chapter fifty-one

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The past week has been one big coffee-induced blur.

We're two days away from the last day of the semester, three days away from the Spring Formal, five days away from graduation, and then my time here in Pullman will officially be over.

We have the apartment through the rest of the month, but I promised my Nana I'd come home early to spend time with her before I fly up to New York for my summer classes. So really, I only have two more weeks here with everyone.

It's all happening so quickly. I feel like I barely have time to breathe, let alone finalize everything on my last to-do list of the semester. But even when I do complete something on my list, there's always an odd sense of dread as I cross it off because each time I do, I know I'm that much closer to leaving behind the life that I've built for myself here.

It's bittersweet, and I'm trapped in a constant paradox of crying every time I think about leaving Pullman behind and experiencing the inevitable rush of excitement when I remember that I won't just be going home to Florida when I leave, I'll be going to New York—to NYU.

It feels surreal to think that the one dream I've worked toward for the past four years is actually about to come true, but that dream quickly twists into a nasty nightmare when I remember that I still have a few more days of finals left and I won't actually be free of it until finals week is over.

I've drowned myself in so much coffee this week that I'm practically vibrating in my seat at all times. But I can't stop, because even though I've managed to write four ten-page papers, take three final exams, stay late every day to help edit the last newspaper issue of the semester, and keep up with my shifts at the diner, I still have one final exam to worry about. And even though I've been staying at his house most nights, Tristan and I haven't fallen asleep together in almost a week. He's been sticking with his on-season schedule—waking up for sunrise workouts and training every night with his coach—and since I close at the diner most nights, I don't have much of a choice but to stay up until three in the morning to study. Which means the amount of time Tristan and I get to spend together is slim to none.

Luckily, while Tristan usually ends up passing out by midnight thanks to his intense schedule, Micah seems to be on the same messed up sleep schedule as I am, so we've made an unspoken agreement to suffer together.

It happens every night—Tristan falls asleep on the couch next to me with his head resting in my lap and his arms wrapped around my waist, and an hour or two later, my hushed laughs from watching Micah practically throw his book across the room, eventually wake him up. It doesn't take him long to drop a soft kiss onto my cheek and retreat, half-asleep and groggy, into his room.

If we'd just focus on our papers, we'd be able to go to bed a little earlier, but Micah and I aren't exactly the most focused pair. We usually end up being productive for a few hours—while simultaneously complaining to each other about how much we hate writing said papers—until one of us breaks into the pantry. Okay, that part is usually me. But regardless, after giving Micah my best, I'll share my snacks if you get them down for me smile—which he always pretends to be annoyed with, even though I catch the smirk on his face when he pulls down the Oreos for me every night—the cookies are always the beginning of the end of our productivity.

I might be the one to distract us with food, but Micah's the one who always turns on the TV. We've managed to binge a whole season of Game of Thrones in the early hours of the night while avoiding our essays, and while the show is excellent study break material, by the time we finish watching both episodes—because you can't just watch one with this show—I'm too tired to continue writing. That's when I pull myself up from my cookie-induced coma, say goodnight to my study buddy, and make my way to bed.

I always feel his arms reaching for me as I crawl into bed beside him, and every night without fail, his lips trail across my shoulder and nuzzle into the crook of my neck as he pulls me close to him. No matter how tired I am, the instant flood of adrenaline spikes my blood when he sleepily presses warm kisses up my neck, knowing that those kisses are always followed by the feel of his calloused fingertips gently nudging at the collar of my shirt so he can explore the sensitive skin on my shoulder.

I melt into him instantly because our moments at three in the morning, all alone in the darkness of his bedroom, are the only times we have to be together without the worries of the world crashing down around us. I don't have to think about my final papers, the chemistry exam that I'm terrified to take in two days, or where he's going to end up being drafted because all of those worries fade away into the darkness surrounding us when his teeth graze lightly across the sensitive skin under my ear, and his hands travel slowly down my waist.

His thumb caresses over the side of my rib cage and down my side, lingering on the extra sensitive skin on my hip before he makes his way down to the fabric of my underwear. I can always feel him smiling into my neck whenever the first breathy moan slips through my lips because he knows what his touch does to me, even now, even after I've had him so many times.

Our times spent together late at night aren't rushed, hurried, or desperate. Instead, they're slow, exploratory, and teasing, and when he finally slips his hand into my underwear and connects our lips, my body reacts to him immediately, writhing in pleasure as his fingers work me up until I'm panting hard and biting down painfully on the inside of my cheek to keep from calling out his name too loudly in the sleepy house.

I have to admit, most of my reserve to be quiet is spent by the time he slips his boxers down his hips, and when he rolls over and pulls me onto him, my head falls back with a quiet gasp as the instant rush of pleasure shoots up my spine from the feeling of being perfectly and completely filled by him.

