Free Love's Learning Curve by Felicia Lynn Page B

up to their expectations.  I’ll always fail. A 4.0 GPA isn’t good enough. She never regards volunteer work with multiple charity organizations as doing well unless it comes with a photo opportunity and publicity for the campaign.  I’m nothing to anyone unless my presence benefits others.
    I just want to scream.  With my head in my hands, my fingers lace through my hair and I imagine being able to scream at my mother.  I scream so loud and tell her all the things that I’ve held back.  I’d lift the rug hiding the terrible things she’s said, and instead of ignoring the comments and biting my tongue, I’d say what I think.
    The urge to scream builds fiercely, and before I know it, I’m screaming into the empty park.  Not screaming words, just screaming out my frustrations.  My God, I’m losing it.
     

 
    This morning I woke up feeling hung-over.  Not hung-over from drinking myself into sedation—that I can deal with.  No.  This hangover was from emotional confusion.  When I got back last night, it took all my energy to keep from going back to Charlie.  Back to Charlie to make sure she was okay.  Back to Charlie for answers to the questions that kept me up all night.  Back to Charlie to test the theory that if I touch her enough, the spark will go away.  Back to Charlie for any reason at all just to be back with her.  I don’t understand why she affects me the way she does.  This girl sparked something in me the first time her eyes pierced through mine, and I’ve not been able to think of much else since that moment.
    Call me fucking crazy but when I saw her at the party and recognized that she was the very same girl from the afternoon leaving the field, I flipped my shit and thought I’d scored huge.  To my shock, she wasn’t what I expected from her previous feisty attitude show.  The chick at the party was wounded.  She’s holding on to some secrets.
    Secrets … I understand those.  I have a cave full, hidden deep, never to be found by anyone.  I have no interest in uncovering whatever she’s hiding.  Hell.  I thought I had no interest in anything other than seeing her kneeling in front of me with her perfect little lips wrapped around my cock and bright eyes looking up at me.  The image is so vivid, it feels real, but that’s not all I want from her.  What the fuck is wrong with me?
    I throw on clothes knowing I need to blow off some steam.  Not working through my sexual frustrations was one thing, but I couldn’t sleep last night either.  Every time I closed my eyes, the image of her defenseless as I carried her was all I could see.  The way she looks at me, like me , and not some cocky ballplayer.  Her eyes hold some sort of power over me.  It’s like witchcraft.  
    I thought I was immune to the doe-eyed look.  Wait, I am.  I’m Tyler FUCKING Stone.  Girls don’t affect me.  They serve one purpose.  People don’t affect me.  I don’t do emotional connections.  I play ball.  It’s all I know.  I definitely don’t know anything about relationships, and I’m not interested in that sort of complication.  I can count on one hand the people who I care deeply for, and I don’t intend to grow that list and start a new hand.
    The field will be empty today, and the best way I know to work this shit out of my system is with a ball in my right hand and a glove on my left.  Since the option of working her over fast and hard in the shower is out, I grab my keys and helmet and am out the door in seconds.  I need to get my head back in the game.  No distractions.
    The engine is music to my ears.  I take off toward the field, my sanctuary.  This has to clear my head and put things into perspective.  The streets near campus are empty at this hour.  Nine a.m. on a Saturday is not a peak time for students, but I’m an early riser, always have been.  My stomach wakes me at seven a.m. every day.  I suppose all those years in boy’s homes and foster care