Shut Out (2 page)

I have
Goals
for myself, which I have typed up, printed out, and pinned to the bulletin board above my desk in my room. Goal number one: Get straight As in every course. Goal number two: Get straight As in every course. Goal number three: Get straight As in every course. And, of course, get into medical school at Harvard.

My freshman year last year at Bayard College sucked huge effing donkey balls. It was the worst year of my life, and I'm not being all drama queen when I say that. It started so promising, my two high school besties, Brendan and Ella, and me in college together, on our own, free and ready to take on the world.

We were having fun, exploring our independence and freedom away from our parents, maybe making a few bad decisions like staying up way too late the night before a midterm, or blowing the budget on a new pair of boots instead of food. But hey, everyone does that kind of stuff.

Then, in our second semester, Brendan committed suicide.

Yeah. Saying it was hard doesn't even mean anything. I was messed up. I somehow managed to pass three courses by the skin of my teeth, which isn't good enough. I flunked the other two. This was another big blow, because I'd let my parents down. All my life I've worked so hard to please them, and damn, it was hard to tell them I'd failed two courses and would have to take them over.

Thinking about Brendan still makes me ache. I'll never really get over it, never really forget him. I had to dig myself out of a deep black hole, but I understand more about grieving, and more about the demons Brendan was fighting, and I'm moving forward. I got some counseling through this great program we have at Bayard, SAPAP, which mainly helps people with sexual abuse but also helps with other crises and does a lot of outreach work on campus. That made me want to get involved with them, partly for selfish reasons, because I needed something to get away from my thoughts but also to give back and help others.

And I still have Ella. She and Brendan and I were a trio our freshman year at Bayard, and now Ella and I are roommates in the off-campus house we share with two other girls. Yes, it's crowded and crazy sometimes, but I need to live as cheaply as possible.

Volunteering at SAPAP makes my schedule even crazier with my part-time job, the appointments I still have occasionally with Frances, and studying my ass off because I am going to
do
this. My parents probably don't believe I can, and they're helping foot the bill for my high-priced education, so I have to show them I can be as good as my sister, Elisha, who's now a medical resident in Boston.

Today I'm in the boardroom of the SAPAP offices in the South Quad Academic Complex for a meeting to brainstorm and plan out some of this year's events. It's mid-September and we've been back in class for a couple weeks. Victoria Meyer, director of SAPAP, is my idol. I worship her. I want to be her when I grow up.

“How was it presenting to the senate subcommittee round table?” Leah asks Victoria.

“Amazing.” Victoria smiles. “I love sharing the things we're doing here and talking about what other campuses can be doing.” She talks a bit more about that, then says, “Okay. Let's start with a recap from the various committees of what we accomplished last year. Skylar?”

My belly flutters, and I tuck some hair behind my ear. As coordinator of the Men's Activism Group, I have my summary typed up and open on my laptop. I'm new to this, and I want to do well. I hate being unprepared, so I spent a lot of time last night reviewing my files from last year and working on my summary.

“Last year we started the year off by promoting and participating in the No-Shave October for Consent Campaign. We created our first-ever promotional video that included everyone in the campaign, not only men who could grow beards. We reached over eight thousand people on Facebook and received over five thousand views on YouTube. During that month, we hosted an open mic night at a fraternity on campus and we ended the campaign with a flag football tournament oriented around sexual violence awareness, deconstructing rape myths, and bystander intervention. We have over two hundred participants who signed the No-Shave pledge to practice consensual sex, which we consider very successful.”

I pause and look around at everyone. I hope it doesn't sound like I'm taking credit for all this, because I wasn't even involved until second semester. I just want everyone to know what we accomplished. Victoria smiles encouragingly and I take another breath. “This year, obviously we want to exceed that number. Last spring, we developed and presented a new program called Frat Chat, for men in fraternities to give us feedback on the workshops and other programs, and to network with us for future planning. We got great feedback from them and hopefully will be able to incorporate that into our planning for this year.”

I finish my update and listen to Leah and Grace present their summary of last year's accomplishments for the peer-led support group and the networking committee, respectively.

“Excellent work, everyone.” Victoria nods. “You're an amazing group. I'm so proud to work with you all.”

