He Shoots, She scores

Chapter Two: Weston | Piss on the Floor

My day was fine up until a knock at 6 am interrupted my sleep. My first thought was, who the hell would visit at the butt crack of dawn like this?  My second thought was why out of all the days, did it have to be today?

See, last night I fucked Myla Banks. The Myla Banks. If I could describe her in one phrase, it'd be 'Queen of the Puck Bunnies.'

Anyways, point is, Myla is every hockey player's fantasy woman. Every straight guy's dream, that is. I'd been dying to get her to my bed for weeks now. Sleek blonde hair, tan long legs, small waist, and that's not even all. The best part? If you're either an ass or tits kinda guy, you won't have to worry about choosing one over the other with Myla. She'd show up with her posse during hockey practice, and I'd feel her leer through the glass windows the second she walked in. She had this sort of presence. It's like when she was there, all the spotlights shined on her. I'd skate up to her at an abrupt stop, causing the shaved ice to sprinkle over her. Girls loved that. Most girls, at least. Myla didn't. Which might be why I've always been so drawn to her. Every practice I'd ask her out and each time she'd reject me.

Until last night.

I slipped my number into her bag when she 'accidentally' left it on the bench one day. I was in the middle of a Tinder date when she texted me for a booty call. Needless to say, I ditched my date in a heartbeat. And it was worth it. Myla definitely knows her way around the sheets. She's also insanely smart. Majoring in mathematical sciences. We made small talk as I picked her up from her place, and when I asked how her studies were, I didn't understand half the words coming out of her mouth. But I thought it was only polite to feign interest, so it didn't make me look like a complete douche if we head straight to the bedroom. I almost feel bad for telling her that I have a one-time limit. Myla's a nice girl, really, but I don't do commitment.

When I hear the knock on our door, Myla's head is wedged between my shoulder. I have to maneuver around it awkwardly, so I don't wake her up.

I'm only wearing boxers, so I quickly slip on some flannel PJs, just in case it's our landlord or one of our neighbors again. Yes, I said again. This isn't the first time a 6 am call has woken this household. Me and the guys are quite notorious for hosting weekly parties. They've gotten out of hand several times, and while our neighbors and the landlord absolutely hate our guts, we get a fun story out of it. So in short, I regret nothing.

Rubbing my eyes, I flick on the hallway lights and swing open the door. At first, I don't see anyone. Then I remember that not everyone is 6 feet tall like me. I inch my head down. In front of me is some girl my age carrying a shitload of boxes. Trying to, at least. Her feet keep swaying left and right. She's short, so her neck cranes all the way up just to look at me. I can barely see her whole face as she tries to peak over the boxes. "Can I help you?" I grumble, still half asleep.

"Hi! I'm Gracie. You can call me Grace. Or Gray. Just pal works too, aha." Jesus. "Or you can call me whatever. I'm pretty flexible." I've never met anyone this perky and chipper in the morning. I don't like it.

I don't say anything and just stare back. She's got these almond shaped eyes, a rich hazel color that innocently blink up at me. "I was the one who applied for the new roommate position?" She says this like I should know what the hell she's talking about. "I got an email from someone named RJ who approved it? He said I could move in today at whatever time?"

RJ. Of course, it was fucking RJ. The same RJ who thought it was a good idea to bring a kiddie pool into our living room. The one who thought it'd be fun to bring home a stray dog. It lasted about 48 hours before we brought it to the shelter, and by then, half our furniture was already destroyed. "RJ!" I scream. "Get in here!" My roommate RJ Singh is of course already up at this ungodly hour for his ritual morning jog. He arrives to the kitchen doing high knees, wearing his jogging outfit. Nike shorts over black leggings, a sweatshirt, and the worst part? A fucking sweatband over his forehead. "What's up?" he pants. He's got some protein smoothie concoction is in his hand, straight from the blender cup. His signature pre-game meal before his workout.