“What about stories of guys taking groupies up to their rooms during road trips?”
“Everyone falls off the wagon now and then. Not everyone subscribes to this practice. But a lot of guys do—the serious ones.”
“Oh, man!” I groan, knowing nobody’s more serious about the game than my boyfriend. There’s still a tiny spark of hope in my horny heart, though. “Is this another stereotype you’re attributing to Jet, or for real? Maybe he’s not one of the abstainers.”
She seems delighted to be able to reply, “He is, though. I’ve heard him talk to some of the married guys about it.”
“So? Talking about it doesn’t mean he participates.”
“Commiserating,” she clarifies. “Speaking from experience.”
My optimism dissolves faster than soap on a rope. “Oh. Damn.”
She grins, as if we’re talking about something as harmless as giving up sugar for Lent.
I set down my fork and wipe my mouth. “This is no laughing matter, Rae.”
That makes her laugh harder.
“I’m serious! I can’t go”—I do the math in my head—“six months without sex.”
“Four. I don’t think any of the guys care during preseason. Chances of making it to the postseason are slim.”
“Whatever! Four to five months!” I shudder at the horror.
“He’s going to be gone a lot, anyway, so it’s not like you’ll have much opportunity.” She smirks across the table at me. “A couple of months ago, you were all, ‘Sex? Who needs it?’ but now you’re having panic attacks and preemptive withdrawals at the idea of going without it?” She shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “Addiction takes hold so quickly.”
“It’s not about getting off,” I say. “It’s about the connection, the affection, the… the intimacy.”
“Bullshit. If that were the case, then cuddling would be enough. There’s no stupid superstition against cuddling. Then again, guys generally don’t cuddle unless there’s something else in it for them or something’s already happened. So, yeah. Dust off your king-sized vibrator and call it good.”
“I don’t have one of those!”
“Riiiight.”
“And I’m not going to need one.”
“You’re going to tough it out, huh?”
“No! I’m going to convince Jet that abstaining is ludicrous.”
“Peer pressure is not going to have any effect on years of practice. Honestly, I think the sex thing comes from high school coaches, who want their young charges to get enough sleep at night and focus on the game, not girls. Then it becomes ingrained in these guys. Especially a yes-man like Jet.”
“He’ll listen to me. He loves me.”
Rae polishes off her last bite of enchilada, sighs contentedly, and replies, “More power to ya. Some of the ‘health’ myths these guys buy into are ridiculous. Jet’s been receptive to my suggestions for changes to his diet. I don’t think he cares what he eats, as long as he gets to eat. But some of his other wellness practices have been more difficult to break.”
“Like?” This is the first I’m hearing of any weird rituals.
“Like, he and a bunch of the other guys still insist on puking before big games, and that pisses me off.”
“What? That’s disgusting.”
“And horrible for them. If you can break him of that, I’d be ever so grateful.”
“I’ll try.” I push my plate away. “He never told me about that.”
“Well, it’s not one of the things they brag about. Another guy, he eats seven ‘lucky’ Twinkies before every game. I guess he thinks diabetes is a sign of good luck.”
I snicker. “Is he one of the pukers? Because I’d puke if I ate that many Twinkies.”
“No. I wish. A ton of the guys are obsessed with candy, in general. Or those awful energy drinks that are basically battery acid disguised as soda. But Schoengert drinks the nastiest concoctions.”
“Like what?”
“Like raw eggs with spinach, chocolate syrup, and hot sauce. That was his favorite last season. But he changes it up.”
“Disgusting. What does that have to do with kicking?”
“Nothing! But he could get a kickin’ case of salmonella. What do I know, though? I’m merely a health professional. I’ve stopped trying to educate them. They’re all a bunch of nutjobs.”
“Aw…” Hearing the ridiculous, albeit legal, lengths to which these guys go to give themselves an edge—including the lengths that could have a negative impact on my life—makes me realize how important winning is to them. It’s not merely entertainment; it’s their lives. “They want to feel like they have some control over the luck portion of the game.”
Rae’s not moved. “They’re morons. You have no idea.”
“Well, I love my moron. As long as he brushes his teeth after purging.”
“How romantic.” She wipes her mouth, then takes another drink of wine, finishing off the last of it. “I’d like to take this opportunity to say, once again, that guys are revolting, and I’m glad I’ve never allowed one to come in contact with my private parts.”
“Yes, you’re so much more evolved than those of us common hetero women.”
“Damn straight. Actually, not.”
Twenty
Incompatible Lives
My social life has blown up. When we first met, Jet may have claimed to be a homebody, but his definition and mine are clearly different. When I said I was a homebody, I meant that I come home from work and park my body on the couch, where I stay until it’s time to transfer that body to my bed. When Jet said it, I’m not sure what he meant. Maybe he thinks of this entire city as his “home.” After all, he’s treated like the lord of the manor everywhere we go. Or maybe he’s more social now that he has someone to take out.
No matter the disconnect, there definitely is one. It’s not that I don’t like hanging out with his friends, but I miss whipping off my bra for Matt/Jason after work, changing into my fleece pajamas, and falling asleep on the couch to movies I’ve seen so many times, I could practically recite them while I sleep on the couch.
I’ve started to put my foot down about going out every weeknight, because the next day at