This is one reason I love her. She always appreciates what we do and gives us positive feedback. And because even though the work we do is serious, she encourages us to have fun.

“Now let's talk about our ideas for the coming year.”

I'm happy and excited to do that. I also prepared for this. “We actually started working on our No-Shave October planning at the end of last school year by looking at what merchandise we still have, scheduling the events we knew we wanted to repeat, and booking venues. I have some other ideas for other fundraising events, like a benefit concert and a pizza fundraiser. I'd like to set some concrete goals in terms of how much money we raise as well as how many new men volunteers we can recruit to the program and how many people we can get to sign affirmative consent pledges.”

Victoria looks pleased at my ideas. “Thank you, Skylar.”

The others put forward some ideas and we get into an energetic brainstorming session. I find myself volunteering for various tasks until Victoria says, “Skylar. I appreciate that you want to be involved, but do you think you're taking on a little too much for one person?”

I blink at her. Oh shit. I've done it again. I have this tendency to overcommit myself.

“I'm worried you won't have time for your studies. Or your job. Or maybe having fun once in a while.”

I make a face. Having fun is a low priority for me. Especially since Brendan's death. I know there are lots of people at college who are here just to party. My housemates Brooklyn and Natalie have busy social lives. Apparently they passed their courses last year—barely—but neither of them have jobs. Ella's been going out with them more and more.

I've been kind of worried about her. She's been acting different ever since Brendan died. Which is totally understandable; we were both devastated by what happened. At first I didn't even notice what was going on, I was in such a fog of grief myself, but last weekend she came home super late—or super early in the morning, depending how you look at it—totally wasted, and spent the entire next day in bed recovering. And then went out and did it again the following night. That's when I realized she's been doing it every weekend. On top of that, she's been hooking up with random guys, sometimes staying out all night, sometimes bringing guys she doesn't even know back to the house, which makes me uncomfortable. I'm not judging her, but you do need to be careful.

I meet Victoria's gaze. “Don't worry.” I flash a smile. “This
is
fun for me. I can handle the pizza fundraiser if someone else can tackle the benefit concert.”

“I can do that,” Grace says.

“And I'll do the research into getting best prices on T-shirts,” Leah says.

“Okay, that would be great.”

“Now let's talk about how the new training program is going,” Victoria says.

The other thing I've volunteered to do is assist with the pilot program we're doing for all freshmen and transfer students, to educate them on healthy relationships, nonviolence and equality, and affirmative consent. We developed this program last year and started rolling out the sessions when classes started. Next week is the third group to go through it, which I'll be doing along with Victoria, Grace, and another volunteer, Chad.

We get an update on how things are going and some of the feedback we've received, which is mostly positive, then I pack up my laptop and drive my tiny little Chevy Cruse home. It's Friday afternoon, I'm done with classes, and now I have not only a lengthy list of tasks to do by our next meeting, but also reading for Human Physiology and Organic Chemistry. Fun times.

I walk into the house to the pounding beat of Pitbull. Natalie's amazing Bose speakers in the kitchen and living room are usually rocking with some kind of tunes, and truthfully, I love it. I love music, and my cheap little docking station for my phone doesn't have nearly the same quality of sound. Luckily, I like almost any kind of music—Luke Bryan or Rihanna or Kanye, but I really like a lot of indie music, like Arcade Fire and Boy Kill Boy. Actually, there are times I like to chill out to Enya. Brendan used to bug me about listening to music his grandma liked.

I sigh at the pang in my chest remembering Brendan and that he'll never tease me again about music.

“Hey, Skylar!” Ella calls to me from the kitchen. “We're making sangria. Gonna order pizza. You in?”

“Sure.” Pizza sounds good, better than cooking, and we get it from a great place that's not expensive. We order our agreed-upon favorite—the Santorelli special with bacon, no anchovies.

“We're going to a party tonight,” Ella continues. “You're coming, right?”

Of course she's going to a party. I swallow my first reaction, which is,
Hell no, I have no time to party.
I tip my head back and gaze at the ceiling. It's cracked, because this is an old rental house that nobody takes care of.

