Me: Nope. Definitely still at that stage.

Kip: Well shit…

Kip: You still going to come tonight or did I ruin it by being a pervert?

Me: Don’t worry. I’m still coming.

When I wipe the condensation off the mirror from the steam of my shower, I stand at the bathroom counter, staring at my reflection.

Consider my breasts. Shoulders.

Stomach.

The trimmed up patch of hair between my legs.

Feel myself blush, despite the flush from the hot shower I just took, chest and neck growing redder with each second I stand here, watching myself.

I can’t do it.

I cannot touch myself.

Well, I can, just not like that.

Except…I rise to my tiptoes and spread my legs a little, bending my head down to survey the damage Kip’s beard caused.

Red, red, red.

Red between my thighs, just like I knew it would be.

Sore too.

Why am I sore? I didn’t have sex.

Is this normal?

Should I google it? What would I even search: sore after receiving oral sex? Why are my legs so sore after a guy has gone down on me? Why do my inner thighs have slight bruising?

My face gets hot thinking about it.

Thinking about him.

The change in him, overnight, talking to me like he wants…more. He hasn’t said it, but he’s not looking at me the same way. He looks at me like…he’s developing a crush on me. This morning, in his kitchen, when he looked me up and down, I swear he wanted to haul me up and carry me back upstairs and…do stuff.

It took everything I had not to look at the crotch of his pants to check for a boner.

The whole thing is so unsettling for me. I’m not used to male attention, not used to someone like him wanting me as something other than a friend.

The whole thing has my stomach in knots.

My hand goes there, resting on my belly. Presses down so I can even out my breathing.

Is this what it feels like to have butterflies?

Should he be the one giving them to me? This isn’t what I planned for myself—he is not my type, not even close. When I picture myself with a guy, I imagine him clean-cut. Handsome. No facial hair, certainly not someone with hair prettier than mine.

Kip vaguely reminds me of that Brock guy, the InstaFamous dude who makes videos of himself throwing his hair up into a bun—but hairier. And less cocky and full of himself.

Kissing him with the beard wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be—had I thought about it. Sure, it could probably use some conditioning to make it softer, but all in all, not the worst.

If you don’t count the rash on my cheeks.

My phone chimes and I pick it up, expecting Kip, heart racing.

Instead, I’m disappointed to see it’s from a guy in one of my civil law classes, hounding me about the banquet the engineering department has coming up—an event I cannot afford to attend, let alone contribute to in the way of a donation.

I wouldn’t even be going if it weren’t for this grant—they’re presenting it to me there, but I still have to buy a ticket.

How stupid is that?

Tyler: Hey. We’re trying to get a final headcount for the fundraiser. You getting a ticket or what?

Me: I still don’t know why I have to buy a ticket when I’m there to receive a grant…LAME

Tyler: Because it’s a FUNDRAISER, Theodora. The department needs money too.

I don’t know how Tyler found out my real name, but he uses it frequently and it drives me nuts. Like we’re friends and he has the privilege.

Me: I know, I know, I’m just really broke right now. I don’t really have the extra money for a ticket, that’s all.

Tyler: You want me to put you down for a donation then if you don’t plan to be there for the dinner? We’re putting together baskets for the silent auction.

I just said I didn’t have any money! Why would I want to give them a donation? Ugh! He’s asked me about this no less than ten times and I’ve said no each and every one.

Me: I don’t think so. NO to the donation. Do not put me down for one. Haha.

Tyler: But yes for the dinner?

Me: It’s not like I have a choice, do I? I’ll look like an asshole if I stand in back of the room while everyone else is eating LOL

Tyler: One ticket or two?

I want to bang my head against a desk.

Me: How much are the tickets? Remind me.

Tyler: $25 for a single, $35 for a couple

Me: Umm… Hmm…

I chew on my lower lip; if I buy a couple’s ticket, I could bring someone. A date.

Kip springs to mind.

Do I have the lady balls to ask him to be my date for something as important as this? What would I say? If I ask him, would he get the wrong idea about it?

I’m pretty sure most of my friends from the department will be bringing dates, and I’d feel less self-conscious if I brought one too.

But Kip?

He’s not really a safe choice; what if he says something off-color and embarrasses me? What if he’s eating and ends up with food in his beard and makes it awkward?

I’ve never seen him in any other setting besides a rugby party and his house.

I’m getting way ahead of myself here, but Tyler keeps blowing up my phone, and I should make a decision.

Me: I guess I’ll do a couple’s ticket.

Tyler: Cool.

His reply annoys me, and I turn my phone over on the counter and resume blow-drying my hair. I’ll think about what to do later—maybe the mood will strike me to ask him after his rugby match today.

I face the mirror, brushing the wet strands aside, and look myself in the eye.

“Kip, would you like to attend a banquet with me?” I ask my reflection. “Just as friends. It wouldn’t be an actual date.” I run a brush through my hair. “Kip, wanna come to a thing with me? No biggie if you can’t. Whatever.”

I sigh. I suck so hard at this.

“Hey Kip, great game—uh, match. So, I was wondering, if you’re not doing anything next Friday, I have this thing I have to be at…”

For some reason, the brush is at my mouth like a microphone, like I’m reporter at the scene of a story. I cringe and set it on the counter.

Maybe I should text him this week. It would certainly be easier. If I wait long enough, he’ll make plans for Friday, and say no, then I’m off the hook.

But if I do and he says no, it will be on my phone, in writing, for all eternity, and I’ll have to see it every time he texts me.

He won’t say no, a little voice inside me says.

Who am I kidding—he’s going to say yes.

He’ll say yes, because I have terrible luck, and then I’ll actually have to take the Neanderthal out in public; no doubt he’ll wear those god awful work boots.

We’ll have fun, though.

Me and Sasquatch.

I groan, smile into the mirror, and hum.

SECOND SATURDAY (At Game)

“The day I just sit here and watch them throw their balls around.”

Teddy

I’m not the only girl here flying solo, but I’m the only one here without a blanket or a chair.

Why didn’t I think to bring one?

I scan the area, searching for a dry spot.

Lower myself to the ground, sitting cross-legged, facing the rugby field. Comb the bodies for Kip, watching for his familiar form among the giants.

I know they’re not all as large as he is, but from this vantage point, they’re all Goliaths. Hairy legs, high sport socks already stained with mud and grass and matching jerseys. Far too many broad chests to count.

And then…

There he is.

Stretching, torso bent, his thick thighs and ass are thrust in my direction. Even in the cluster of broody man children, he stands apart with his air of conceit as he moves to get limber.

Kip has that mop of hair pulled up, twisted at the top of his head, and is wearing a headband—along with a rubber band in his beard too, and that makes my lips curl at the corner.

What the hell is that all about?

I continue to study him.

The mouth guard he’s just popped into place over his teeth. The bright blue cleats digging into the ground. The band around his bicep with the letter C on it.

I didn’t know he was the captain of the team—then again, I’ve never really asked him about it.