The Goal (Off-Campus Book 4)

…on the forehead.

Tucker kisses Blondie on the forehead.

And then ruffles her hair as if she’s a toddler.

“Damn. She got the forehead kiss?” D’Andre murmurs. “That’s rough.”

Whatever. It was still a kiss! And I don’t even want to know who this chick is anymore. I feel stupid for coming tonight.

Tucker is Mr. Popular, with his swarm of admirers and impeccable manners and that reddish hair that makes him look like he belongs in some old-timey family sitcom where life is perfect, perfect, perfect.

I’m the overachiever, the bitch who studies her ass off and works every second of every day to try to climb out of the gutter she was born in so she can stand next to all these Briar kids without feeling inferior.

“Let’s go,” I repeat.

My friends must realize how serious I am, because they all take a step forward. We’re about two feet from the base of the steps when I hear my name.

“Sabrina!”

Crap. I’ve been spotted.

“Wait up.” His voice sounds closer now.

I turn to Carin in a silent plea for help, but she simply grins. When I turn to Hope and D’Andre, they’re pretending to be studying her phone. Traitors.

Sighing, I swing around and meet Tucker halfway.

He’s visibly thrilled to see me, his eyes bright and his sexy mouth curved in a smile. “What are you doing here?”

I say the first lame thing that comes to mind. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You were, were you?” His smile widens. “And did you happen to catch any of the game while you were in the neighborhood?”

“All of it, actually. That was a nice assist.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about hockey.”

“I don’t. I’m just repeating what the announcer said on the PA.”

“Tuck!” someone from the group of players calls. “You coming?”

He twists around to shout back, “I’ll meet you there!” Then he’s smiling at me again. “Want to come back to my place to celebrate the win with us?”

I shake my head. “I have to get home. I work tomorrow. Besides—” Don’t say it… “I don’t particularly feel like—” Don’t fucking say it, Sabrina! “—being a third wheel,” I finish, and want to punch myself for it.

His dark auburn eyebrows shoot up. “What are you talking about?”

I clench my teeth.

“Darlin’,” he prompts.

“Little Red Riding Hood over there,” I mumble, jerking my head toward Blondie, who’s now chatting with one of Tucker’s friends. “You two looked like you were on a date.”

“A date? Um, no.” He starts to laugh. “That’s Sheena, a friend of mine.” He pauses. “Well, an ex.”

I pounce on that. “See!”

“See what? She’s an ex, but she’s also a friend. I’m friends with lots of my exes.”

Of course he is. No girl on this damn planet would ever Carrie Underwood this guy and key his truck or bash it in with a baseball bat. He’s too fucking nice. It’s impossible to hate him.

“You’re jealous,” he teases.

“No,” I lie.

“You totally are.” Delight dances across his face. “You like me.”

“No,” I lie again. “I told you—I was in the neighborhood. I figured I’d say hello.”

“You’re better than this, baby. Why don’t you put us out of our misery and say yes already?”

“Yes to what?”

“A date. Just say yes.”

My mouth opens to form words. Or rather, one word. Yes. I want to say it, I really, really do, but I hate being put on the spot. I can feel my friends’ amused gazes on us, and now some of his friends are glancing over too. And Tucker is too good and sweet, and I’m trashy and aloof, and my stepfather is a total creep, and it’s all too fucking overwhelming right now.

So when I finally answer, it’s not with the word he wants to hear. “Your friends are waiting for you,” I mutter, and then I hurry back to my crew before he can object.

Carin takes one look at my face and steers me toward the parking lot where D’Andre parked his car.

“Ugh!” I groan when we’re out of Tucker’s sight. “I’m so freaking stupid!”

“You’re not stupid,” Hope objects.

“If anything, you’re too smart,” Carin says. “Your brain is your biggest enemy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you think too much. We all saw your face just now—you like this guy. You really like him.”

“He scares me,” I blurt out.

Three sets of eyes blink in surprise.

“He’s too perfect, you guys.” I groan again. “And I’m a total mess most of the time. I’m scared that if he gets to know me better, he’ll see that.”

“So what if he does?” Hope counters.

My teeth dig into my bottom lip.

Carin touches my arm. “You need to go out with him. Seriously, Sabrina, you’ll regret it if you don’t. And the one thing I know you hate is regrets.”

She’s right. I always kick myself after I let an opportunity pass me by.

“Tell you what,” she says when I hesitate for too long. “Let’s make it a double date.”

“A double date?” I echo weakly.

“Oooh, threesome.” Hope waggles her brows. “Kinky.”

“Calm your tits, Hopeless,” Carin orders. “I’m talking normal, wholesome double date.”

I think it over. It does take a lot of the pressure off. “Okay… I can do that.”

Carin beams. “Good. Now text him before you change your mind. Oh, and whoever you pair me up with better be hot. And make sure he knows how to use his tongue.”

