The Wrong Distraction

Drew

The worst part about wanting your best friend’s girlfriend is that there isn’t a version of the story where you come out looking decent. There is no edit, no clever bit of framing, no cinematic filter that makes this okay.

You aren’t confused. You aren’t misunderstood. You aren’t tragically complicated in some poetic, tortured-athlete way that makes girls on the internet sigh.

You’re just an asshole.

That’s the thought that hammers against my skull every time I look across the room and catch myself watching Maya Reeves. She’s laughing at something Ian just said, her head tipped back, exposing the pale, elegant line of her throat. She has one hand pressed to Ian Smith’s chest, her fingers splayed over his heart as if she needs him to keep her upright, like his gravity is the only thing stopping her from floating away.

Ian is grinning down at her, all easy confidence and golden-boy satisfaction. He’s the kind of guy who has never had to wonder if the person he wants is allowed to be wanted. Everything for Ian is a green light.

I look away, my jaw tight enough to crack a tooth.

Too late.

I already saw it. The way she looks at him—like he’s the sun and she’s just happy to be in the warmth. The way his hand slides naturally to the small of her back, pulling her an inch closer. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle that were carved from the same block of wood. It’s effortless. It’s perfect.

And because I am a complete idiot with a death wish, it still makes my blood boil.

It bothers me that her hand is on him. It bothers me that his fingers are hooked into the belt loop of her jeans. But mostly, it bothers me that when she leans in to whisper something against his ear, my brain—that sick, treacherous tenant in my skull—decides to imagine what her mouth would feel like against mine.

Not just a kiss. My imagination doesn't do "sweet." No, I’m going straight to hell with my skates on.

I imagine the sharp, hitching catch of her breath. I imagine her fingers digging into my hair, pulling me closer until there isn't a molecule of air left between us. I imagine her soft, melodic laugh turning into something lower, something darker—a sound of pure, unadulterated need that I have absolutely no right to wonder about. I imagine being the one she climbs onto, the one she looks at like she can’t decide whether to worship him or ruin him.

My stomach twists into a hard, cold knot.

I lift my cup and drain the rest of my beer. It tastes like warm, cheap swill and regret, because of course it does. We’re in a crowded off-campus hockey house with floors so sticky they’re practically an adhesive, music loud enough to rearrange my internal organs, and half the Cedar Hill student body packed into every room like they’ve never heard of a fire code.

The air is thick—smelling of stale hops, expensive perfume, sweat, and the kind of bad decisions people pretend don’t count until the sun comes up. Usually, this is my sanctuary. Usually, I’d be in the dead center of the chaos, talking too loud, flirting with anything that has a pulse and a smile, letting some girl drag me into a dark hallway so she can tell me she "loves hockey players" like it’s a personality trait and not a clinical diagnosis.

Tonight, I’m leaning against the wall like I’m waiting for a bus to take me anywhere but here.

“Drew.”

I glance up. Levi Ward is leaning against the drywall beside me, his backward cap shadowing his eyes. He’s wearing that smirk—the one that makes people either want to be his best friend or shove him into a snowbank. He’s our best defenseman, built like a brick shithouse, and somehow convinced he’s the team’s resident therapist because he listens to "mindfulness" podcasts when he’s hungover.

His eyes follow mine across the room. The smirk vanishes, replaced by something sharper. Something knowing.

“Don’t,” I say, my voice like gravel.

Levi lifts his hands in a mock surrender. “I didn’t say a word.”

“You were about to. I can hear your brain gears grinding from here.”

“I was actually about to ask why you look like someone just told you Christmas got canceled and your dog died.”

“I hate Christmas.”

“Bullshit. You wore reindeer boxers to morning skate last year.”

“They were lucky, Levi.”

“We lost six-to-two, Drew. Against State.”

“Yeah, because nobody respected the boxers. The vibes were off.”

Levi gives me a long, flat look. “You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re using therapy words again. It’s annoying.”

“I’m evolving. You’re becoming unbearable.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Seriously, man. You good?”

The question lands wrong. It’s too soft, too direct. I hate when people ask if I’m good, because it gives the lie too much room to breathe. It forces me to acknowledge the hollow space in my chest.

So I grin. It’s a masterpiece of a smile—the one I’ve spent years perfecting. The one that makes coaches trust me and girls fall for me and teammates think everything is fine.

“I’m at a party, Levi. There’s free beer, loud music, and a room full of women. Half the team is about to do something they’ll regret by Monday morning. I’m thriving.”

Levi studies me for a beat too long. Then he snorts. “You’ve been nursing that same lukewarm cup for twenty minutes. You don’t nurse drinks.”