Victoria's comment about having fun sticks with me. I can say all I want that my idea of fun is different than others', that I have no time to party and turn my nose up at that frivolity…but the truth? I'm a little envious of my housemates, who go out and have fun all the time. Not only do they party, they go for lunch, have coffee, even get mani/pedis together.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really worried about Ella or…jealous. Or maybe both.

I'm not jealous of her being so hungover she can't get out of bed. I can't afford to waste a whole day like that. She knows how hard I have to work to earn half-decent grades though, so I do get a little resentful that my best friend isn't staying home studying with me. Which is completely unreasonable, but there you have it. I'm not perfect, much as I try to be.

So right now I want to push aside that awful resentment and envy, and just go have fun.

“Okay,” I say. “I'll come.”

I have to go to this big off-campus party tonight. I keep saying no to the party invites, but not only is it making me fucking lonely, the guys I live with think I'm some kind of pussy or stuck-up asshat. I've had the occasional beer, but I don't go out and get shitfaced or stoned like they do every weekend since school started. I like to have fun, but a drunken party is what got me here, living in a house with three other hockey players off campus at Bayard College, trying to keep my ass out of trouble. They don't know why I turn down invitations in order to stay home and play Xbox. Or jerk off to Internet porn, which is sadly what my sex life has become. Or study.

Fuck me, I've never studied so much in my life.

But when you're sitting at home alone in a town where you know nobody, what the fuck else are you going to do? There's only so much porn you can watch before you become numb to it.

I can do this. I can go to a party, have a beer or two, maybe meet some new people, and have a few laughs and leave sober and alone. If I don't, these guys are never going to accept me as their buddy and teammate.

The guys I live with are all Bayard Bears players—Ben Buckingham, known as Buck; Grady Rockwell, aka Rocket; and Hunter Campbell, who is called Soupy for cheesy, obvious reasons. I'm known as Flash, partly because my last name is Flass, but also because people think I'm flashy on the ice. I say this in all modesty.

Rocket grabs a beer from the fridge and slams the door shut. As he slides onto a stool at the kitchen island, Buck glares at him. “Thanks, bud. You could've brought me one too.”

“Nu-uh.” Rocket shakes his head and lifts the bottle to his lips. “This is your level one infraction punishment. You have to get your own beer.”

I eyeball them both. “Level one punishment? For what?”

“He hid beer.” Rocket shakes his head in disapproval. “That's a level one infraction.”

They have this stupid Bears Bro Code they keep referring to. “Someone please tell me these rules. I'm terrified I'm going to screw up and one morning I'll discover my eyebrows have been shaved off.” I feel like an idiot, but then this whole year is apparently intended to make me feel like a big loser.

“We can't explain it.” Buck shrugs and moves to the fridge, accepting his punishment. “It just is.”

“I think you make shit up.”

Buck and Rocket grin at each other and bump fists, which makes me feel…left out. But that's how I usually feel around here lately. I can't wait for our games to start so I can show these guys that I do fit in.

I volunteer to be the designated driver, which gives me a plausible excuse for not drinking. Buck, Rocket, and Soupy all go for this because it means none of them has to drive, and has the added bonus of being one mark in the “good books” for me. They give me directions for how to get to the house party and a while later we pull up in front of a huge Tudor-style house where a bunch of guys apparently live. It's a warm September evening, already dark, and there are people outside on the lawn, drinking and laughing. The music is audible even there and it blasts us in the face as we enter the house, the atmosphere warm and humid from the crush of bodies, the scent of beer mingling with the faint odor of marijuana.

Some chicks are dancing in the dining room, tossing their hair, arms in the air, asses shaking. The living room is packed with people yelling at one another over the music. We head to the kitchen so the guys can get drinks. I crack open a can of Coke Zero and lift it to my lips as I survey my surroundings.

People greet Soupy, Buck, and Rocket, mostly girls, who all flash me flirty smiles. I smile back. Damn. I don't think I've ever seen so many hot chicks in one place in my life. My resolve to avoid women is crumbling like a stale cracker.

“Hi,” one of the girls says. “I'm Tiffany. I lost my phone number, so can I have yours?”

I laugh uneasily. “Ha. Good one.”

“Are you a hockey player too?”

“Yep. I'm Jacob.”

“Are you a freshman? Because I don't remember you playing last year.”

