I keep checking behind doors, around corners, and every time I walk into my dorm room, I put my backpack in front of my chest in case she’s hooked up some kind of knife throwing murder contraption.
I wouldn’t put it past her.
If anyone can, my Pitstop can.
I guess the bowl of corn starch in the bathroom pushed her over the edge. I’m kicking myself. I thought we were having fun with our prank war, but this silence... This brutally painful silence is insufferable.
It’s practice time. Or rather, should be. I’m fucking around in the locker room because I’m distracted. Did she put itching powder in my jockstrap? Did she fill my skates with shaving foam? Is she going to steal my clothes when I’m on the ice?
I’m a confident guy, but getting back to the dorms either naked, or while wearing all my hockey gear isn’t my idea of fun.
But the worst thing I can think of? Is that she never talks to me again. That thought does something to my chest I’m not sure I want to give a name to.
The team is huddled around my locker, as I approach, they part like the red sea. There’s a pink and mint colored, foot-long sized cardboard box sitting open on the bench. The white, cardboard lid says ‘Eat A Dick.’ My Pitstop has struck again.
My teammates snicker and whisper as I get closer. They point at the giant dick-in-a-box. It’s almost as big as the box, incredibly veiny and bulbous. Fuck. Is that what our dicks look like to women?
The girthy, chocolate dick is circumcised, has a bigger ball sack than I’ve ever seen, and it’s got a drizzle of white chocolate coming from the tip like it prematurely blew its load before it got to me.
There’s a card sitting on the bench in front of the cock-box, it says ‘Congrats! You just got dicked.’
“Who’d you piss off this time, Myers?”
“Dude couldn’t handle something that size. It’s too big.”
“Is it solid the whole way through?”
It doesn’t matter what my friends say to mock me, the unbearable tightness in my chest has loosened just from knowing my girl hasn’t tapped out of our petty little foreplay war.
I take a few selfies of me with the tip of the giant chocolate cock on my tongue, in my mouth, and when one of the guys pretends it’s a strap on, I start to step out to quickly message Pitstop before things get weird... Weirder.
Before I hit the door, I decide I want my cock back. I’m not leaving it unattended with these jerk-offs. I dunno where it’s going to end up when I leave this room.
Armed with what feels like two pounds of solid chocolate, I make my way into the corridor to send Pitstop the pictures.
She reads the message but doesn’t reply, and I’d be lying if I said my heart doesn’t sink—just a little. She read it though, so maybe she’s just busy.
I go through the motions of practice, trying to figure out what my next move will be with the She Devil next door, and when I step out into the parking lot, I stutter to a stop.
It takes a moment to realize what I’m looking at. Did she?—?
“Who the fuck did you piss off, man?”
I don’t know which of my teammates are standing behind me staring at my vehicle with me, but Ares is standing next to me, his phone out, camera turned on, and his shoulders are shaking with laughter as he snaps pictures. Probably for Eloise, or Tabitha’s next newsletter, or his social media account. Considering what I’m staring at, probably all of the above.
I underestimated the fire of Penelope Lindstrom.
This... this is a step too far.
“¿Qué es esto?” Apollo saunters up next to us asking what’s up. “¡Ay, Dios mío!” He pats me on the chest, rolling his lips like he’s fighting a smile. “This is epic.” The awe in his voice makes me even madder.
Raking my hands through my hair, I can’t think straight.
The ridiculous woman next door has saran-wrapped my fucking car to a streetlight. Not just a little wrap, either. In the time since I arrived at the rink, had practice, showered, and got changed, she’s covered every square inch of my car in plastic wrap, tethering it to the pole.
The wing mirrors are covered, the door handles are covered, the tires... everything. It’s going to be a pain in the ass to get free, and until I unwrap it, I have no idea if there’s been any actual damage done to the car itself.
“I’m going to need help getting my car out.”