My hips move in slow, teasing motions at first, reveling in the sight of his eyes rolling back as the moonlight peeking through his window just barely illuminates him under me. But when a tortured moan slips from his lips, and he desperately pleads for me to move quicker, I finally break, giving in to the quick movements that he's guiding me into with his hands on my hips.

The noises that slip from my lips aren't as quiet as they probably should be, but when he gently tugs me down and connects our lips as the all-encompassing flood of pleasure rushes my body, his kisses muffle most of my noises. When I finally regain a semblance of control back from the mind-numbing sensation pulsing through my body, I take his bottom lip between my teeth and bite down before sliding my tongue into his mouth, moving my hips in the same circular motion that Layla taught me, and like clockwork, his body tenses underneath me as he finds his own release.

But now that we only have two days before the semester ends, I decided that everyone needs to step away from studying—even for an hour or two—and just relax and hang out before our time here at USW is over.

Nia, Jenny, and I already have our apartment picked out for when we move to New York, and after Jenny sat us both down, with a very nervous James sitting next to her, she asked if we'd mind if James moved in with us in New York. It's always been just us three, but the idea of James joining our little roommate group just seemed . . . right.

I was there when Tristan sat him down the other day and asked him to officially be his agent when he signs his contract, which for a sports business major is just about the most exciting thing that could happen. And when Tristan let him know his salary upfront, I nearly choked on my sip of water when he said the number out loud. I've never even considered making that kind of money. Never even dreamed of it. And I guess that's when the reality of Tristan's contract really hit me. In a month, he's going to sign a contract that's predicted to be just over twenty million dollars. Twenty million. No matter which team drafts him.

I try not to think about it too much because the thought makes me a little uncomfortable. That kind of money changes things. It's the kind of money that I'll never be able to match, no matter how good of a job I get. It's the kind of money that means we will never be equal contributors to our life together, and for some reason, that thought makes me a hell of a lot more anxious than I thought it would.

"What's wrong, Abs?"

His arms snake around my waist as he steps up behind me, and when he rests his chin on my shoulder and watches me squeeze the last bit of lime juice into my homemade guacamole, my body relaxes into his embrace. His cologne is enough to make me want to nuzzle my face into his chest and just stay there all night, but we have a game night to get to, and I plan on winning at least once.

"Hmm?" He turns his head, so his lips are pressed against my neck, and I realize that I never answered him.

"Just a little tired," I say quickly. Tired, yes, but the cloud that's been hanging over my head all day isn't because of my lack of sleep; it's because it's finally hitting me that nights like tonight are slipping through my fingers. That I'm leaving Pullman behind soon. We all are.

I grab a tortilla chip from the bowl next to me on the kitchen counter and scoop up a generous portion of the dip, holding it up to him. He leans down and closes his mouth around the chip, making sure to get the tip of my finger in his mouth as he does. When his tongue flicks around it, I pull it out quickly with a shocked laugh. I know what he's trying to do, and no matter how tempting it is, we can't just disappear into my room for the rest of the night, especially since I'm the one who invited all of our friends over for this game night.

I slip out of his grip and smirk at him as I grab the bowl of guac with one hand and the chips with the other, and when I round the kitchen island and walk toward the living room, his hand cups my butt and squeezes as he walks next to me.

"Alright, who's ready to watch me win?" I grin, putting the last snack option down onto the coffee table before falling back onto the couch beside Tristan. He holds open the gray knit blanket for us to share, tucking me in around him before reaching for his beer on the coffee table.

"Speak for yourself, Bubbles." Luke snorts, sitting up a little while trying not to jostle his leg too much. I wasn't sure if he'd come tonight since he and Tristan still hadn't spoken since getting back from Vegas, but when I opened the door, and he grinned down at me with a six-pack of beer and some pretzels in his arms, I knew that was his peace offering.

He set the six-pack down on the kitchen counter next to Tristan, and instead of turning and walking away, he held out his hand. Tristan seemed a little shocked as he looked down at it, and when he looked back up, Luke just nodded.

"I shouldn't have. I knew I shouldn't have, and I did, and I'm sorry about that."

Tristan stared at him for a long moment, long enough for me to look over my shoulder and search for Micah and James in the living room, hoping they'd be able to get over quickly enough if fists were thrown again, but when I looked back over, Tristan grabbed his hand and shook it.

"And you'll never touch her again," he said, more of a command than anything else—a condition to this offer of peace.

Luke's jaw tightened, and then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he nodded. "I won't touch her."

The look of understanding solidified on his face as he nodded again in agreement; if he has any intention of keeping his friendship with Tristan, Olivia Beck is off-limits. Tristan grinned at that before grabbing a beer and herding him toward the couch. The look of relief, of all the worry and anxiety that's been building in him since his fight with Tristan, evaporated as his captain threw a pillow at his face and told him to keep his knee elevated.

He's been going to physical therapy all week for his knee, and I can tell that it's really taking a toll on him because he winces every time his leg is even slightly jostled.

"What should we play first?" Jenny asks, sliding onto James's lap so Nia can sit down next to them.

