Playing Pretend with the Hockey Bad Boy

~BRIA

“Oh… Marcus, my pussy is so wet for you.” My hands tremble as I watch Chloe, one of the prettiest girls on campus, throw back her head, moaning out my boyfriend's name, her legs wrapped around his waist as he slides his fingers between them and inside her revealing Hello Kitty underwear.

They are about to have sex here without bothering to close the locker room door.

“Be a good girl and keep quiet. Someone might hear us.” He chuckles, peppering kisses down her neck.

Chloe bites her lips in such a sexy way that only girls like her can and stares at my boyfriend with a mischievous gaze.

“Someone?” she says, tilting her head. “Do you mean that cow of a girlfriend?”

He stops, and for a heartbeat, I think he will push her away and tell her never to call me that.

The thing he does next wrecks my soul.

“A cow? Comparing her to such a nice animal is bad. I always see her as a pig. A very dirty, boring pig,” he mutters and kisses her with more passion than our ten-month relationship ever has.

Today is supposed to be a happy moment for the both of us. More specifically, him. Marcus has just led his team to a brutal 4–1 victory over their state rivals, and I can't wait to see his smile when I hand him the three-tier chocolate cake I spent six hours baking. Now I'm barely holding the box in my arms.

My knees go weak. With some strength left, I swallow my saliva so hard that it feels like a heart-crushing rock and call out the man I have loved for months' name.

“M-Marcus?”

They snap apart. Chloe smirks, staring like she's won some game, adjusting her tight pink skirt. An outfit that would never in a million years fit me unless it’s an extra-large due to my massive hips. Luckily, my stomach is normal, in my mind.

“Bria?” Marcus wipes his mouth. His eyes hold neither sheer regret nor panic.

He scoffs. “Why are you here? I told you to wait for me at my place. You never fucking listen, that's your problem.”

“My problem?” I take a glance at Chloe. She's leaning against a wall, twirling her blond hair, looking pleased with the emotions on my face. “Are you joking right now?”

He ignores my question, looking down at the box in my hand, his handsome face flicking with confusion.

“A cake. For your win.” I manage to reveal, trying my hardest not to collapse to the ground. Doesn't he care that I caught him? Do I mean so little to him?

Of course I do. If he loved me, he wouldn’t be kissing the very girl who has tormented me throughout high school and even on campus.

His face squeezes with disgust. “Ewww, gross. Are you trying to get me to turn like you? What kind of sicko are you?”

I laugh in disbelief. I don't even know my body can release a laugh, but it does as I walk slowly inside and drop the cake on a bench.

“You're cheating on me,” I state.

He shrugs. “So? I'm a hockey player. What were you expecting? Some devoted lover boy who would want you? Pssh, please. I wanted to try fat girls, and you were the most desperate one around.”

He grabs Chloe by the waist aggressively, and she giggles, resting her head on his shoulder. She's claimed him.

“I realized that fat girls are so dry. Thought you'd have a wet pussy, but even that you can't achieve.”

He's lost his mind. Does he think women my size just become wet with magic? I have to be fucking turned on before any of that occurs!

Will this be the right time to tell him that he sucked at making me cum? That all the praises I've heard from girls who slept with him were all lies. His cock was average at best and didn't make me moan in the slightest.

Tears are close to spilling. I hold them strong and blink fast.

“Look here, just be a good girlfriend and wait for me back at home.”

Why am I stalling? I need to end this. We're already done, but voicing the words out will turn it real.

​“Look at yourself,” Marcus sneers, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh, vicious murmur meant only for me. “You're suffocating me, Bria. Stand next to Chloe and look in a mirror. You look like a pathetic, dying pig standing there crying over a stupid cake. Did you really think a girl like you belonged on my arm?”

A dying pig.

That's how he sees me. Someone dying. I look at the face that once made my lonely heart flutter, realizing how naive I’ve been. The popular guy falling for the chubby girl is a trope confined to the fiction books on my shelf. He was just curious about what it was like to use someone my size, and I walked straight into his trap.

Like a pathetic pig, in his words.

“Go away, Bria,” he says, waving me off as he turns back to Chloe. “I’m not finished here. You’ll get your turn later.”

He pulls Chloe in again, resuming the kiss. Chloe keeps her eyes open just long enough to glare at me in triumph before closing them.

​Heat flares through my veins, consuming the sorrow and leaving pure, concentrated rage in its place. He actually thinks I’ll sit around waiting for his scraps.

