Hearts and Aces (Prologue, Chapter 1)

A/N: Though I use several real-life universities as locations, all names of buildings, mascots, and teams are fictional to avoid copyright issues. The NCAA brackets are entirely made up for the novel.

Also, the Swedish is relevant to the plot, but most of this is written in English.

TW: mention of slurs, transphobia, homophobia, misogyny, CSA, grooming

Prologue

“I think we need to break up…” I said to her in the aftermath of…whatever this was.

It was the last time. The last time I would do this.

Fuck. I sounded like a goddamn addict.

Her effect on me felt more damaging. Every moment with her electrified me, made my chest ache like my heart would burst out of my ribs. I looked in her eyes and felt seen. I feared if I didn’t stop this, I wouldn’t leave her side. I wouldn’t leave the bed. I would spend eternity between her thighs, my mouth buried in her wet heat, watching her beautiful body contort beneath me. Each time, she’d claim me for her own, plunging the strap in me expertly, like it was part of her body. She gazed down at me while fucking me like I was worthy, like she was seeing into my very soul. I melted under her hands and hips, lulled into a trance as I obeyed her commands. I easily benched more than her body weight, but she owned me in bed.

I kept going because I thought I would get tired of her. I thought we would use up all of this, whatever this was, and we’d be sated. Satisfied.

But that’s not how addictions work. Or the other word…the word I couldn’t say because it couldn’t happen. The word that was always stuck in my throat, choking me, threatening to rip me apart.

“You don’t want to break up, älskling.” Sigrid said softly.

She spooned behind me, her naked body pressing against my back. My eyes watered as I realized the terrible truth. This was never just sexual. This was never just a way to break away from my toxic family.

Her hands roamed my body lovingly, always lovingly. She worshiped my muscular body while people online trashed it. She knew exactly how to drive me crazy, knew every tell, every place that would make me fall apart.

Sigrid whispered in Swedish as she massaged my shoulders. I didn’t understand her and I didn’t need to. She said it so passionately, I could feel it in my soul.

“Jag älskar dig, vackra. Snälla, lämna mig inte.”

I wish there were another plane of existence where we could exist, where we could be together without fault. No judging eyes, no death threats, no condemnations to hell. But there was no such reality and we were deluding ourselves to think we could continue this.

I had to just rip the bandaid off.

I had a scholarship and college career on the line. I also had a family that would have me kidnapped and sent to a conversion torture camp. I’d also risk Sigrid’s career and I couldn’t live with myself if I jeopardized that.

“I’m sorry, we can’t do this anymore.” I said, abruptly sitting up. “It’s dangerous. For both of us.”

“Essie, please…” Sigrid begged, her own voice breaking. “Please just talk to me.”

“I have to go.”

Even though I was crumbling inside, even though it felt like my own heart would strangle me, I got dressed, gathered my phone and bag, and left the room.

1

DIG

NCAA Division I - Women’s Volleyball Championship

2nd Round

2022 – Pittsburgh University

I was starting to believe this coach hated me.

I had been benched for most of the game. I was miserable, feeling like a pent-up dog. My piece-of-shit kneepads were too tight and smelled like vinegar. It was so they wouldn't smell like sweat and gym, but the vinegar just made it worse. Who the fuck recommended vinegar?

The ridiculously short volleyball uniform shorts were tight on my thighs. I had gained mass, but I know Coach Brunswood would demand a weigh-in. He still stubbornly relied on the BMI even though it had been scientifically proven again and again to be horseshit. The man himself popped his gum, chewing audaciously, like he was trying to prove something.

I didn't build this body by accident. I did the extra training, I went to the gym, I hit all my macros. All that conditioning during the summer and for what? To sit on my ass?

“This is fucking bullshit.” I hissed to Winnie Moreston, a fellow benchwarmer. She was built like me, stocky but strong. I had a nasty suspicion we were benched because we weren’t attractive enough for the cameras. Conventionally attractive. We all knew why the frat boys came to the games and sat in the low risers. It wasn't because they appreciated the sport.

