The Goal
Page 30
I wrinkle my forehead. “The other party of what?”
He grins broadly, and this time it does reach his eyes. “Tuck’s epic pursuit of you.”
Oh God.
“What are you talking about?” I squeak.
“Ha. Don’t play dumb, baby. It’s been like a week since he tracked me down at the gym, and I know the guy—no way did he go a week without tracking you down.”
Anxiety pricks my belly. Beau and I might have ended things on fantastic terms, but that doesn’t mean I feel comfortable discussing other guys with him.
As if he senses that, he softens his tone. “It’s all good, S. You don’t have to give me deets if you don’t want to.” He shrugs. “I just wanted to make sure you knew he was a decent guy.”
Wait, what?
“Wait, what?” I say aloud.
Beau laughs. “Tucker,” he clarifies, as if I don’t know who we’re talking about. “I know you have this vendetta against hockey players—”
“I do not!” I protest.
“You totally fucking do!” He’s laughing harder now. “Do you want me to list all the times I had to sit there and listen to you trash Di Laurentis? Actually, I wouldn’t even be able to list them. That’s how often you did it.”
“There may have been a couple of occasions,” I concede with a grumble.
“A couple, a hundred, same diff, right? But yeah, I’m not even gonna try to defend Dean—who’s fucking awesome, by the way. I know you won’t change your mind about him. But Tucker is legit cool. He’s one of the nicest dudes I’ve ever met.”
Same, I think wryly. Out loud I ask, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know you.” He reaches out and tweaks a strand of my hair. Behind us, an outraged gasp sounds from the groupies. “You’ve probably already thought of a million reasons not to give Tuck a shot. And if one of those reasons is that you’re really not into him, then great, don’t go out with him then. But if you are into him, don’t let this big brain of yours—” He gently taps my head “—talk you out of it, ’kay?”
“You should probably stop touching me. Your fans are getting upset.”
He snorts. “You really think me touching you is gonna stop one or two or all of them from sucking my dick tonight?”
I blanch. “Gross, Beau.”
“Truth, Sabrina.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I’m a god around here. I can do no wrong.”
Huh. Must be nice to live in a world where everything gets handed to you on a silver platter, where your mistakes mean nothing.
I keep my cynical thoughts to myself. “So what exactly did Tucker say to you?”
“That he’s into you.” Beau gives another shrug. “He wanted to know if our history was gonna pose a problem for him. I told him no.”
My jaw falls open. “So he pretty much asked you for permission to date me?”
“Permission?” Beau snorts loud enough to cause all his buddies to glance over at us. “Yeah, right. More like he announced that he wanted you, and that if I had a problem with it, too bad so sad.”
I fight the grin that’s trying to surface. For all his sweet words and aw shucks smiles, Tucker really is an alpha fucker. I don’t know why that thrills me so much, but it does.
“Anyway, don’t be stupid about this,” Beau says sternly. “Someone like Tuck might be good for you. He can keep you from studying yourself to death.”
“Oh!” I exclaim. “Before I forget—I got into Harvard!”
“For real?” His face breaks out in the biggest, broadest smile. “Congratu-fucking-lations!”
And then he hauls me into his arms again for a bear hug, while his gorgeous groupies glare bloody murder at me.
12
Sabrina
Hope’s Beemer is waiting for me in the parking lot. When I climb into the backseat, I find Hope and Carin singing along to some awful pop song, and I don’t feel guilty anymore for making them wait. Clearly they’ve been having a great time.
“So what’s this new place we’re going to?” I ask once the song ends.
“You’ll see,” Hope chirps from the driver’s seat.
My friends exchange amused glances, which immediately raises my suspicions.
“If it’s the weird hippie bar you took me to in Boston that served wheatgrass shots, I’m jumping out right now. Not even kidding.”
“You’ll like this place,” she assures me. “It has all your favorites.”
I don’t need to see their faces to know they’re both smirking at me. “I’m trusting you,” I warn. “Don’t break the friend code.”
Carin turns around. “Forget the friend code. What were you and Beau talking about?”
Leaning forward, I fill them in on the conversation I just had with Briar’s star quarterback.
“Shit, this boy is serious,” Hope exclaims.
“Beau or Tucker?”
“Tucker. Duh. He spoke to one of your exes and declared his intentions? Girl, this man is all in.”
“That’s weird, right? I mean, he’s actively pursuing me. It’s weird.” I direct this mostly toward Carin. Hope’s a romantic. She believes that everyone on The Bachelor is actually there to find love when the rest of the viewing public knows it’s all about nobodies seeking fame.
But Carin disappoints me. “It’s not weird—it’s awesome. I mean, I’ve had hookups. Met a guy’s eyes across the room or struck up a conversation, but I’ve never had someone pursue me.”
“Same,” Hope says, flicking a glance toward me in the rearview mirror. “D’Andre asked me out while I was walking on the treadmill. He said he’d never seen a girl look prettier sweaty than me.” She sighs dreamily. “I said yes immediately. If there was any chase at all, it lasted all of five minutes. I put out on the second date, remember?”
“How does it feel?” Carin stares at me as if I’m some fascinating new discovery she just smeared on a microscope slide.
“When Hope puts out? Well, she’s a good kisser, but the rest of her technique needs work.” The joke is lame, but I’m not ready to acknowledge that I feel like a giddy kid by Tucker’s steady, determined pursuit.
