Page 22 of Right Man, Right Time
“Aren’t you hot in that sweatshirt?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Then take it off. God, I can’t watch you eat in that.”
I set my plate down again, grab my hoodie from over my head, and pull it until it’s completely off. I adjust my shirt that rose, and then I fold the sweatshirt and put it on the desk.
“You know, if you don’t want to get recognized, maybe don’t wear an Agitators sweatshirt.”
“It’s all I had,” I say before taking a large bite of my ham sandwich, wishing it was pastrami.
“So . . . how was the hangover? Brutal?”
“More than I care to admit,” I say.
“I was perfectly fine, in case you were wondering. I went for a run this morning, did some light ab work, took a shower, and had a protein shake. I’ve also done my laundry, cleaned my room, and ordered my online groceries to be delivered later today. What have you done?”
“Searched sandwich shops with pickles on my phone.”
She smirks and holds up her pickle. “Well, then you accomplished more than I would have expected. Don’t you have practice or something?”
“Sundays we have off. Once the season starts in a few weeks, things get more intense.”
“Do you drink during the season?”
“Yes,” I answer. “I try to be as healthy as I can, but there are nights when nothing will cure a tough loss like a pint of beer.”
“Soaking your sorrows, I get it. Do you do this sorrow drinking at a bar or at home?”
“If we’re away, it’s at a bar. If we’re home, it’s in my apartment.”
“Makes sense, and do you ever pick up women at the bar?” Her brows wiggle.
“If you’re wondering if I often ask women to be my pretend girlfriend, the answer is no.”
“I’m not asking that. From how you reacted last night, I knew it was the first time you’d asked someone to be your fake girlfriend. I’m just curious about your sex life.”
“Why are you curious about that? Interested?”
“God, no,” she says, as if that’s the most preposterous idea she’s ever heard. “You’re far too old for me. I’m just curious to know what it’s like to be a hockey player. Do you get a lot of action?”
“Some players do,” I answer, not wanting to use names, ahem, Levi Posey. “Some are in relationships. And then there’s me. I only hook up if I really need it. But I don’t like fucking random women because it’s too risky. The last thing I need is a random kid.”
“So your pleasure is mainly from your hand.”
“Is this really how we’re going to start the conversation? Masturbation?”
“I truly believe the best way to get to know someone is through their orgasms, so yes. How many times a week do you come?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. Is this really what the dating world has come to—not that we’re dating—but have I really been that out of the game that we’re now comparing orgasms?
“Are you shy? Fine, I’ll go first. I have a healthy appetite for pleasure. I would say at least every night. Now it’s your turn.”
Every night? I nearly choke on my sandwich just thinking about her getting herself off so often. I’m pretty sure Sarah didn’t even know how to touch herself, let alone want to touch herself that often, or even once a week for that matter.
“How does this pertain to fake dating?”
“It has everything to do with fake dating. Before I sign on for anything, I need to make sure you’re pleasuring yourself so you don’t come sniffing over here, looking for someone to place their hand on your dick. Because if we do this thing—guidelines still to be determined—then I need to know that there is no chance in hell you’ll be a horndog, sniffing up this tree.”