“It’s called pacing myself. Longevity, Ward.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word. You once took six tequila shots because Gavin told you tequila was just ‘aggressive water.’”

“It *is* aggressive water.”

“You threw up in a ficus, Drew. The host cried.”

“The plant was being dramatic.”

Levi’s mouth twitches, but his eyes flick back across the room. To Ian. To Maya. To the giant, neon-lit problem I can’t seem to kill.

“Drew,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. “I said don’t.”

“I’m not judging you, man. But you need a distraction. Get out of your head.”

I follow his gaze, but my eyes land on someone else. By the kitchen, Kelsey Monroe is leaning against the counter. She’s been watching me since I walked in, her gaze heavy and unmistakable. She’s a junior, sorority president, and currently dating Dawson Pierce—a lacrosse player who’s somewhere in this house right now.

“Kelsey’s been eyeing me all night,” I mutter, more to myself than him.

Levi’s expression hardens instantly. “No.”

“What? You just said I needed a distraction.”

“I said a distraction, not a suicide mission. She has a boyfriend, Drew. And Dawson’s right in the other room.”

“I know,” I say, my voice sounding distant even to me.

“Then why are you looking at her like she’s an all-you-can-eat buffet?”

“Because she’s easy. And because I feel like shit, so I might as well act like it.”

“Drew. Don’t be a dick.”

I laugh, but it’s a hollow, ugly sound. “Little late for that, don’t you think?”

I’m tired. I’m tired of the pining, tired of the guilt, tired of being the "good friend" while my insides are rotting. If I’m going to be the villain in my own head, I might as well play the part. At least Kelsey is simple. At least she has nothing to do with Maya.

“I’m going,” I say.

Levi catches my arm. “You sure about this?”

“Nope.” I pull free. “Fuck it.”

I walk away before he can talk sense into me. The kitchen is a sensory nightmare of spilled tequila and shouting. Kelsey doesn’t move as I approach. She just watches me with a predator’s patience.

“Drew Callahan,” she purrs.

“Kelsey.”

“You remembered.” She steps into my space, the scent of her perfume cloying and sweet. “I thought you were busy pining over there.”

I keep my face a mask. “I’m not pining. I’m thirsty.”

She laughs, her hand coming up to rest on my chest. Her nails are sharp, digging in slightly through my shirt. “Isn’t Dawson around?” I ask, my voice low.

“Dawson is drunk and talking to his bros. He won’t miss me for twenty minutes.” She leans in, her mouth inches from my ear. “Will you?”

I think about the consequences. I think about Ian. Then I think about Maya’s hand in Ian’s hair, and I decide I don’t give a damn about anything.

“No,” I say.

She grins, takes my hand, and leads me toward the back hallway. We navigate the crowd—past the drunks and the dancers—until she finds the small guest bathroom. She pulls me inside and turns the lock with a definitive *click*.

The light is harsh, humming with a fluorescent buzz. The room smells like bleach and cheap air freshener. Kelsey doesn’t waste time. She’s on me instantly, her mouth hot and demanding. I kiss her back, but it’s clinical. It’s an exercise in erasure. I want her to drown out the image of Maya.

She tastes like vodka and cherry gloss. Her hands are everywhere—tugging at my shirt, fumbling with my belt. My body responds because it’s a dumb, biological machine, but my head is still in the living room.

“You’re so tense,” she whispers against my neck, her breath hot.

“Shut up, Kelsey.”

She giggles, clearly enjoying the edge in my voice. She drops to her knees on the cold tile, looking up at me with a look of pure, wicked intent. She doesn't wait for an invitation.

She unzips my jeans with a practiced tug. When she pulls me out, the air hits my skin, cold for a split second before her hands wrap around me. Her grip is tight, her rings cold against my skin, as she starts to stroke me, her eyes never leaving mine.

Then she leans in.

The first contact of her tongue is a shock—hot, wet, and rhythmic. She’s not shy. She takes me deep, her throat working as she swallows, the sound of it loud in the tiny, tiled room. It’s sloppy and loud, the friction and the heat finally starting to blur the edges of my brain. I lean my head back against the door, my eyes fluttering shut.

I want to feel this. I want the shame and the pleasure to mix until I can’t tell them apart. Her mouth is a vacuum, her tongue swirling around the head of my cock until I’m gripping the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles turn white.

*Fuck.*

But even then, as she picks up the pace, as I hear the wet, rhythmic sounds of her mouth on me, the image of Maya doesn't leave. It just morphs. I imagine it’s her hair I’m fisting. I imagine it’s her eyes looking up at me.