He grins broadly, and this time it does reach his eyes. “Tuck’s epic pursuit of you.”
Oh God.
“What are you talking about?” I squeak.
“Ha. Don’t play dumb, baby. It’s been like a week since he tracked me down at the gym, and I know the guy—no way did he go a week without tracking you down.”
Anxiety pricks my belly. Beau and I might have ended things on fantastic terms, but that doesn’t mean I feel comfortable discussing other guys with him.
As if he senses that, he softens his tone. “It’s all good, S. You don’t have to give me deets if you don’t want to.” He shrugs. “I just wanted to make sure you knew he was a decent guy.”
Wait, what?
“Wait, what?” I say aloud.
Beau laughs. “Tucker,” he clarifies, as if I don’t know who we’re talking about. “I know you have this vendetta against hockey players—”
“I do not!” I protest.
“You totally fucking do!” He’s laughing harder now. “Do you want me to list all the times I had to sit there and listen to you trash Di Laurentis? Actually, I wouldn’t even be able to list them. That’s how often you did it.”
“There may have been a couple of occasions,” I concede with a grumble.
“A couple, a hundred, same diff, right? But yeah, I’m not even gonna try to defend Dean—who’s fucking awesome, by the way. I know you won’t change your mind about him. But Tucker is legit cool. He’s one of the nicest dudes I’ve ever met.”
Same, I think wryly. Out loud I ask, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know you.” He reaches out and tweaks a strand of my hair. Behind us, an outraged gasp sounds from the groupies. “You’ve probably already thought of a million reasons not to give Tuck a shot. And if one of those reasons is that you’re really not into him, then great, don’t go out with him then. But if you are into him, don’t let this big brain of yours—” He gently taps my head “—talk you out of it, ’kay?”
“You should probably stop touching me. Your fans are getting upset.”
He snorts. “You really think me touching you is gonna stop one or two or all of them from sucking my dick tonight?”
I blanch. “Gross, Beau.”
“Truth, Sabrina.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I’m a god around here. I can do no wrong.”
Huh. Must be nice to live in a world where everything gets handed to you on a silver platter, where your mistakes mean nothing.
I keep my cynical thoughts to myself. “So what exactly did Tucker say to you?”
“That he’s into you.” Beau gives another shrug. “He wanted to know if our history was gonna pose a problem for him. I told him no.”
My jaw falls open. “So he pretty much asked you for permission to date me?”
“Permission?” Beau snorts loud enough to cause all his buddies to glance over at us. “Yeah, right. More like he announced that he wanted you, and that if I had a problem with it, too bad so sad.”
I fight the grin that’s trying to surface. For all his sweet words and aw shucks smiles, Tucker really is an alpha fucker. I don’t know why that thrills me so much, but it does.
“Anyway, don’t be stupid about this,” Beau says sternly. “Someone like Tuck might be good for you. He can keep you from studying yourself to death.”
“Oh!” I exclaim. “Before I forget—I got into Harvard!”
“For real?” His face breaks out in the biggest, broadest smile. “Congratu-fucking-lations!”
And then he hauls me into his arms again for a bear hug, while his gorgeous groupies glare bloody murder at me.
12
Sabrina
Hope’s Beemer is waiting for me in the parking lot. When I climb into the backseat, I find Hope and Carin singing along to some awful pop song, and I don’t feel guilty anymore for making them wait. Clearly they’ve been having a great time.
“So what’s this new place we’re going to?” I ask once the song ends.
“You’ll see,” Hope chirps from the driver’s seat.
My friends exchange amused glances, which immediately raises my suspicions.
“If it’s the weird hippie bar you took me to in Boston that served wheatgrass shots, I’m jumping out right now. Not even kidding.”
“You’ll like this place,” she assures me. “It has all your favorites.”
I don’t need to see their faces to know they’re both smirking at me. “I’m trusting you,” I warn. “Don’t break the friend code.”
Carin turns around. “Forget the friend code. What were you and Beau talking about?”
Leaning forward, I fill them in on the conversation I just had with Briar’s star quarterback.
“Shit, this boy is serious,” Hope exclaims.
“Beau or Tucker?”
“Tucker. Duh. He spoke to one of your exes and declared his intentions? Girl, this man is all in.”
“That’s weird, right? I mean, he’s actively pursuing me. It’s weird.” I direct this mostly toward Carin. Hope’s a romantic. She believes that everyone on The Bachelor is actually there to find love when the rest of the viewing public knows it’s all about nobodies seeking fame.
But Carin disappoints me. “It’s not weird—it’s awesome. I mean, I’ve had hookups. Met a guy’s eyes across the room or struck up a conversation, but I’ve never had someone pursue me.”
“Same,” Hope says, flicking a glance toward me in the rearview mirror. “D’Andre asked me out while I was walking on the treadmill. He said he’d never seen a girl look prettier sweaty than me.” She sighs dreamily. “I said yes immediately. If there was any chase at all, it lasted all of five minutes. I put out on the second date, remember?”
“How does it feel?” Carin stares at me as if I’m some fascinating new discovery she just smeared on a microscope slide.
“When Hope puts out? Well, she’s a good kisser, but the rest of her technique needs work.” The joke is lame, but I’m not ready to acknowledge that I feel like a giddy kid by Tucker’s steady, determined pursuit.
