungry. And I’m his meal. His pouty lips drag against mine, seeking an opening. He captures my lower lip with his teeth and tug, tug, tugs until I have no choice but to part my lips and give him better access. His tongue is invading, ruling, and assaulting my own. It chases mine frantically, licks the walls of my mouth, moves across my teeth, memorizing every single spot in my mouth. My eyes roll in pleasure when he takes my tongue between his lips and sucks on it hard, shoving his hand into my jeans. I’m not sure at what point he pulled down my zipper, but now he is rubbing my swollen, sensitive clit through my panties while he’s devouring my mouth, our tongues dancing seductively with one another. My whole body shakes uncontrollably. “Please. Oh my God. Sage.”

His thick cock springs out of his shorts, and he presses the long, hot, velvety shaft against my bare stomach. My blouse rode up sometime during this spontaneous make-out session, and now Sage is tugging it further up to accommodate his cock, resting it on the little pink bow at the center of my bra, before reaching under me to snatch my bra, tearing it apart.

“Gonna tit-fuck you now. Been wanting to do that since your thirteenth birthday. Remember the day? Checkered baby blue dress, ham on rye in the meadow, showing me the first sign of tits…” He drags his tongue across my chin, closing in on my mouth with a sloppy kiss. A kiss with too much tongue. Too much saliva. Too much everything, yet not enough of him. My response is squeezing my breasts together around his thick cock. The pad of his thumb is rubbing my clit again, and my quivering thighs begin to jerk uncontrollably. He pinches my clit. I moan so loudly my ears ring. Pinch, pinch, pinch. After a dozen small pinches, I feel a tug on the invisible string of pleasure that connects us. I explode when he finally pinches harder, sending me over the edge. I writhe under my best friend, shouting his name with the kind of wild abandon I hadn’t felt since the day I ran toward him in the pouring hot rain.

I barely have time to come down from my orgasm before he starts fucking my tits, the tip of his cock poking my chin every time he grinds himself on my torso. He scoots up, sitting on my stomach with his knees on either side of me. His muscular thighs harden, hold...

“I want to come in your mouth.” I nod silently. I’ve never given anyone oral sex. Not that I have anything against it, but I guess I never felt super comfortable enough with any of my past boyfriends. But Sage is not just a guy I went on a few dates with. He is the boy who kicked other boys’ asses when they disrespected me at school—despite my telling him that I could take care of myself—and tried (and failed) to bake me shortbread cookies every Christmas because he knew they were my favorite. He is good enough to never mention it if I suck (not literally), and man enough to never say a word about it to anyone we know. “Oh, fuck, so close. Jolie, my beautiful, gorgeous Jolie…”

He scoots up, slides his cock from between my tits, and shoves it into my mouth, cupping my head from behind and making me deep throat him. And I do. I fight my gag reflex and wrap my lips around his cock as he pumps the base, warm, thick liquid sliding down my throat in spurts. My hands are on his rear, and I’m squeezing hard, as if I’m the one who is milking him, and it feels dirty and wrong and so magnificently right.

When he collapses next to me, his salty taste on my lips and tongue, I close my eyes and breathe, trying to rearrange the jumbled mess that is my mind. My bra is torn, my pussy throbs and burns from the friction of the denim and the ...

A big paw reaches across my stomach, rolls me over to my side, and embraces me into a hug. Sage kisses my temple—like a loving friend, not like a quick lay—and whispers something I cannot decipher. “What did you say?” I murmur, allowing my head to rest on his iron pecs. He doesn’t answer, and I don’t probe...

If she finds out I cockblocked her out of this potential relationship, she is going to jerk me off with a Brillo pad.

I scoot to the edge of my bed and close my eyes. Mmm, this is nice. So relaxing. I can just drift and clear my mind and not think about… Okay, something is poking my ass. Correction: an erection is poking my ass. Double correction: a bare erection is. Poking. My. Ass. Mothertrucker! “Sage!” I jolt, partly pissed, but—let’s admit it—mostly turned on. It’s like Sage has the manual to my body and knows how to work it better than I do. Which is weird. We still haven’t spoken about the sudden escalation in our relationship, but since it’s already happened—what’s crossing another line, right? “Shhh, baby girl.” His strong, warm palm slides down to cup my ass. “Let Daddy take care of you.” “Call yourself my daddy one more time and I’m fishing your eyeballs out with a spoon.”