“I'm new to the school but not a freshman.” I have just enough semester hours for the college to consider me a sophomore. I don't have to declare a major yet, and I don't plan on being here long enough to actually graduate, so I can take courses that interest me, mostly science stuff.

“Where were you last year?” Tiffany asks.

“I was playing hockey in Canada.”

Her eyes widen. “I knew you were Canadian! I could tell from your accent.”

I chuckle. “I don't have an accent.”

“Yes you do! The way you said ‘Canada'…” She repeats it with a nasally “n” sound that I'm pretty sure I didn't use, so I laugh again. “I like Canada. It's beautiful.”

“You've been there?”

“I've been to Niagara Falls.”

“Ah.”

“And I looooove hockey.”

“Me too.” That, I can be honest about.

“When's your first game?”

“October third. An exhibition game against Queen's University.” They're a Canadian team up in Kingston, not part of our league.

Someone is trying to squeeze through the crowd, and Tiffany moves closer, her boobs pressing into my arm. My southern region takes notice. Goddammit.

I shift away and the other girls all introduce themselves, and then a few guys who I don't know join us. They shake hands with me and I try to remember names. It's no problem that I don't know anyone there besides my housemates, as people seem eager to meet me, so there's that. The attention helps my slightly battered ego.

My eyes are drawn to a girl across the kitchen. She's sitting on the counter, her hands holding the edge as she leans forward to talk to a dude standing next to her. She's wearing frayed denim cutoffs that show a lot of leg, and a loose white lace top that falls off one shoulder. It's her hair I first notice because it's long, nearly down to her waist, blond, and fantastically thick and wavy. I have a weakness for blondes and also for long hair because of the very first girl I banged, who let me wrap her hair around my dick. To this day, I get a semi when I see long blond hair. There are a few girls with long blond hair at this party, but this chick's is sweet and as she moves I can see the underneath layer is pink, which amuses me. Plus, she has an amazing smile, and the way she's leaning forward is giving the guy standing beside her a view of her cleavage. I don't blame him for looking, because holy fucking amazing.

She has a vibe about her that's both hot and sweet.

Tiffany is waiting for an answer to a question I haven't heard. “Sorry.” I flash my best smile at her and wink. “I zoned out.”

She follows my gaze across the room and her smile goes tight and kind of scary. “Uh-huh.” She sips her beer. “I asked what position you play.”

“Oh. I play left wing.” I set my can on the counter and take a pretend slap shot.

“You probably score a lot.”

Ha. I meet her gaze and smile and give her my wicked grin. “Yeah. I do.”

Her smile relaxes and her eyes darken.

I could totally tap that. Damn.

I pick up what Buck and Soupy are talking about and interject a comment. My eyes stray back to Rapunzel across the kitchen. She's sitting straighter now, swinging the foot that's crossed over the other leg, wearing a flat, strappy sandal. The languid movement attracts my attention to her legs, which are also primo.

She lifts a red Solo cup to her mouth, and as she does, her eyes meet mine across the kitchen. You know how that happens, right? You look at someone just as they turn to look at you and your eyes meet? It can be weird and you jerk your eyes away and pretend you weren't caught. Or you can hold the look and smile.

That's what I do. I smile at her.

Her eyebrows climb and she holds my gaze too, in a little bit of a challenge. Then she gives me a slow smile back, her lips shiny and pink like her hair.

Then, in a move that kind of confounds me, she dips her head. Her hair falls over her face and she tucks it behind one ear. It's sort of shy and cute and at odds with the eye fuck and the sexy smile. She nods, apparently listening to the guy talking to her. Then she peeks back at me.

I'm still watching her.

My groin tightens.

Shiiiii­iiiii­t.

I haven't even been at this party for half an hour and I'm getting a hard-on for any girl who looks at me.

I need to hang out with guys.

I turn away and shoulder back into the conversation Buck and Soupy are having about which team is going to be our biggest competition this year.

Apparently, it's Harvard.

“Glad you lowered yourself to hang with us tonight,” Buck says to me.

They think I'm stuck-up because I won't party with them. Fantastic. I take the jab but keep my expression easy. “Hey, I can slum with the lowlifes once in a while.”

Buck's lips twitch.

