I’ve been living with them for six months now, and it’s easy to say they don’t know the wordkind. They are the epitome of mean girls, yet they tolerate me. They’re never outright mean to me, but they’re always quick with the backhanded comments.I’m used to it, though, which I know is a sad thought. Not that my family has ever made me feel less than, but everyone else?
Yeah, I’m never good enough.
One thing is for sure—I’ll be moving to an apartment after this year. Unfortunately, I have to stay on campus my freshman year, which is why I’m in this predicament.
Because any other day, no one would catch me at a Bullies’ house party with these three.
Or at a party, really.
Especially a college hockey team party.
I’m not really the party type, and since I have been around hockey guys my whole life, this isn’t my scene. With my dad’s career as a professional NHL player, and then when he moved to broadcasting, I’ve been able to go to a bunch of camps full of hockey guys and I know them better than anyone. While I know there are good guys in the sport, I have met nothing but shitty ones. Yet just like every other naïve girl out there, I keep chasing those red flags. It’s hard when I want what my parents have, a loving, supportive marriage, but I only meet guys whose brains are in their dicks.
I want someone to share my life with. But I’m only eighteen; shouldn’t I be having fun?
But sucking Dawson’s Sinclair’s cock doesn’t sound fun to me.
I mean, it does, and I bet he’s hung, but I refuse to be like the masses.
The fact that everyone is obsessed with him is a turn-off, especially when I know he wouldn’t give me a second glance or even remember me after.
“A rite of passage would be getting drunk and playing hockey in the guys’ gear. Sucking a guy off is not the same thing,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“You’re really judgy,” Grace M. says, her words a bit slurred. “You never want to hook up with anyone. I’d think you’re gay, but you wouldn’t even fuck us.”
Oh, you read that right. They hook up with one another.
It’s okay, though. They’re drunk when it happens, so they’re not really bi.
I feel like I get dumber just breathing the same air as them.
I cover my mouth to hold in my laugh. “Yeah, sorry. I have better things to do than worry about sex. I have?—”
“Goals,” they say together, rolling their eyes.
It’s Grace P. who says, “Your goals are ruining your life.”
I make a face. “Or making them better,” I say, not one to hold back. My dad says I have a bit of a mouth on me. That I never really think before I speak.
He’s not wrong.
“What else is new— OMG, there he is!” Grace G. says, and they all puff up like peacocks. Tits out and duck lips in full force. I fully expect them to start doing mating dances at the drop of a puck. I roll my eyes, not sparing Dawson Sinclair a look before I point at nothing.
“I’m going to go get some air.”
I don’t miss what they say under their breath.
He wouldn’t let her suck him off anyway. She’s not his type.
She’s such a loser.
Only a couple months and then we’ll be rid of her boring ass.
I can’t help but laugh.
What they don’t know is I’m way meaner to myself than they could ever be.
I walk through the Bullies’ house to the kitchen, where a huge tub of Bullies Backyard Punch is out in the open. Now, I wouldn’t get any if there weren’t a sober guy in charge of watching the punch to make sure no one drops drugs into it. Asmuch as I hate parties, the Bullies are very much about the safety of their guests. Especially women.
