The Shameless Hour: A Sports Romance (The Ivy Years Book 4)

IF THERE WAS anything lucky about my debacle, it was that hockey season was not yet in full swing. It would be hard for a girl to hide in her room when weekends meant back-to-back away games.

On Saturday, while sulking after brunch, I got a call from Student Health Services. And when I answered, it was Ms. Ogden on the line.

Thank God.

“Bella? Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Of course. I didn’t know you worked Saturdays, though.”

“I work whenever the vaginas need me,” she said, which made me burst out laughing. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

I hesitated. “Sure. Is it that bad?”

“No!” she said. “Not at all. I just want to see your face. We’re not supposed to have favorite patients, but…”

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

She laughed. “Meet me at Java Tree in ten?”

I bought myself a cup of peppermint tea, and went to sit down across from Ms. Ogden. She’d nabbed a very private table in back. “Hi,” I said, feeling calmer than I had in days. There was something about her level gaze that banished panicky thoughts.

She reached across the table to give my hand a quick squeeze. “Bella, dear. I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you came in last week.”

“Please tell me that you were someplace wonderful. Because Dr. Peterson is an evil troll.”

She grinned. “My wife and I went to Bermuda.”

“Nice.”

“And I know he’s a grouch. But he’s also a very sharp clinician. Unfortunately, you don’t have to be a nice person to get a medical degree.”

“I noticed.”

“It helps to remember that he’s saved lives.”

“Pish,” I said with a wave of my hand, and she smiled again.

“I have some lab results here.” She passed me a sealed envelope. “But I just wanted to make sure — are you doing okay? I’m sorry you got difficult news.”

“I’m okay,” I lied. Actually, I’m hiding in my room most of the time. Is that normal?

“Are your symptoms subsiding?”

“They are, thanks.” But not my shame.

“Well, I have a small bit of good news,” Dr. Ogden said, dropping her voice. “Your test came back positive only for chlamydia, which will easily be killed off by one course of antibiotics.”

Well, yippee. It isn’t every day you find out you’ve got the good kind of STD. “That’s… something.” I tried not to sound too grim.

She tilted her head, studying me. “Bella, would you be feeling the same way if you’d caught the flu from a partner?”

“God no,” I answered immediately.

“Generally, my role is to beat the drum for safer sex. But I want to say something else to you.” Her warm eyes studied me. “This isn’t a message from God. There’s no reason to panic or feel any shame. You’re still the same beautiful girl you were the last time I saw you.”

Hearing her say that made my throat burn. I took a gulp of tea to hide my reaction.

“Oh, sweetie,” she whispered. “You’re going to be fine.”

I knew that was technically true, but I didn’t feel anything like fine. “It’s hard,” I said, my voice cracking. “There’s a difficult conversation I need to have, and I haven’t done it yet.” I’d taken a close look at my calendar. Luckily, only my lackluster night at the Beta Rho house with Whittaker fell within the transmission window.

Just looking at my calendar to figure it out had made me feel physically ill. There had been times during the past two years when my number of partners would have been higher than one. That made me cringe — as if the people who judged me for my sex life had pulled off a secret victory.

Ms. Ogden stirred her drink with a straw. “Now, it’s not easy to tell someone that he gave you a disease. He may not believe you, because over half the people who carry it don’t have any symptoms.”

“None?”

She shook her head. “But I can make the conversation a little easier.”

“How?”

Ms. Ogden took a card out of her pocket. “Give him my number. If he calls me, I’ll ask him a couple of screening questions — to make sure he’s not allergic to the antibiotics — and then I’ll prescribe over the phone. He doesn’t even have to be tested.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “It’s called expedited partner therapy. If you’re pretty sure who gave it to you, then we do it this way. Otherwise, he’s just going to keep spreading it around.”

“I know,” I whispered.

Reaching across the table, she patted my hand. “Hang in there, Bella. And feel free to call my cell phone if you have any questions. It’s on my voicemail message if you call my office phone.”

“Thank you,” I told her.

“Keep in touch, okay? Because my gut says that you’re taking this hard.”

“I’ll be all right,” I said. Convincing no one.

Now that I had a proper diagnosis, I couldn’t put off telling Whittaker the bad news.

That night, for the first time all week, I took a long look at the clothes in my closet. If I was going to march into the Beta Rho house and ask to speak to the star running back, I wanted to look good doing it. One of the charities my mother supported gave designer clothes and makeup to cancer patients, with the theory that they’d heal faster if they felt they looked better.

Thinking of those poor women reminded me that it could always be worse.

“It could always be worse,” I said to myself as I picked out a little denim skirt, a pretty tank top and a cardigan.

“It could always be worse,” I whispered into the mirror while applying a slick of lip gloss. (For me, that was going all out.)

“It could always be worse,” I repeated as I trotted down the stairs and out into the evening air.

The walk to Beta Rho didn’t take nearly long enough for me to compose a suitable speech. When I climbed the wooden steps onto their porch, I noticed how quiet the house was for a Saturday night. For a moment I was thrilled by the prospect that Whittaker and all his pals were out. But as soon as I rang the doorbell, footsteps approached.

The guy who opened the door was a sophomore they called Dash. “‘Zup,” he said, giving me the generic frat-boy greeting.

