Right. This is cut-throat college football, and we have a championship to live up to. I’ll have to prove myself every day. Tension builds in my head. Definitely gonna need another run today, maybe another lifting session…
A long sigh comes from me. “I understand.”
7
Dear Asking for a Friend,
Does it make me a slut if I swipe right on every hot guy I see on Tinder?
A year ago, my ex cheated on me with my best friend, and they just got married in Hawaii. It feels impossible to move past the rage and betrayal—hence the Tinder addiction. These sexual encounters work for a little while, but I’m worried it’s a spiral of behavior. I want to stop screwing my dates and meet someone nice, but how?
Sincerely,
Dating App Addicted
Dear DAA,
First, let’s take the word “slut” and put it where it belongs: in the trash. That word is degrading to yourself and other women, which is ironic considering it first appeared in the early 1300s when Chaucer used it to describe a male character as untidy. You are simply a person in charge of your own sexuality.
Your ex and ex-bestie are not worthy of you. (Alexa, play “thank u, next” by Ariana Grande.) It would have been better if they’d approached their relationship in a thoughtful, honest manner, and I’m sorry you went through this turmoil. You’re right, seeking happiness in the arms of a hot guy might fill certain holes (heh), but it won’t nourish your soul.
Instead of sex with your booty call, suggest coffee or a walk. If you still can’t resist getting tangled in the sheets, find a new hobby, adopt a pet, join a club, or take up knitting. Personally, I enjoy cookies. People say not to eat your emotions, but seriously, have you ever had a deep-fried Oreo? Orgasmic.
~Asking for a Friend
“Serena! Need you now! Get in here!”
Warren’s booming voice reverberates through the office just as I hit send to the editor for next week’s column. Jumping up from my cubicle, I grab a notepad and a pen and dash down the hall.
He’s talking on the phone while pacing behind his desk, and he waves me in. I plop down in the brown chair and immediately smell Irish Spring and leather. The owner of the Gazette, he’s fiftyish and stout with a head full of graying dirty blond hair that brushes his blue button-up.
There’s a glint of excitement in his eyes as he clicks off his call, comes around his desk, and sits on the edge. I straighten my gray pencil skirt and cross my legs. I didn’t have a lot of professional clothing when I got the internship, but I did buy a few pieces from a secondhand store downtown. My one rebellion is my black Doc Martens with red roses embroidered on the sides. They’re a little loud, true, but a girl needs personal flair.
“How’s your day?” His voice rumbles.
“Column is sent. Marriage announcements and obituaries are done.”
He grins. “Bored out of your head, aren’t you?”
True. I love to write fiction stories, the more fantastical the better, but that isn’t what the Gazette wants. My undergrad degree is in creative writing. Journalism for grad school was the option to ensure I have a paycheck, and I do enjoy talking to people. “Got a call this morning about a lady who turned a hundred and five. It’s rather mundane, but she’s seen a lot of history in Magnolia—”
“Gotta wait on that. I need you on special assignment for the next few weeks. You can hang on to the column, but I’m going to put Traci on anything local. Pass the birthday story to her. What do you know about football at Waylon?”
Oh. Crap. “There’s a kicker and a band at halftime?”
He grimaces. “I see. In case you’ve been living under a rock, the Tigers won a national championship this past January and put our town on the map. Some of the guys on the team are pretty interesting, different backgrounds, and you might find an angle there. The starting quarterback is Dillon McQueen, a rich kid who attended Menton Academy, one of the best football prep schools in the South…” He keeps listing players, but my brain has stopped on Dillon’s name.
I hope I never see you again.
Yet, before that, he asked to see me again.
He already has Charlie’s Angels—so why me?
My hands tap the chair. After he left, I looked him up online, scrolling through his Insta. I saw pics of him with girls, and more girls, wearing that dazzling smile, his muscles bulked up like he works out twenty-four seven. The man has half a million followers and countless I <3 Dillon 4EVR comments. Verdict? He’s as shallow as a rain puddle. A jock with rocks for brains.
I interrupt Warren. “Wouldn’t George want this assignment? He’s the sports guy.”
“George and his partner just adopted a baby. He’s got no interest in hanging around a bunch of rowdy football players.” He raises an eyebrow.
In other words, I’m the intern who does whatever…
I wince, recalling Bambi reciting football stats. “I’m the least athletic person I know. Maybe Traci—”
“I asked her and she said no.”
So. I’m the third choice. He must be desperate.
“I spend a lot of time with my sister. She’s young and needs guidance.”
“And the Gazette needs you to say yes.”
I exhale, reminding myself that I’ll need his recommendation when I graduate in May. “Right.”
He leans in. “ESPN is predicting the Tigers won’t be able to live up to last season, and it’s created some heat with the athletic director. You know him, right?”
No.
“We’re good friends, so don’t screw up, be a professional, and write solid.”
I always do.
“I’d like you to go to the home games, give them a homespun, authentic appeal. Get people excited.”
“I’m so excited,” I deadpan.
It isn’t lost on him. He smirks. “Buy some football books. You’re smart, Serena. You’ll figure it out.