I’ve been building muscle since high school, preferring to weight lift rather than waste my hours on a treadmill. I swam to get my cardio at the university pool. I’ve always been tomboyish, preferring to wear basketball shorts and plain T-shirts rather than anything trendy. I wore my hair in a high-ponytail, sometimes braided. Makeup didn’t look good on me and I’ve hated wearing dresses since I was a child. I was still forced to wear one at every family gathering, my mother absolutely refusing to let anyone see me in casual wear.

Suddenly, the coach called for a substitution.

“Subbing 23 and 14!” the coach announced.

14 was Angela Delacourt and she did not look thrilled at being benched. She also hated me for bigoted reasons. We raised our hands, palms out, against another as was tradition during a substitution. She made sure not to touch my hand, lest she contract my weirdness.

I went to stand at setter position. Play resumed, the other team serving. The outside hitter bumped the ball to the middle blocker, who set the ball for the rightside hitter to spike it over. But the other team’s hitter saved the spike, volleying it back over. The ball was almost out of bounds, but I dived to bump it back into play with my fist. The front row attempted the spike again, this time succeeding.

We rotated, feeling the adrenaline kick in as we battled to keep the ball in play. Our libero was relentless, refusing to let the ball drop. However, during a dig, she accidentally bowled into the middle blocker, knocking her over.

“Bitch!” the blocker yelled, which the referee unfortunately heard and called a red card for unsportsmanlike conduct.

Despite working well as a team, we weren’t exactly friendly when someone fucked up. Too many competitive people in one room, too many clashing attitudes. The middle blocker was benched and Angela Delacourt subbed back in, looking back at me with a sneer. I cocked my eyebrow at her. I know she didn’t like me, but this was a fucking championship game. We were supposed to leave grudges at the door.

Play resumed.

The game was cutthroat. I was in the zone. I wasn’t letting that ball touch the ground. Sweat dripped down my face and I felt the endorphin high take over. The final stretch. We were tied at 2 but they weren’t slowing down. I was rightside hitter, making the signal to the blocker to set me up for a spike. But she didn’t, instead giving it to the outside hitter. The ball hit the ground on the other side and the crowd erupted as the buzzer blared. We won, but I was pissed.

I had the better spike and these bitches all knew it. They just didn’t like me. I felt like I was in high school again, being mocked for my body rather than appreciated for my skill. Muscles were still seen as masculine on women and there were already rumors that I was a butch lesbian because I dressed in athletic wear all the time and had no boyfriend. I thought going to a secular college would mean less of this clique, mean girl bullshit but apparently not.

While the other girls were celebrating, I hit the showers. I peeled off my uniform, not caring about the eyes on my naked body, as though they were trying to prove I wasn’t a chick. My breasts might as well just be pecs for how small they were, even before I bulked up. I only shaved when I went swimming, and I hadn't had the time to do so with my course load and conditioning. They eyed my full bush with disgust. I used to shave it off when I was younger, but I would get ingrown hairs and razor-burn, so I stopped doing it. Why? No one was going down there, anyway.

Look ye upon my garden and despair, Barbie-doll twats.

After my shower, I dressed in a tank top and jogging pants. Leaving the locker room, I saw other teammates meeting with their families who flew with them to games. To say I wasn’t jealous was a lie. Not that I wished my parents were here, but that they were different parents.

My father was a pastor of an evangelical church back in Roanoke, Virginia. My mother was a choir director and secretary. He had a congregation of approximately 400 people. I was very much the black sheep of my three siblings. Debbie was the golden child: obedient, feminine, and God-fearing. Sometimes I could hardly believe I was related to her. I had black hair, but she was blonde. She got the better of my parents' genetics, whereas I got Dad’s large nose and triangular jaw.

I liked my sister, Phoebe, the best. She was quirky, book-smart, and as done with the family religion as I was. As soon as she turned 18, she went to college to become a nurse, moving out against our parents’ wishes. The oldest of us was Noah, who played football for Liberty University. He was another star child, but not as insufferable as Debbie. He didn’t care that I was a tomboy. In fact, we competed against each other a lot and stood up for me when Dad didn’t want me playing flag football with his friends because it’s a man’s sport, whatever that meant.