I step over to the bench, open the box, and bury my hand deep into the soft, heavy chocolate cake, pulling out a massive handful. I take slow, deliberate steps toward them.

​“Marcus,” ​This time, my voice holds pure venom.

He groans in annoyance, breaking away. “I said later, Bitc—” I cut him short when he turns around and slam the cake hard against his face.

Chocolate frosting smears across his cheeks, his nose, and his mouth.

The strength in my hands comes from who knows where as I watch a six-foot-three man stumble backward before falling to the ground.

For a moment, nobody moves.

Marcus stares at me in shock.

I stare back, my chest heaving.

“You fucking pig!” Chloe screams, her eyes wide as she tries to make me feel small. “How dare you slap him with those chicken-greased hands of yours—”

I slap her as well.

'SLAM!'

The sound echoes through the locker room.

Chloe's head snaps to the side.

Her hand immediately flies to her cheek, her eyes widening as she looks at me like she can't believe I actually touched her.

Neither can I.

The price of this will rise tomorrow morning, but I don't give a fuck with the anger and tears waiting to spill.

I turn and rush out of the locker room.

My shoes slap against the floor as I run down the hallway, my heart pounding so hard that I can barely hear anything else.

But then Marcus's voice cuts through the distance.

“Let her be. We'll deal with her tomorrow.”

Fuck.

I really did it.

There's no hope for me.

I shouldn't have touched them. I should have left them like they wanted and cried myself to sleep.

I should have swallowed the humiliation like I've swallowed everything else people have thrown at me.

But why should I?

Why am I always the one who has to walk away quietly?

Why should Marcus get to cheat on me, insult me, call me a pig, and still expect me to lower my head and leave?

Yes, I am weak. But not that weak as they imagined.

My nineteen-year-old, lonely self only knows Marcus.

​I started college ten months ago as a freshman, entirely isolated in my own world of fiction and quiet corners, until he stormed into my life and called me beautiful. For the first time, someone looked at me like I was worth noticing. And I was naive enough to believe every word, believe we'll stay together till final year.

​My chest heaves as I run, each breath coming up short. I curse my heavy chest and wide hips—they are too heavy for a quick escape, dragging me down with every desperate step.

​I finally slow down once I reach the far side of the athletic building, bending over with my hands pressed firmly against my stomach, trying to pull air back into my burning lungs.

​When I squeeze my eyes shut and blink three times, the blurred shapes around me settle into a quiet parking lot.

​Now, with no audience left to watch, the tears come pouring out.

​“Fuck love,” I gasp, forcing myself to walk aimlessly through the rows of vehicles. “Screw relationships.”

​I keep moving until my eyes lock onto a familiar blue Jeep parked under a lone lamppost. I’d recognize it anywhere. Marcus drives me home from campus in that car. We make out in the passenger seat. We fuck in the back.

​I wipe my wet cheeks with the back of my hand, already feeling the dull throb of a severe headache building behind my eyes. My tired legs scream at me to quit, but anger pushes me forward.

​I stop beside a patch of landscaping, pick up a heavy wooden stick, and grip it tight.

Approaching his Jeep, I raise the stick high over my head, preparing to shatter the glass.

​I swing downward—only for a strong hand to shoot out and clamp firmly around my wrist, arresting the motion mid-air.

My body goes still.

​He found me. Marcus is going to kill me.

'Shit. Double shit.'

​But as the broad hand tightens around my skin, the sensation hits me. The grip is larger, calloused, and radiates a sharp heat. It doesn't feel like Marcus at all.

​My suspicion is confirmed a second later when he yanks my arm, spinning me around until my back thuds lightly against the Jeep’s door. My heart slams into my ribs as I look up, meeting the amused, intense gaze of someone I never expected to glance my way again.

​“Hey, cupcake,” the handsome stranger smirks.

​The moonlight washes over his features, tracing the sharp, golden tone of his tanned skin and highlighting a brutally chiseled jawline.

Dark strands of hair fall messy across his forehead, and a sudden, irrational urge flashes through me—a desire to reach out and push those silky locks back just to get a clearer view of his face. But it is the silver ring pierced through his full lower lip that makes my breath hitch.

'That's new. He never had that before'.

A sudden heat flares low in my stomach, leaving me to wonder just how many girls have melted under the press of that metal against their skin.

​“Now, why do you want to smash your whore of a boyfriend’s car?” his voice drops, rich and taunting. “That’s not the good girl I know.”

​Damon Black.

​Another legendary fuckboy on campus. My ex-boyfriend’s bitter rival in the Hockey team.

​And the man who stole my first kiss.