“Exactly. I can’t focus on a stupid spouse when I’m staying awake for thirty-six hours straight on my surgical residency. But you try telling my mother that. She spent half the summer grilling every diplomat we ran into about whether they had any single children. She’s even compiling a dossier of candidates.”
“At least she’s come around to the wife part.”
When Mya came out as bisexual to her parents our freshman year of college, it took her mom a while to wrap her head around it. Mostly because she thought that meant she’d never have grandchildren to buy ponies for. Mya finally had to sit her mother down and explain that if she did end up with a woman, there were plenty of reproductive options available to same-sex couples these days. That seemed to appease Mrs. Bell.
“True,” Mya answers. “But I swear to God, I don’t need my mother setting me up with anyone. Have you met her? She’s the biggest snob on the planet. She’ll marry me off to some uptight heiress or a prince who wears pinkie rings.”
Mya proceeds to regale me with stories from her family’s summer travels. We crack open a bottle of red wine and sit on the couch to catch up. At first I’m entertained, but soon my mind returns to the events of this evening, until I’m preoccupied and feeling hostile again.
Fuck Brad Fairlee and fuck Luke Ryder. So what if my pass was intercepted tonight? And so what if—
“What,” Mya says in amusement, jolting me from my thoughts, “my story about this nude Greek dinner party isn’t doing it for you?”
“No, it’s hilarious. Sorry. My mind drifted for a second, and I started stewing again. I was in the worst mood before I saw your gorgeous face.”
“One, I need you to keep the compliments coming because my mother basically reduced my self-esteem to ashes this summer. And two, what are we stewing about?”
“Emma Fairlee. My old friend from high school.”
“Ahh, the betrayer.”
“Yes.” I laugh at her phrasing, but there’s a twinge of pain there too, because if you told me senior year of high school that Emma and I wouldn’t be friends come graduation, I would’ve said you were crazy.
Mya stretches her impossibly long legs and rests them on the coffee table. “So why are we thinking about Evil Emma?”
“Well, actually, I’m thinking more about her dad. I found out tonight that Mr. Fairlee is Team USA’s new head coach.”
“Oh shit. And she poisoned Daddy against you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her or anyone in that family, really, since graduation. But I can’t imagine she would have anything nice to say about me. She’s been slandering me on social media for three years now.”
At first it was overtly aggressive posts about how awful, selfish, and evil my entire family and I were. Eventually it became veiled “thoughts” and ambiguous quotes that were clearly directed at me and my various personality flaws.
Which is juvenile as fuck, but the problem with Emma is she hates being ignored. She always has to be the center of attention, which is great when you’re a teenager and partying, and you have this fun, vivacious friend who throws herself headfirst into adventure and drags you along for the ride.
But the moment you’re not serving her and feeding her ego, she turns on you.
“Anyway, I’m worried he’s not going to give me a fair shot,” I admit, chugging nearly half my glass. The wine sluices to the pit of my stomach and swirls there uneasily. “They’re still selecting players and finalizing the roster and…” I lick a drop off my bottom lip. “I don’t know, I’m nervous. I have a bad feeling about this.”
“You shouldn’t. You’re literally the number one female hockey player in the world.”
“Okay, that’s an overstatement.”
“Top three,” she amends. “Globally.”
“Top ten. Nationally.”
“All right, top five globally,” she says with an airy wave. “You’re telling me this asshole isn’t going to choose one of the best players for his team?”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Then how does it work?”
I mull it over because it’s hard to explain. The selection process is almost deliberately vague.
“The coaches don’t select players based only on objective criteria. They look at past performances in any national events, which I don’t have. They look at who they think would work well together as a team. Sometimes they might hold tryouts, but your previous performance is way more relevant than a bunch of drills.” I try to sum it up in simpler terms. “Essentially, any time I step out onto the ice, I’m trying out for the national team.”
And not making a good impression, apparently. At least according to Brad Fairlee.
I make a frustrated noise. “Whatever. I can’t talk about this anymore.”
Sliding off the couch, I fling myself onto the soft shag carpet, where I stretch out on my back and groan loudly.
“Uh-oh,” Mya sighs.
I open my eyes to find her peering down at me. Her expression is a mixture of amusement and concern.
“What?” I grumble.
“You need to get laid.”
“No, I don’t. I’m fine.”
“You are not. I’ve been back for an hour, and I was already seeing the signs before you went full carpet. With that said, lying on the carpet is always the last straw.”
“Stop. I do not lie on the carpet that often.”
“You totally do. This happens every time you max out your stress levels or get too overwhelmed. Then after carpet time, you get super crabby and start snapping at me for trivial shit like drinking from your monogrammed water bottle. And then Case comes over and bangs you, and you go back to being sweet little Gigi.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been sweet.”
“Fine, I’ll concede that. But don’t even try to argue the rest. You have a very predictable horniness cycle. And the second you get laid, suddenly you’re less crabby and our carpet is spared.”
“I don’t like you.”
“When was the last time you had a release?”
I open my mouth triumphantly—
“With a human male and not your hand,” she interrupts before I can speak.
I sigh in defeat. “Not since Case.”
“So, what, end of May? As in almost four months ago?”
“Four months is not a long time to go without sex,” I protest.
“Not for most people. But for stressed-out stress cases like you? It’s an eternity.”
I refuse to give her the satisfaction, but…she’s not wrong. Regular sex is one of the reasons I prefer relationships. People always brag about how easy it is to go out and find a one-night stand. But who truly wants to have that every night? A perpetual string of one nights or regular sex with one guy I love? I’ll pick the latter every time.
“Should we sign you up for a dating app?”
I sit and lean against the couch. “No. I hate those things. And you know I hate casual sex.”
“Well, it’s either that or get back with Case.” She leans forward and refills her glass. “Is that an option?”