A free newsletter serial by Sarina Bowen
There are 1016 people in the freshman class at Harkness College. I can’t be the only socially awkward nerd girl virgin among them. Right?
It’s time I learn to talk to guys without blushing and stammering. So I take a confidence-building job at the student tutoring center. Twelve bucks an hour, plus human interaction. What could go wrong?
A fun-loving French Canadian hockey hunk, that’s what.
When Pepe Gerault sits down at my tutoring table, my brain shuts off and my mouth goes right into hyperdrive. Even the sound of my name on his lips—Josephine—gives me a mini orgasm.
I want to hand him my V-card. But all I manage to hand him is…my thesaurus. And my dignity. All seems lost, until I hatch a plan to get him alone…
Get it: Only in Sarina's newsletter!
NOTE: If you sign up after the serialization has already begun, your first email will contain links to all the existing chapters. You won't miss a thing!
Wait. Who was Pepe again?
Fans of the Ivy Years novels will recognize Pepe! He's a French-Canadian hockey player on the Harkness Hockey team in three of the Ivy Years books.
Pepe first appears in The Understatement of the Year:
"That afternoon was the first hockey practice of the season. We were all banging around in the locker room, feeling lucky. Our lineup looked great, too. There were a couple of enormous Canadian recruits, with thick French accents and even thicker beards. We’d known them for all of a half hour, and already one of them had earned himself the nickname Pepe, like the cartoon character Pepe le Pew. And it looked like we were just going to call the other one Frenchie. Because we’re real creative like that..."
Pepe also has a funny scene in The Shameless Hour:
One of the chairs had been taken by Pepe, an enormous French Canadian defensive hockey player and one of my on-again-off-again fuck buddies. “Belluh!” he crowed in his thick French accent. “Zhere is no score yet! But your Rangers look like poo poo tonight.”
I walked over and sat down in his lap. He stuck his big feet out onto the coffee table, making both of us more comfortable. And just like that, my seating problem was solved. “Twenty bucks says the Rangers win tonight,” I challenged him.
“Noh,” he said, his accent thick even on the one syllable word. “I cannot take money from a friend.”
I snorted at his overconfidence. He and I had a longstanding Rangers-vs.-Canadiens rivalry, because those were our teams. Pepe and I were the same age, although he was only a freshman. He’d spent two years after high school playing semi-pro on a farm team for — wait for it — the Canadiens. So for him, this game was personal.
Unfortunately, he was right that things didn’t look so good for my Rangers. The score was still zip-zip, but the Canadiens had already taken twice as many shots on goal as the New York team had.
Behind me, Pepe got excited about the on-screen action. “Oui! Oui oui oui!” he yelled at the screen as his team’s forward drove the puck towards the goal again.
“Stop him,” I yelled. But it was no use. The lamp lit before I could even get the words out.
Pepe threw his scruffy head back on his broad shoulders and whooped.
There is nothing cuter than watching a giant man-child get delirious over his team’s goal. Pepe’s hands wandered down my sides, and he gave my hips a squeeze. I felt his erection begin to poke me in the lower back.
Turning to whisper into his ear, I asked, “Pepe, did you seriously just pop a boner because the Canadiens scored?”
“Noh,” he said. “I have zee bonnaire because now we are weening.”
I giggled, while his hand found its way onto my boob, which he gave a single squeeze. Sports, food and sex. Those were the things which made the men in my life tick. It was really that simple.
“I theenk we need a different bet,” he said. “Not money. Les vêtements. Clothing. I score a goal, I choose a piece of yours.”
I turned my head so I could see him. “You want to play strip hockey?”
“Oui. Keep it interesting.”
What a goofball. “Fine. But we’ll have to watch the game in my room if you want to get naked.”
“Not naked. Just take off zee sweater.” Carefully, he lifted it over my head, tossing it aside. “It is itching me.”
“Sorry,” I laughed. It was an itchy sweater. Wearing only a tank top now, I settled back against Pepe’s broad chest. He was excellent furniture, as long as you didn’t mind the sensation of his dick poking at the bottom of your spine.
And I didn’t.
I thought of Pepe as the human equivalent of a black Labrador puppy...