“So we know you're Canadian.” Soupy squints at me. “But that doesn't mean you're a goddamn hockey god.”

My annoyance level reaches the point where I can't stop myself from asking, “What the fuck? What's up with the trash talk? You guys hated my guts before I even got here.”

They exchange glances. “Coach told us not to haze you. Apparently, you're some hot-shit NHL prospect they don't want to piss off.”

I narrow my eyes at them. That's what they think? Ha. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “That's not exactly it.” I don't know these guys well enough to be sure I can trust them with the true story. On the one hand, they might actually be impressed in a sick sort of way. But if they start shooting off their mouths all over campus, I'm fucked. I don't want people to know my sorry shit.

This is fucking me up in all kinds of ways. Nothing's ever been this hard for me before. All my life, people have liked me. Guys like me because they want me to play on their team, no matter what sport. I'm good at pretty much all of them. Girls also like me. I've never totally gotten why jocks are so popular, but I don't question it too much. Once I was playing major junior hockey and puck bunnies were coming on to me all the time, I just gave a high five to the gods above and went with it.

Now these guys I don't even know hate my fucking guts. I can't be my fun-loving, beer-guzzling, man-whoring self with them, so they're never gonna like me. Even my profs are giving me squinty-eyed looks. I'm not going to be getting any easy As because of who I am. It's pissing me off.

Not only that, I've never been so stressed in my life. I need to seriously learn some time-management skills. Between courses, workouts, and practices, I barely have a minute to myself. Luckily, I have no social life; otherwise, I'd never have time for studying.

And what
is
coming easy? Girls. Except once again I can't be my man-whoring self around them. What if I hook up with someone who gets a wild hair and decides she didn't really consent after all? Nobody will believe me a second time. If I think I'm fucked now, that would be the end of my life.

So I'm not going there. I can flirt a little but I can't touch.

Only they don't know that, so the flirtation continues.

“I've heard hockey players have good hands,” a girl named Amy says in a breathy voice.

Tiffany, still hanging out near me, giggles. “I
know
they have good hands.”

“We also have great stamina.” I wink at her.

“But you gotta date a defenseman,” Soupy smirks.

“Oh yeah?” Amy flutters her eyelashes at him. “Why?”

“We care about your back door and pay a lot of attention to it.”

Jesus. Everyone bursts out laughing at the dirty joke, including the girls.

I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.

I decide to use the bathroom to get a break from the sexual references and frank come-ons. I make my way through the crowded kitchen and into the hall. “Bathroom?” I ask someone.

“There's one at the end of this hall and a bunch upstairs. Want me to show you?” she asks hopefully.

“That's okay, doll, I got it.”

There's a group of chicks hanging outside the bathroom door on the main floor, so I take the stairs at a run, my long legs easily eating two steps at a time. The hall upstairs is surprisingly empty and quiet, although as I pass a bedroom door I hear obvious sex sounds. I roll my eyes, a feeling of déjà vu making my gut cramp.

I spot a closed door and test the knob to see if it's unlocked. It turns and I shove it open. Whoops.

The blond Rapunzel I'd been making heavy eye contact with earlier is in there, buttoning her cutoff shorts. Her eyes widen and she yelps.

“Sorry!” I back out and slam the door shut.

I slump against the wall and close my eyes. Jesus. That could have been so much worse.

The door jerks open and she glares at me. “What the hell?”

“Sorry!” I hold my hands up. “Why the hell didn't you lock it?”

“I thought I did!”

I frown and step past her into the bathroom. I jiggle the doorknob, then shrug. Yep, it's broken. “Hey, you wanna wait and stand guard for me outside?”

She rolls her eyes. “Seriously?”

I give her my best grin. “Hell yeah. I don't want anyone walking in on me.”

And then someone appears at the top of the stairs—Tiffany. Somehow I know she followed me up here. Her gaze moves between Rapunzel and me and she hesitates, one hand on the big newel post.

“I need to wash my hands,” Rapunzel protests.

I grab her wrist, yank her into the bathroom, and close the door.

“Hey!” she protests again. “What are you doing?”

“Wash up.” I gesture at the sink. “Take your time.”

“What?” She gapes at me.

Damn, she's pretty. White teeth, small nose, big eyes. Her mouth is a little wide but sexy.