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Olive

A fter properly avoiding my mother and the millions of prying questions she has since the pictures leaked of Alex and me, I decided it was time to bite the bullet. A week seems like plenty of time to let someone cool off, right?

“You’ve been ghosting me,” Mom accuses as soon as she picks up.

I push open the door to the Anthropology Building and into the sunshine. “I’ve been busy.”

It’s a poor excuse, and one she definitely isn’t buying into. “I’ve texted you. How long does it take for a return text? Do you remember when that boy in high school stopped replying to you and you were sad for months?”

She has to bring up Jordan? “That was forever ago. And I was in middle school.”

Not that it makes much of a difference.

“And you were sad! Imagine how I felt when my own daughter did the same thing to me.”

Okay, now I feel bad. “I’m sorry, okay? But I knew you would hound me about Alex and the pictures and why I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t ready to talk.”

Mom is quiet for a long moment. “Okay. Are you ready to talk now? Because I have questions.”

Of course she does. “Alex and I are together” is the first answer I give her.

“Was he the boy from before?”

She’s perceptive. “Maybe.”

“Oh, Olive,” she says. “I knew you had a crush on him. It was obvious whenever we’d go to one of your brother’s games.”

What? “You knew?”

She nods. “Sebestian did too, honey. Why do you think he’d always find a way to get you away from him when he still played for Lindon? He didn’t want you entertaining it.”

What a giant turd. “So you both knew,” I murmur to myself.

Mom hums sympathetically. “I didn’t know anything happened. But for you to be in Pennsylvania with him…”

Clearly, a lot happened that she didn’t know about. “He means something to me, Mom. And Sebastian won’t talk to me now because of it, which isn’t fair. I didn’t ignore him when he brought his pregnant wife home.”

“It’s hard for him,” she tells me, as if that’s supposed to make a difference. “You’re his little sister who he feels he needs to protect. I know you two are close, and that hasn’t changed. He just needs to get past this.”

What is there to get past? “Well tell him to get over it quicker because he’s being dumb. Now I don’t know if I should go to his game or not.”

“Of course you’re going,” she chides. “If there’s one thing I know about you two, it’s that you’re both stubborn to a fault.

Whether you’re talking or not, you are still family who supports one another.

So, you’ll go to his game and show that you’re cheering him on no matter the circumstances. The same as you would any other game.”

As I walk up the pathway leading to the entrance of Babcock Hall, I nibble on my lip. “I don’t like when he’s mad at me.”

“I don’t think he’s mad,” she replies. “I think he’s disappointed that you’re growing up and he can’t protect you anymore. Maybe he’s a little sad that he has to let somebody else take that role.”

Especially someone like Alex.

Doesn’t he know I’m not little anymore? “He doesn’t have to protect me. It doesn’t seem to matter what I say to get that through to him, either. It’s like when Dad left he felt like he had to take on that role.”

Mom makes a noise. “That’s my fault for not telling him otherwise. And it’s something I should have. Because you’re right, he did. But you know what? This is going to be perfect practice for him now that he’s going to be a father himself.”

She always finds way to my optimistic. “Can I ask you a question about Dad?”

There’s only a moment of hesitation. “Sure.”

“Did you forgive him for leaving?”

This time, the pause is longer. “I did. It took a while. But I don’t want to spend my life mad at somebody who isn’t worth my time. He gave me two wonderful children, and that’s enough to be grateful for.”

I find myself nodding along.

“But, Olive,” she adds, “that doesn’t mean you have to forgive him just because he’s your father. I know he’s said some hurtful things. And, if it makes you feel any better, he’s reached out to me asking if he should try making it up to you.”

He has? “What did you say?”

“I told him that anybody who has you in their life is so lucky,” she answers easily.

“And if he wanted to apologize and make it up to you, it’d need to be genuine.

I can’t make him do anything, and it wouldn’t be right if I did.

If he wants to earn your trust, he’ll have to figure it out on his own.

Asking me just tells me that he isn’t ready to pull his head out of his ass enough to see that. ”

I stare down at the grass before hefting a long sigh. “He hasn’t reached out about making amends.”

I’m not sure why that hurts so much. “Then that’s on him. Like I said, you don’t need to forgive him. You don’t owe him anything. Focus on the people who make your life better. If that’s Alex, then I’m happy for you. And your brother will be too. I promise.”

I hope she’s right. “Thanks, Mom.”