My phone buzzed as I exited the gymnasium. I rolled my eyes as I saw the name Medusa on my lock screen – what I had nicknamed by mother in my phone.

Medusa: tell your sister to pick up her phone

I was 19 years old and an NCAA volleyball player and she treated me like her personal secretary.

Essie: Phoebe is a full-time NICU nurse, mom

The ellipses animation continued for a whole minute. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb, not wanting to deal with her bullshit.

I needed a drink.

I went into the nearest pub I could find in Pittsburgh. I ordered the first beer I saw on tap. Steelers merchandise decorated the walls and the TVs were showing highlights of their best games. Guys did not hit on me in bars. They saw the muscles and saw a challenge, not a conquest. Frat boys filled several of the booths. You spend enough time on college campuses, you can just pick them out by their douchebag clothes and demeanor. Their attitudes practically screamed daddy’s money and trust fund.

“Yo, look at Shrek at the bar.” I heard one of them say.

“Is that even a female?” another one asked.

“Dare you to ask them out.”

“No way, she might eat me. He. She. It. Whatever that is.”

I rolled my eyes, sipping my beer. I was used to such diatribes. Once upon a time, it bothered me enough to try to be more feminine, but that crashed and burned. Turns out, trying to fit in just made them hate you more.

The door chimed and a group of women came in. I recognized them as the opposing team we just beat. They had all showered and changed into street clothes. They were talking animatedly as they each took a seat at the bar. The frat boys looked them over with disgusting, predatory expressions.

“Sig, I still can’t believe they benched you for weed. The rowing team is always high and their coach says nothing about it.” said one of the women.

“I am telling you, I did not smoke. I went to a party where they were smoking. I must have got…what is it called? You breathe in the smoke but you're not smoking and get high?"

I glanced briefly at who was talking, because she had a mesmerizing accent. Scandinavian, maybe Finnish?

Then I found myself not being able to look away.

She was breathtakingly beautiful. Her blonde hair was shoulder-length and highlighted. She looked like a model from a magazine, though I could tell her body was healthier. She had an athletic build, though not as muscular as mine. She was well-endowed, her shirt showing a hint of cleavage. I felt a blush creeping up my neck as I realized I was staring.

Why the hell was I ogling a woman’s tits at a bar?

Subconsciously, I had known since I was 11 years old that I was not straight. I wouldn’t admit it, not even to myself. We had been hit over the head with sermons about the evils of homosexuality and sexual sin. But that didn’t change the fact that I had little interest in boys. Debbie regularly talked with her friends about celebrity crushes. Boy bands, singers, actors. I lied when people asked who my crush was.

The one guy I had slept with was also questioning his sexuality. We had this hare-brained idea that we could fuck each other straight. Quinn and I became fuck buddies in 10th grade. I think we both just wanted to defy the purity culture being forced down our throats and we both needed an outlet. It was easy to forget he was a boy when my face was in the pillow. He could fool himself into thinking I was a dude – I mean, I looked pretty masculine enough. It filled a need. But come junior year, he came out and got a boyfriend. I tried not to resent him for it, but I still kind of felt like he used me for a human fleshlight.

I felt eyes on me as I absent-mindedly watched the highlight reels on the bar TV. I swirled the remaining beer in my glass, chancing a look at the blonde bombshell. Her eyes flitted over to me once or twice. I expected disgust, but she wasn’t sneering. If I was a man, maybe I’d buy her a drink. Maybe she would accept it and come to talk to me.

But this wasn’t a gay bar and we were NCAA athletes. She was already apparently in trouble for a contact high. She was probably not even into me and I was reading too much into a glance.

The door chimed once more and Angela Delacourt appeared beside me. She was a classic prom queen type bitch. She could be called pretty, I guess, but her vapid, snarky attitude overshadowed her beauty and hourglass figure.

