The Shameless Hour: A Sports Romance (The Ivy Years Book 4)

AFTER MY SHIFT at the dining hall, I took all my books to the library.

Hunkered down in a weenie bin, I tried to study. But it was impossible to concentrate. I kept picturing Bella’s victory in my mind. So I sat there refreshing the school newspaper’s website, waiting for the story.

Finally, after I’d clicked the button about a thousand times, it came up — a big picture showing the frat’s messy but legible declaration of inadequacy. And the headline? FOOTBALL TEAM AND FRAT BOTH FUMBLE DURING RAUCOUS LOSS TO TIGERS.

Damn, I liked seeing that.

I read the article written by Bella’s friend Michael Graham. It was a straightforward account of the game and about the half-time shenanigans. Graham wrote: “No one has claimed responsibility for the performance art in the Beta Rho section.”

There was a quote from an alum who was pretty pissed off. “This is libel. We will get to the bottom of this prank, and we will take legal action.”

That made me cringe. I didn’t think Bella’s prank was legally actionable. But what the hell did I know?

My eye was drawn a sidebar article. CUPS AND CUPS OF QUESTIONS.

“Several hundred plastic tumblers with the Beta Rho crest were passed out in the student section during half-time,” it read.

I’d assumed the cups were just cover for the models’ presence, but I’d been wrong. A photo of the back of a cup showed another message:

Beta Rho: 100 Years of Misogyny

First frat to incorporate at Harkness College.

1974: First frat to protest the admission of women to the college

1981: Site of the first sexual assault of a female student

Reprimands and/or probation 7 times in the last 16 years

Side Effects of Drinking at Beta Rho Include

Your photo on the Brodacious website

Winning Skank of the Week

Getting roofied

If a brother hands you “tonight’s special” DO NOT drink it

If you suspect a friend has been drugged, call 911

“Jesucristo,” I whispered to myself. Bella had been wrong when she called herself a failed feminist. She ought to be teaching the class.

The article went on to quote several women on the subject of Beta Rho. “Everybody thinks that Skank of the Week thing is awful,” said a female volleyball player who asked for her name to be withheld. “But nobody speaks out, because no one wants to admit winning it.” The article went on to quote an RA on fresh court who said she always cautioned her First Year charges against getting drunk at a fraternity. “They egg each other on,” she said. “So it’s not a safe place.”

There in the weenie bin, I sat grinning at my computer screen. If Bella was trying to warn women away from Beta Rho, she’d done an excellent job. Front page. And her name was nowhere in the article.

I’d told her not to go through with it. She probably thought I was a jackass. Maybe she was right.

I still didn’t know what to do with my feelings for Bella. Standing around outside today I’d had several hours alone with my thoughts. We were still at an impasse. Several times today I’d considered just giving in — agreeing to be friends with benefits if that’s what she really wanted.

But… Dios, it would never work. The point of arranging a casual hook-up was the casual part. And I’d be carrying all sorts of extra yearning into that bedroom, whether I meant to or not. I could agree to shed my clothes, but I couldn’t agree to shed my feelings. They were permanent. Like an invisible tattoo. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

So I had two choices. I could either slink away and hide how bummed out I was about the whole thing. Or I could try again. I could wait a week and press my case. And if she said no, I could ask again sometime.

There was an old Wayne Gretzky quote that my soccer coach liked to use, even though it was supposed to refer to hockey. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”

It was an easy decision, really.

I pulled my French book closer to me, but then ended up tossing it away again. It occurred to me that I hadn’t been as forthright with Alison as I planned to be with Bella. Which meant that my troubles with Alison weren’t all her fault…

Jesucristo.

I fired up my laptop one more time and composed an email message:

Dear Alison,

Hi. I just wanted to tell you that what happened between us wasn’t all your fault.

It cost me something to write that. Because my inner cave man wanted to protest. But I soldiered on.

It always bothered me when you pushed me away. But instead of trying to figure out what was wrong, I just brooded about it. I made up a dozen reasons in my mind, and all of them were wrong. If I’d been able to speak up earlier, we might have avoided all the drama on our birthday. And so for that, I am sorry.

See you at Urban Studies on Tuesday,

—Rafe

Feeling satisfied, and suddenly exhausted, I snapped the computer shut and picked up my French book. At least I had a plan now. It might not be much. But it was something.