“No more ghosting me,” she says firmly.

I smile. “No more ghosting.”

We hang up as I walk into my residence hall.

“Olive,” my RA, Cierra, calls out, waving at me as I walk toward the elevators. “Hold up. You had another package arrive today.”

Another package? Cierra comes out of the backroom with a white box with a yellow and black ribbon tied to the top. There’s only one person I know who’d send me something with those colors on them, and a smile instantly appears on my face as I happily grab it from her. “Thanks, CiCi!”

As I walk toward the elevator, she calls out, “Tell that boy he needs to send things to your school address if he’s going to keep giving you gifts!”

I guess there’s no denying who it is since the photos came out. Since then, most of them have disappeared and the talk has died down.

Giddiness fills my chest as I pull my keys out to my room, tucking the box under my arm until I can set my things down on my unmade bed.

I’m careful not to ruin the ribbons as I untie them, setting them aside to open the box. When I see the jersey inside, my lips part in shock over the name and number.

Then I see the note.

Wear this to the game and make sure it’s the only thing you wear in my bed thatnight

Biting my lip, I lift the jersey up and examine his last name stitched in white block lettering across the back. I can only imagine what Sebastian is going to say when this surfaces online like it’s bound to. Before now, Henderson is the only name I’ve ever worn at games.

And I’d be dumb not to admit that Alex’s post-game plans sound enticing. They really do. Because my vibrator doesn’t quite match the kinds of things he does to me with his hands, and my vivid imagination doesn’t nearly do his talent justice when I think about his mouth and cock between my legs.

The thought of wearing his jersey, his name, while staring down at his dark head of hair between my thighs is torture of the purest kind.

I pull my phone out, about to snap a photo of the present in the box when I have a different idea. Stripping out of my clothes, I slide the jersey on and stand in front of the full-length mirror attached to my standing armoire.

The picture I take is from the neck down, showcasing the jersey on me and nothing else. I’ve never taken a picture like this before, but the thought of Alex getting it…

Well, he deserves a little torture too.

His response is almost immediate.

Alex: Now let’s see it off you

I grin, knowing what he means.

I slide the jersey off and let it drop to the floor, snapping a photo of the piled material by my feet and sending it to him.

Alex: Lift the camera to the mirror

Biting down on my bottom lip, I take a picture of my bare legs and send it to him.

Alex: If you keep this up, you’re going to be in trouble when I see you. That’s a promise, baby girl

Olive: I can get behind that promise

I get a photo in return.

“Damn,” I whisper to myself, staring at the tented shorts. There’s no mistaken that the picture excited him, and it gives me a little extra confidence.

Olive: I hope you’re not at practice

Alex: We’re reviewing game tapes

I giggle.

Olive: Hopefully it’s dark

Alex: I’d hate for the team to think watching the Krakens does something to me

The snort comes before I can help it.

Olive: So I guess sending this wouldn’t be a good idea?

Before I second guess myself, I send him a picture of my boobs. It’s faceless, with a focus on the area he definitely loves paying special attention to.

When it delivers, I don’t let myself regret it. What do I have to feel bad about? Nothing.

A minute goes by.

Nothing.

Thirty more seconds.

My heart speeds up as I quickly grab my clothes and start redressing.

What if one of his teammates saw it? Would they know they’re mine?

Well, probably. I’ve seen plenty of boobs in my day, mostly thanks to the creepy pictures that would come through on Sebastian’s phone.

And porn. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Because of that, I know my boobs don’t look like most of the girls that Alex would probably be expected to be seen with.

Which means if one of his teammates did see them, they’d know they’re mine.

“Oh God,” I groan, sitting on the edge of my bed and biting down on my thumbnail.

Just as I type out another message to him, some panicked, half-ass apology or lame excuse, he’s calling me.

Swallowing, I swipe to answer. “Hi.”

Hi . Can I be any lamer?

“Touch yourself,” he says in a low voice.

My eyes pop open. “What?”

“I snuck out of the room and now I’m locked in the bathroom with my cock in my hand staring at your tits. Now I want you to touch yourself. Do it, Olive.”

Holy shit. “Seems unfair that you have a picture for reference,” I say breathlessly.

“Is that what you need, baby girl?” There’s humor melded into his husky tone, making me bite down on my bottom lip. “Look at your phone.”

Swallowing, I open our message thread and let out a shaky breath when I see the image of him taking up the screen.

I might orgasm just from looking at this.