Drew drops to the side of me, kissing me and exploring my body, while I gently stroke his dick. I don’t question where this is going, simply living in the moment, until my phone goes off with the theme song from Super Mario World, indicating that Ashton’s calling.
And just like that, the wall I had built to separate myself from my reality crumbles. Standing on the other side is Ashton, my best friend. The man I have feelings for. My heart clenches behind my ribcage, making it hard to breathe. I can’t do this. I can’t have a one-night stand to try to rid myself of my feelings for Ashton. This isn’t me. It’s not who I am.
I’m not my mother, who’s screwed every director, producer, and co-star straight to the top because she views sex as nothing more than a tool or a weapon to get what she wants. I might not have the same intentions, but it’s still the same thing—I’m using him to bury my feelings for Ashton, and that’s not okay.
Because I’m in love with my best friend, who doesn’t feel the same way.
I push Drew away and shuffle off the bed, tucking my breasts back into my bra and quickly zipping up my dress. All the while Super Mario World sings from my phone.
“What’s wrong?” Drew asks, sounding genuinely concerned and not pissed that I pulled the brakes on what we were about to do.
I slide my heels back on and then grab my phone and credit card, stuffing them back into my bra.
“I’m sorry,” I say over the incessant ringing that won’t stop. “I can’t do this.”
Before Drew can argue, I’m running out of the room and down the stairs. I don’t bother to look for any of the girls, instead finding my way to the exit, where I call for an Uber. One is nearby and picks me up, bringing me back to my apartment.
The entire drive, my mind is running. I was attracted to Drew. We hit it off. He was sexy and sweet and had I not had the feelings for Ashton I have, we could’ve explored the chemistry that was apparent between us. But I do, and having sex with Drew isn’t going to change that.
I get back to my apartment and am changing out of my dress when my phone rings again, the same ringtone as before.
“Hey, what’s up?” I say, trying to sound casual. Between all the drinking I did tonight and almost having sex, my heart is beating erratically and I’m slightly shaking.
“I heard you slam your door,” Ashton says.
“Stalker much?” I joke, throwing on my vintage Zelda shirt Ashton bought me at a flea market over the summer and cotton shorts.
“You wish,” he quips. “I was calling in case you needed an out.”
“An out?” I step into the bathroom and start removing my contacts.
“Yeah, an excuse to ditch the mean girls and come home. I was fake emergency calling you. You’re welcome.”
I force out a laugh at the irony of his statement. “Thanks,” I say dryly. Then, just to see how he’ll react, and because the alcohol is still flowing through me and giving me false bravado, I add, “But you weren’t saving me from the mean girls. I was with a guy.” I grab a wet wipe and clean the makeup off my face.
Ashton clears his throat and I wish I were in front of him so I could see his facial expression.
“Were?” he questions.
“Yeah, you called and it ruined the moment.” And I realized how much I want my first time to be with someone I love and not someone I’m only physically attracted to and using to push you out of my thoughts.
“Well, damn.” He laughs. “Didn’t mean to cockblock anyone. Who was the lucky… or in his case… unlucky guy?”
“No one you know.” I slide my glasses onto my freshly-cleaned face and look in the mirror. It’s as if I’m Cinderella and it’s struck midnight, transforming me from a princess back into… well, me.
“Did you get his number?”
“What’s with the twenty questions?” I ask, exasperated, ready to change the subject.
“Just doing my duty as your BFF.”
I roll my eyes. “Your duty doesn’t include girl talk.” And the last person I want to talk to about my non-existent sex life is you.
“Does it include helping you build pig pens in Minecraft?”
“Thought you hated that game,” I taunt.
“I fucking hate it, but I love you, MiMi, and you need cheering up.”
My heart does a stupid little flutter that I ignore because he most definitely doesn’t mean it in the way I want him to. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he mimics and then laughs. “Don’t forget the goods.”
“Sometimes I think you use me for my gummy bears.”
“Oops. My bad. You weren’t supposed to find out,” he jokes. “Guess I’ll have to find some other poor sap to mooch candy from.”
“Be there in five, asshole.”
“Door’s always open, brat.”
“Humor me,” I grit out, glowering at Derek Holden, my backup center. “Just do it.”
“Not our coach,” he mutters as he stomps across the ice like a petulant toddler.
My right wing, Aaron Wexler, snorts. “Who pissed in your Cheerios, Holden? Was it Tiff? Did you two break up again?”
Holden ignores his taunting. “Fuck off, Wex.”
I glide over to where our left wing, Nolan Finn, is waiting quietly. “Pretend