“There you are. No mistaking your man-shoulders,” she greeted me with a sneer.

“The fuck you want, Delacourt?” I asked.

The only reason she would be here is to relay news. Our coach was allergic to technology and preferred to send a messenger. The other women at the bar looked at Angela and then to each other with matching frowns. I blushed scarlet, wanting to pour the remainder of my beer on her bitch ass head.

“The bus has broken down, so we’re not leaving till Thursday.” she informed me. “Unless you can use your man brain to fix the bus.”

“’Man brain?’ Is that all you got? Are you 12?” I retorted. “It’s really not a good look to put down your own gender just to insult someone. Really going against the ‘women can do anything’ message of the NCAA.”

“Just admit you’re a tranny, already.” she threw back.

I turned around to look at her straight in the face. Her green eyes viewed me with bubbling vitriol, like cartoon acid pits. She didn’t scare me, though.

“Like you don’t check me every time in the shower, Delacourt. Is this your way of saying you really want to see my pussy up close? Just have to ask, sweetheart.” I teased her sarcastically.

“Fucking dyke!” she spat indignantly, jumping back from me like I threatened to kiss her.

“Which is it, Delacourt? You calling me a man or a lesbian?”

“Hey!” the bartender shouted. “None of that language here. Get out!”

Angela gave me a last withering look before leaving the bar. I left the bar as well, slapping down a ten-dollar bill.

“Keep the change.” I told the bartender.

*

I was bored senseless in my hotel room. I used to think it was a luxury, getting to stay in decent hotels. But after a while, the nuance wore off. I think I was just happy not to live with my parents anymore. They had idiotic rules about everything. No locked doors, timed showers, ridiculous food restrictions. My mom was always on diets, even though she’s never been over 140 lbs.

I turned my phone back on, deleting all the long-winded texts from Medusa. There was a new one from Coach Brunswood.

Coach: angela is informing me you’re sexually harassing her

I rolled my eyes. The nerve of this bitch.

Essie: if anything, she’s sexually harassing ME. asking someone to prove their gender IS harassment

Coach: you’re both benched till you resolve this issue

I fought the urge to chuck my phone out of the fucking window. Instead, I grabbed my gym bag and hotel keycard off the nightstand. Minutes later, I’m on an elliptical with my music blaring in my ears. The hotel gym didn’t have a punching bag, so I had to imagine running Angela Delacourt’s ass over while hiking. Maybe I’d throw her off the mountain. That would resolve the issue, alright.

I worked up a good sweat and zoned out as the endorphins hit. I didn’t notice that the second elliptical was occupied until I glanced over to see the blonde bombshell from the bar setting up to use the machine. My mouth went dry as I took in her body in yoga pants and a sports bra.

I didn’t leer at women. I’d seen enough men doing that and I was not about to contribute to the problem. But I was very distracted by her abundant curves. Her thighs bounced as she cycled on the machine. She really filled out the yoga pants. Purple Lycra molded to her ass, accentuating the rounded globes. I saw no hint of a panty-line, wondering if she was wearing a thong. Her sports bra was also purple, not just supporting her breasts but lifting her cleavage. Sweat beaded at her neck and I found myself wishing I could taste it…

No.

No.

I got off the elliptical and went over to the weight racks. I did bicep curls with a 50 lbs barbell, trying to ignore her. After 5 sets of 20 reps, I turned to find her only five feet away doing yoga poses. She did Downward-Facing Dog for way too long. She was wearing a thong, her hips showing a faint trace of the minuscule fabric underneath. I looked at her in the mirror, my mouth dry as I stared at her perfect ass.

What the fuck was I doing?

I was eyeing her like a dog watching someone grill a steak.

I glanced at her face, realizing with horror that she was returning my gaze. Why though? I was a sweaty mess. I wasn’t a blonde beauty queen like her with an amazing ass.

“Could you spot me real quick?” she asked, getting up and preparing weights for the bench press.

Her high, lilting voice did things to my body I couldn’t explain. I found myself wishing she’d say my name, wanting to hear what it would sound like with her accent.