“I’m standing right here, you know.” D’Andre waves one meaty hand in the air. “How ’bout you pervs quit objectifying my man clan?”

Hope giggles.

“Who’s objectifying?” Carin replies. “I’m just saying I want a guy who’s good with his tongue. That should be the prerequisite for every member of your ‘man clan,’ D. Like in middle school, they should teach reading, writing, and really good tongue movement.”

“Girl, I think you can get locked up for those thoughts,” he warns.

Hope continues to giggle uncontrollably for another minute before gaining enough composure to reach over and squeeze my arm. “This’ll be good for you.”

“If it crashes and burns, do I get to say I told you so?”

“I’ll write it across my forehead in black magic marker for you,” she vows.

As my friends head for Hope’s car, I gather all the courage I can find and text Tucker before I talk myself out of it.

If I say yes, it doesn’t mean anything.

His answer is immediate.

Him: It means yes.

Me: But I’m not committing to anything beyond this one date.

Him: Kinda presumptuous, no? I only asked for one date.

I stare at my phone. Had I read this whole thing incorrectly? The guy talked about love at first sight, wanting to be married and have kids, and he only wants to see me one more time and fuck me?

Him: Kidding, darlin. I’m holding back the marriage proposal until the 3rd date. When?

Me: I’m bringing my friend Carin and u need to bring the hottest guy u know.

Him: I’m the hottest guy I know. Will look for 2nd hottest guy on campus. She have any preferences?

Me: Someone who knows how to use his tongue.

Him: Again, that’d be me. Not sure how I’ll find out how good the other guys are w/ their equipment. Not a topic that comes up a lot.

Me: That’s the price of my time.

Him: On it.

There’s a short delay, and then another message pops up.

Him: You won’t regret this.

*

I have the perfect date idea, Carin texts an hour later. It’s eleven and I’m getting ready for bed because I have to be up at four to sort mail. The text is followed up with a slightly blurry pic. I pinch and zoom until I manage to make out a few words.

Me: Paint night out? I have no artistic skills. Even my stick figures look terrible. U know this. U mocked my hangman once.

Her: That was NOT a hangman. That was…I mean, the arms shld come out from the side of the body, not the neck. Anyway this is EZ. It’s like a paint by numbers thing. We drink/paint/enjoy ourselves. If the date is crappy then u and I can drink ourselves into oblivion.

Me: Fine. When is it? I’m only available Sun, M, W, Thur.

Her: I know. It’s why I picked this, dummy. It’s every other Sunday, as in tomorrow night.

How would I know? The picture she sent is small and blurry and could say it’s a church group meeting on Saturday morning.

Me: I’ll see if T is available.

Her: Bet u he is.

I’m not taking that bet. Instead, I text Tucker.

Me: You in 4 some paint by numbers?

My phone dings the message alert just as I’m pulling on my sleep shirt and boxers.

Him: Is that like naked Twister?

Me: I have no clue.

I send him the picture. Maybe he can make some sense out of it, because I sure can’t.

Him: Was this taken with an actual camera or drawn by tiny leprechauns?

Me: Carin’s a scientist, not an artist. Btw did u find someone?

Him: Yes. My buddy Fitz is coming and b4 u ask, I have no idea re: his oral skills. But he’s hella smart, has a mean slapshot, and I’ve never heard any complaints.

I take a screenshot of that text and send it to Carin.

Me: Is this OK?

Her: Can I have a pic?

I text Tuck, Can she have a pic?

Him: Of what?

Dear God. This is a ridiculous game of actual telephone.

Me: Tucker says: of what?

Her: Face, abs, ass. No dick

I take yet another screenshot and shoot that off to Tucker. While he considers the request, I wash my face and brush my teeth. By the time I climb into bed, there’s a message waiting for me. A picture of a gorgeous dark-haired guy flipping Tucker off fills my screen.

Wow. It’s incredible how hot these Briar hockey players are. Is that a requirement of making the team? Be able to slap the puck a hundred miles an hour and also star in the calendar?

I forward the picture to Carin, who sends me a thumbs-up emoji in return. Then I text Tucker again.

Me: We’re good to go.

Him: Time/place? Srsly can’t read this thing.

Me: Tomorrow. 8 p.m. Carin says there’s booze.

Him: K

I’m about to put my phone away when three dots appear. And then disappear. And then re-appear again. Finally, the message comes through.

Him: Dick pics that bad?

I smother a giggle. That’s his question?

Me: Why? RU going to send me one?

Him: Feel like that may be a trick question. Do u want one?

Me: Depends on context. Random dick pics = no. Otherwise? I dunno. I haven’t gotten one that I’ve really liked. U’ve sent one? Or several?

Him: My thumbs are tired. Hold on.