I’m a piece of shit.

I come with a jagged groan, my body bucking as Kelsey takes every drop, her eyes wide and dark. When she’s done, she stays there for a second, then stands up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and checking her reflection in the cracked mirror.

“Better?” she asks, smoothing her hair.

I tuck myself back in, my hands shaking slightly as I buckle my belt. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a cold, leaden weight in my gut. “Yeah. Great.”

“You’re a man of few words.” Her phone buzzes on the counter. She glances at it and smirks. “Dawson. He’s looking for me.”

“Better get going then.”

She reaches out, patting my cheek. “Don’t look so morose. We should do that again sometime.”

I don’t answer. I just wait for her to slip out first. I splash some cold water on my face, staring at the guy in the mirror. He looks the same, but he feels like a stranger.

I unlock the door and step out, my head down, and immediately slam into something solid.

Books fly. A sharp, startled gasp echoes in the narrow hall. I reach out instinctively to steady whoever I just ran over.

My hands land on a pair of slim shoulders covered in a cream-colored knit. I look down.

A girl is staring up at me. She’s got a stack of textbooks clutched to her chest—or what’s left of them. Dark brown hair is pulled into a messy bun, with loose tendrils framing a face that is currently twisted in a look of pure, unadulterated judgment. Her eyes are a deep, warm brown, and right now, they’re tracking Kelsey, who is sauntering down the hall, adjusting her top.

The girl looks at the bathroom door. She looks at my disheveled hair. She looks at my belt, which isn't quite centered.

“Wow,” she says. Her voice is low, dry, and sharp enough to draw blood.

I should say something charming. I should apologize. Instead, I just stand there, feeling the heat of her gaze.

“She has a boyfriend,” the girl says, her eyes flicking back to mine.

I could lie. I could play dumb. But I’m too tired for the act. “I know.”

Her mouth parts slightly. I can see the gears turning—the way she’s cataloging me and filing me under ‘Trash.’

“And you knew that?” she asks, her voice rising just a fraction.

“Yeah.”

She stares at me for a long beat. Not with interest, not with the usual "hockey groupie" sparkle. She looks at me like I’m a particularly unpleasant stain on the rug.

“Wow,” she repeats, shaking her head. “You’re even worse than advertised.”

I stiffen. “You know who I am?”

“Everyone knows who you are, Drew Callahan. I just didn't realize the ‘bad boy’ persona was actually just a lack of basic morals.”

I should be annoyed. I should walk away. But there’s something about the way she’s looking at me—like she sees right through the jersey and the smile—that makes me stay.

“Are you always this hostile to strangers?” I ask, trying for a smirk that doesn't quite land.

“Only the ones who help people cheat in guest bathrooms.” She bends down to retrieve a fallen book. I beat her to it, my hand brushing hers as I grab it.

*Introduction to Biological Psychology.*

I hand it back to her. Our eyes meet, and for a second, the noise of the party fades. She has a smudge of ink on her thumb and a look in her eyes that says she’d rather be anywhere else.

“I’m Drew,” I say, because I’m a glutton for punishment.

“I don’t care,” she snaps, snatching the book.

“You’re lost, aren't you?” I gesture to the textbooks. “Nobody brings a library to a hockey house.”

“I’m looking for my roommate. Tessa. She’s being cornered by someone named Gavin who apparently doesn't understand the word ‘no.’”

I grimace. Gavin is a teammate. He’s a loudmouth, but he’s not a predator—usually just a pest. “I know where Gavin hides. I can help you.”

She eyes me like I’m offering her a poisoned apple. “Why would I want your help?”

“Because,” I say, leaning against the wall, “I’m trying to salvage one square inch of human decency tonight. And because you’ll never find the upstairs den on your own.”

She studies me, her gaze traveling from my messy hair down to my shoes. “Fine. But if you try anything, I have a very heavy textbook and I’m not afraid to use it.”

I actually laugh. A real one. “I believe you. Walk in front of me.”

She gives me one last, scathing look before turning toward the stairs. She’s wearing fitted jeans that hug every curve, and as she starts to climb, I realize my request wasn't just about chivalry. Her ass is, quite frankly, incredible—rounded, firm, and shifting perfectly with every step. Even through the haze of a shitty night and the lingering taste of a bathroom hookup, I’m super impressed. It’s the kind of view that could make a man forget he’s currently the campus pariah.

I follow her, my eyes locked on the rhythmic sway of her hips. I don’t even know her name, but for the first time in months, I’m not thinking about Maya. I’m just wondering how many more times this girl is going to insult me before the night is over.

I’m almost looking forward to it.