“S-Sure…” I said, putting back my barbells on the rack.

She lay down on the bench while I stood at the head. She was lifting 120 lbs. She began her reps as I watched. I took one earbud out, telling myself it was to hear if someone else came in. Really, it was because I wanted to hear her talk again. She began softly grunting as she lifted. She had good form. Our eyes met as she continued. Crystalline-blue. Her eyes gleamed like sapphires in the fluorescent lights. She finished one of her sets and I helped to set it back on the rack. She breathed hard, her chest moving with each inhale. She gently adjusted her bra, though rather than pulling it up, she tugged it down so that her cleavage was more prominent.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was teasing me. But that’s what creeps and perverts thought of any woman who did anything near them. I helped with her next set, trying to stare at the floor instead.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Her panting breaths and noises of exertion shouldn’t be affecting me this much. My mind couldn’t help but imagine her making those sounds in other activities. X-rated activities involving beds and maybe showers…

I shook my head.

Stop it!

She stood up, grabbing some paper towels and spray to clean the benchpress. She used another paper towel to wipe the sweat from her face. The shine of sweat on her body made me weak-kneed.

“I’m told you did well at the game.” she said to me as I was preparing to leave. “I couldn’t play. Got a contact high from cannabis. It is bullshit. Whatever. Our team made it to second round. We do better next year.”

She dropped articles in her speech, making me think she wasn’t quite fluent in English. That wasn’t a problem to me. It was weirdly endearing for unexplainable reasons.

“I just got benched for my next game.” I told her.

Why was I telling her this? Why was my heart beating so fast? Why couldn’t I take my eyes off of her? Why did I feel like running away to hide?

“Some girl starting drama.” I stammered, feeling the blush creep up my neck.

“It is always drama. I am Sigrid.” she introduced herself with a smile.

She had dimples. Adorable dimples punctuated her lush lips.

Wait, adorable?

“I’m Esther. Friends called me Essie.” I said awkwardly.

What friends? The hell am I talking about?

“Essie.” she repeated. “I like that. Well, I hope I see you again, Essie.”

She left the gym and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Her voice saying my name echoed in my head. My heart was beating in my throat. Most alarmingly, I felt warmth down below, like liquor settling in my belly but…lower.

Oh, I was fucked.

*

I showered, allowing the hot water to beat on my back. My body didn’t feel relaxed. I was on edge. But it wasn’t anger. I tried to rationalize it as loneliness projecting into attraction, but that didn’t explain the tingling between my legs.

I rubbed through my folds with my fingers, finding my clit swollen and aching. I stroked myself in steady circles, imagining a man joining me in the shower. Some men were handsome. Maybe I hadn’t appreciated it before. Maybe I hadn’t met the right man. What the hell did that even mean? I had enjoyed being fucked by Quinn, though we often did it from the back. He was good-looking, even more so in make-up. We usually skipped foreplay, using lube for easy glide. He wanted to try anal once, but I had been too scared. Besides, I didn’t have a prostate. Maybe I just liked the penis part of the man. Any other part of men I just didn’t…feel anything about. Well, there were men’s mouths and how they said stupid shit, which was definitely a turn-off.

The more and more I tried to envision myself with a man, the more hopeless it felt. And like all the other times, the man became a woman. This time, the woman took the form of Sigrid. I imagined pulling off her bra and yoga pants, revealing her gorgeous body. I wondered what color her nipples were and how heavy her breasts would feel in my hands. I wanted to taste her lips and those dimples. I wanted to squeeze her ass in both hands and never let go.

I rubbed myself more intently now, the fantasy working more in my favor. I propped my hand on the wall, steadying myself.

She’d join me in the shower, water cascading down her curves. My hands would follow the water, caressing her hips, her thighs, her belly. I’d cup her breasts and play with her nipples, enough to make her moan. I’d stroke her wet folds between her legs, fucking her with my fingers.

“I want to taste you…” I’d tell her, kissing her lips.