The phone vibrates in my hand a second later.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Hey.” He pauses. “So what made you change your mind about the date?”

“My friends said it would be good for me,” I admit.

“Your friends are right.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Anyway, I feel like this is a conversation we should have in person so I can see your face. Eggplant emojis don’t have enough nuance.”

This makes me laugh. “True.”

“But you’re in Boston and I’m in Hastings, so we’re going with the phone call. I may have sent a pic once, but it was solicited. She sent me one first.”

“Really? I’m not a fan of that. Too many revenge pics online.” Besides, I never really hung around a guy long enough to want to send him a picture, but I don’t share that with Tucker. “So there are pics of Tucker’s mighty wang on the internet?”

“I haven’t been tagged on Instagram yet, so I’m hopeful they aren’t out there. But thanks for calling my dick mighty. We appreciate that.” Amusement colors his words.

“We? As in you and your penis?”

“Yup,” he says cheerfully.

I snuggle deeper under the covers. “You have a name for your penis?”

“Doesn’t everyone? Guys put a name on everything that’s important to them—cars, dicks. One of my teammates in junior hockey named his stick, which was dumb because sticks break all the time. He’d gone through twelve of them by the end of the season.”

“What were the names?”

“That’s the thing. He just kept adding a number to the end, like iPhone 6, iPhone 7, except in his case it was Henrietta 1, Henrietta 2, et cetera.”

I snicker. “He should’ve used the hurricane naming convention.”

“Darlin’, he wasn’t smart enough to come up with two names, let alone twelve.”

Darlin’. My heart trips at the endearment. When he used it before, it seemed like a throwaway. But now? After he just said guys name things that are important to them?

I quell my fantastical interpretations before they lead me to a dangerous end. We’re flirting. Keep the tone light. “What’s your dick’s name?”

“Uh-uh,” he scolds. “That’s wife knowledge. I can’t tell you until the honeymoon.”

I wait for the inevitable sense of discomfort to start tickling my neck, but it doesn’t come. Apparently the offhand jokes about marriage no longer bother me.

“So what makes a good dick pic?” he asks. “Not that I’m sending you one.”

“Is that also wife knowledge?” I tease.

“I’d consider it engagement stuff.”

I put that thought aside and consider his question. “Completely graphic doesn’t do it for me. I need context, like I said before. Your fist around it would be hot. You have good hands.”

There’s a rustling sound, footsteps, and then a door latch clicking shut. He’s gone somewhere private, and that knowledge makes certain parts of my body pulse excitedly.

“I had to leave the living room. We’ve got people over, and you thinking about my dick is hot as fuck. I’m too hard to be in public.”

My breasts feel so heavy that I’m finding it hard to breathe. As I shift underneath the blankets, I hear his breath catch.

“What are you thinking about?” he murmurs.

I drag in some air to fill my suddenly depleted lungs. I know where this is going. If I stay on the phone, we’re going to end up turning each other on to the point that I’m going to have to masturbate once I’m done. Tucker remains silent, leaving the decision up to me. I dip my hand between my legs as if the pressure could make the ache go away, but the contact only intensifies my desire.

My voice is hoarse when I start speaking. “I’m fixated on you holding your dick. Only now you’re moving your hand, stroking yourself.”

When there’s no immediate response, I blush, thinking I’ve gone too far for him. But his next words tell me he’s right with me.

“You’re killing me.”

I bite my lip and rub harder. “I’m getting worked up too.”

“That doesn’t help, because now I’m picturing you all flushed and needy. You wet, Sabrina?”

My fingers slip across my pussy. “Very.”

“Fuck. What would I be doing if I was there?”

“Licking me,” I say instantly. He has a great tongue.

On his end, there’s more rustling and then a husky, “You need a toy?”

“Yeah, give me a sec.” I fumble in my desk drawer and find the box of tampons where I hide stuff from Ray—some cash rolled up in an empty tampon cartridge and my vibe. I fish the latter out and flick it on.

“Ready,” I tell him as I place the quivering toy against my clit. My hips arch up and a small cry escapes me.

“Goddamn,” he groans. “Slide it inside, slow and steady. It’s my hand on that vibrator and my tongue is on your clit.”

As he issues his commands and paints an erotic picture, I work the toy in and out. It’s such a relief not to have to think, to give myself completely over to him. I don’t say anything more. I can’t, really. I’m too focused on listening, letting his southern drawl pour over me like warm syrup, listening to the hoarse, dirty instructions telling me to pump the vibe harder, imagine him licking my pussy, telling me how gorgeous and sexy I am, and how he’s never been harder in his life.

I come as the sounds of him working his own flesh mix with my gasps of pleasure. His voice fills my world.

“Night, darlin’,” he says when my breathing slows.

“Night,” I manage. And then I fall asleep, deep and long and utterly satisfied.