"What about bullshit?" Micah offers as he brings his beer up to his lips. He's leaning against the mantle since we don't have a ton of room left on the couch, and even though Luke's offered three different times to move his leg so Micah can sit down, he just shook his head each time and told Luke to watch his knee.

"I haven't played that in forever." Nia nods, already reaching for the deck of cards.

The suggestion spurs the memory of when I played with Dean and his friends in the coffee shop, and a sinking feeling pulls at my chest because I haven't been very good about keeping in contact with him or his friends since I saw them in the bar last. Viv and Sam reply to my Instagram stories sometimes with hearts, but that's all the contact we've had. I make a mental note to text them tomorrow to see how they're doing before reaching over and picking up the Coke can Tristan brought out for me.

"Okay." Luke grins, fanning out his cards in his hands. "Let's do this."



Micah won the first round of bullshit, I won the second, and now that we're halfway through our first game of Monopoly, Tristan's ridiculous amount of hotels have already bankrupted everyone aside from James and me. He's somehow managed to get an entire corner of the board, and after he loaded them up with hotels, we aptly dubbed that corner death row.

He has the smuggest grin on his face when James hands over all of his money and sits back on the couch with a genuinely annoyed look on his face.

"You're so annoying to play this with. Ever since we were kids, you've done this shit," he mumbles, crossing his arms.

"I've been a good businessman my whole life. What can I say?" Tristan grins at his best friend as he counts the money he just gave to him. When everyone's eyes settle on me, I lean forward and grab the dice.

I'm the last one alive, and if I don't roll a high number, there's a good chance I'll die a quick death on death row, too. Tristan leans forward beside me, and I don't have to look over my shoulder to know he's smirking at me.

"Come on, baby, you've got this," he says softly, brushing my hair back behind my shoulder as he brings his lips to my cheek. "You know you want to land on Illinois Ave."

I don't, actually. That would mean certain death for me, but I can't seem to focus on anything other than his spearmint breath on my cheek. I bite back a smile as I lean back to look at him, smirking at me. If there's one thing I've learned tonight, it's that Tristan Beck is extremely competitive when he plays board games. His smirk deepens as he runs his thumb across my jaw slowly, sending a wave of goosebumps down my arms.

"Roll a five, baby."

"That's coercion, T. You can't convince her to throw the game with foreplay," Luke calls, launching a pillow at Tristan, who catches it easily and tosses it onto the couch behind him, never taking his eyes off me.

"I can if it works," he argues, tilting my chin up to bring our lips that much closer. When my gaze flicks to his mouth, and my breathing quickens, his smirk deepens even further.

I lean forward enough to brush my mouth against his as lightly as I can, and when his spearmint breath coats my lips, and he starts to lean into the kiss, I sit back and grin up at him. I try to play it off like I'm completely unaffected, which is not true at all, but in the world of mind games, you can't show any signs of weakness—especially not in Monopoly.

"Sorry, baby." I run my finger along the stubble on his jaw. "But I'm not going down that easy."

His brows raise as his playful grin widens.

I'm probably going to lose. There's like a one percent chance that I make it through his side of the board alive, but still, I'm not going down without a fight.

I roll the dice in my hands and even make a show of blowing on them for good luck before releasing them onto the board. I lean forward, watching them tumble until they finally settle, and it takes me a second to realize what I'm seeing.

What are the freaking chances?

When Tristan shoots up onto his feet, he tilts his head back and chugs the rest of his beer, and I can't help but laugh because he truly is the most competitive board game player I've ever met.

"That's fucking bullshit." Micah laughs. "How the fuck did it land on a five."

"Because even the universe respects my rightful claim to the Monopoly throne," Tristan says as he puts his empty beer bottle back onto the table and holds out his hand for me.

James and Jenny are making a show of yawning loudly, and when she stands up, and he follows, I'm not shocked to see him smirk down at her as she calls out to the rest of us that they're both going to bed.

They disappear into the hall quickly, but it's Luke's snort that pulls my attention. He's still on the couch, but he's trying to stretch out his leg slowly, preparing to stand on it.

"I'm out of here. There was clear collusion going on in that last play." His eyes flick up to mine, and I grin down at him as I reach out and help him up, careful not to bump his bad knee.

"Did you paint this?"

Looking over my shoulder, Micah's bending over to get a better look at the framed watercolor painting on my mantle. The one Josie painted for me for Valentine's Day.

"No, my friend Jo painted it for me."

He considers it for a long moment before standing back up and glancing over at me. "It's pretty dope," he says, bringing his beer up to his lips. "He must be pretty good. He ever draw for tats?"

"Oh, no Jo is—"

But I don't get to finish explaining because I catch the mischievous look in Tristan's eyes just before he swoops down and tosses me over his shoulder.

"Well, this has been fun," he calls, already walking toward the hall to my bedroom. When I catch sight of the stash of cookies in his hand, I can't hold back my smile. "But if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go claim my prize now."


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