“Hey,” I returned. “Is Whittaker home by any chance?”

“I’m pretty sure he is. Come on in, and I’ll find him for you.”

Dash trotted off like a good little newbie. Until tap night in a couple weeks, he was still a low man on the totem pole. When the new crop of pledges showed up, Dash would be the one doling out the orders and ordering someone else to watch the door.

I’m sure he could hardly wait.

I stepped all the way into the living room. On a giant sectional couch, three brothers — all of them football players — held game controllers in their hands. “S’up, Bella,” somebody said without removing his eyes from the screen.

“Not much. Pretty quiet here tonight, isn’t it?”

“Game tomorrow,” came the answer.

Ah. “Coach ordered you to get some Z’s?”

Apparently something crucial happened on screen, because I did not get an answer. And anyway, Whittaker appeared, wearing Harkness sweats and flip flops. “Hey, girl,” he said, giving me half a smile. “What’s shakin’?”

I didn’t blame him for looking a little confused. We’d only hooked up that one time after Casino Night.

Now, I stood here regretting it. The sex had been pretty darned average. And afterward, of course I’d had to put myself back together and descend the very public staircase toward the front door, while his frat brothers smirked at me.

And now here I was again in this creaky house with sticky floors. Stupid girl.

“Can we talk for a minute?” I asked him, trying my best to sound casual.

I saw a flicker of fear cross his face. “Is this the kind of talk I’ll need tequila for?”

“Sure, but only because tequila is for every day,” I replied.

He gave me a wry grin. “Yo! Dash!” When the younger guy came into view, he asked for two shots. Then he steered me into a breakfast nook off the kitchen, away from everyone else.

Dash carried in our two drinks, lime wedges and salt. After the guy disappeared, Whittaker turned to me with a question in his eyes. “What’s up?”

I cleared my throat. There would be no more stalling now. “It’s not a big deal,” I lied. Because it was to me. “But I found out that I recently acquired chlamydia.”

His eyes widened. “No way.”

“That was my reaction too.”

He drained his shot glass, then set it down with a thunk. “You think I gave it to you.”

“It appears that way. But if you didn’t give it to me, then you could have caught it from me. So you need to take the pills anyway.” I put Ms. Ogden’s card on the table and told him what she’d said about prescribing over the phone.

It was hard to say whether he was even listening to me anymore. “Do your shot, Bella.”

Right. With nervous fingers, I tossed it back. The wedge of lime had a sharp, sour flavor that seemed to go perfectly with the sharp, sour day I was having.

“Dash!” Whittaker called again. The guy came skidding into the little room like a well-trained dog. “Can you make us tonight’s special?”

The guy hesitated for a second, and I decided that he was being tested in some way. There was probably a stupid frat rule about it — forget the drink special, and do two hundred naked push-ups in the middle of Fresh Court. Or something.

“Sure,” Dash said after a beat. “I’ll be right back.”

“I didn’t give it to you,” Whittaker said when we were alone again. “It wasn’t me.”

“Okayyy…” I was officially at the end of my script. What was the appropriate response to outright denial? Because if he didn’t give it to me, that meant that the shame could only flow in one direction. I’d brought this ugliness to his doorstep. “The, uh, doctor said that most people never see symptoms.”

“Whatever,” he muttered.

Welp, (awkward) mission accomplished. Now I really wanted to get the hell out of there, never to return. I was about to thank him for the drink and make my excuses when Whittaker surprised me by changing the topic to a less loaded one. “How does the hockey team look this year?”

“Pretty good,” I said numbly. “We’ll miss Hartley a lot, but there’s a lot of other talent on the lines.”

“Who’s the captain? Don’t tell me it’s that gay dude.”

My blood pressure kicked up another notch. I wasn’t the kind of girl to let that bit of assholery go unchallenged. But this really wasn’t the day to get into an argument with Whittaker over his homophobia. “Trevi is captain,” I said quietly. “He’s a smart guy.”

Dash strode into the room again. He set two drinks on the table, and I looked down to try to identify the drink special. Hmm. It was a rocks drink with a blush color.

One had an umbrella in it. “Aw, mine is accessorized,” I said, smiling up at Dash.

He gave an uncomfortable shrug and left the room. Dash was never going to win awards for his conversational skills, that was for sure. I picked up my drink and had a taste. “It’s… a madras?” I asked.

Whittaker clinked his glass into mine. “Smart girl,” he said, taking a gulp. “Drink up.”

I wasn’t really in the mood to get drunk, but it seemed rude not to sit a minute longer. I still couldn’t tell what Whittaker was thinking. Either he wasn’t that worried about what I’d told him, or else he put up a pretty good front. I took a gulp.

“What classes are you taking?” he asked me a minute later, sipping his own drink.

“Um… I’m in that Urban Studies lecture,” I said. “And I’ve got two psych courses…” My head felt a little swimmy now. I hadn’t eaten very well since my awful doctor’s appointment. Usually, I wasn’t such a lightweight.

Across the table, Whittaker asked me another question, but I couldn’t quite catch it. “What?” I asked. The glass in my hand felt too heavy, actually. I set it on the table roughly.

The last thing I registered was Whittaker’s beady stare.