“You are tasting me…” she would giggle.

“I mean your pussy, silly girl. Sit down for me and let me look at you.” I would instruct her.

She would obey. She’d sit on the accessibility bench in the shower and spread her legs. Her pussy would be beautiful like the rest of her. I’d lick up her folds, getting the taste of her in my mouth.

I gasped, unbelievably turned on at the thought. I’d never done it before but the very thought made me salivate. I stroked my clit faster, feeling the pleasure coil tight in my belly.

I’d lick and suck her until she was crying out, plunging two fingers in her pussy. She’d grind herself on my face and I’d look her straight in the eyes.

“Come for me. Want to taste it.” I’d beg.

She’d wail, her whole body shaking as she came, pussy clamping tight around my fingers. I’d lick every drop of cum and suck her into another orgasm, as many as she could have. I’d worship her day and night. I’d eat her for every meal. I’d become her new chair.

“F-Fuck!” I groaned as I climaxed, the strong orgasm nearly knocking me off balance. Fluid burst from me, joining the water swirling down the drain.

It was the hardest I’d come in months. I don’t even remember the last time I squirted. My knees were a bit wobbly as I steadied myself. I finished up my shower. I dressed in some sweatpants and a T-shirt and got into bed. I lay in the darkness, the guilt washing over me like ice water.

I had left my religion far behind. I didn’t believe in a god that would torture me with damnation for eating pork or liking boobs more than dick. But when you’re hammered over the head with sexual shame for your entire teenage life, it sticks with you like bad debt.

“You don’t want to drive a used-up car with hundreds of thousands of miles on it.” said Mrs. Lonestone, the puritanical Life Studies teacher, in class one day.

“I do if it costs less than a new car.” Ronny Gilford whispered in front of me. “And it would know what it was doing.”

I didn’t go to a public school till ninth grade. Instead, I went to an evangelical Christian academy taught by friends of my parents. The education as abysmal and Sex Ed was basically “don’t have sex until marriage or you’re a whore going to hell.”

“Would you want to stick a toothbrush someone else used in your mouth?” she grimaced.

“How many toothbrushes do you think she sucked to get this job?” Stacy Corbinson whispered to me in the back of the classroom.

She had been my fellow heathen friend in those days. She did ungodly things like paint her nails black and listen to music that wasn’t gospel or country. She also committed sexual sins like dancing with boys and kissing before marriage. Scandalous!

“Now some of you might have…urges. The devil is everywhere and he seeks to ruin your life. One of the ways he does that is by convincing young people that homosexuality is okay.” Mrs. Lonestone droned on. “If any of you have such urges, you are welcome to tell us and we will get you help.”

“Send you to the porn horse house, rather.” Stacy hissed.

The school was loosely affiliated with a cattle ranch ministry that specialized in conversion therapy. Students would be kidnapped in the dead of night, black-bagged, and taken to the undisclosed location of the ranch. There, the student would care for barn animals and undergo torturous sessions of aversion therapy. This usually included students being hooked up to IV drips of nausea-inducing medication while they watched gay porn. Sometimes, straight-up sexual assault by proxy would occur when young boys and girls were forced to simulate normal heterosexual behavior.

I heard about all this from survivors of other such camps. I feared that I would be sent to one if my parents found out just how not-straight I was. It didn’t matter if I was 19, they’d send kidnappers after me. They already did it once when I was 14 and missed curfew, showing me what happened to young girls who didn’t obey their parents. Except they didn’t foresee that I would kick both of the kidnappers, who were actually deacons of the church, in the nuts and run away. I got in trouble for doing so, which was par for the course in our family. When all else fails, blame the black sheep.

It was my main reason for getting so ripped. There were other reasons, reasons I didn’t want to think about alone in a hotel full of strangers. Reasons why I always put a knife in the nightstand drawers of hotels and mace in my gym bag. Reasons why I didn’t want to be skinny and vulnerable. Never again.

But I couldn’t think about that. I knew the memories would resurface like a pot boiling over one day. But now I had to sleep.