by B. B. Hamel
Except I know he’s right.
He has a good point. He has to do what’s right for his team. He can’t have me running around writing whatever I want.
Still, I’m pissed. I’m a journalist. I should have freedom of speech…
Except I’ve been making up stories. I mean, they’re partly true, but I’ve been writing whatever I want to say just because I know Sean will let me get away with it.
Oh, crap.
I’m kind of an asshole, too.
“I’m listening,” I say finally.
“Stay away from Sean. At least, during practices, just stay away from him. I can’t control what you do outside of this place. Stop writing about him, stop interviewing him, and I’ll let you keep your press pass.”
I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I don’t know,” I say finally.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you really have a choice? I can just ban you and end your job, but I’m giving you a way out.”
“See it from my perspective,” I say. “If I can’t interview Sean, what else do I have? I mean, those articles have been the best of my career.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says, laughing again. “Look, take this deal. You’ll come up with something else. You’re smart.”
I look away. For a second, I want to turn him down completely.
And not for the right reasons. I should be outraged as a journalist that I’ve been censored. I should be raging right now that someone is keeping me from writing about whatever I want.
Except that’s not the problem.
I’m worried I might not get to see Sean anymore.
That’s the truth. That’s the insane part.
I should be happy about this. If I’m banned from writing about Sean, I can move on. I don’t have to deal with that asshole anymore. My boss can leave me alone. I can finally go back to writing whatever I want.
That’s just not what I really need.
What I need is Sean. His body against mine. His lips against mine.
I need his cock buried between my legs as I start to sweat, riding him faster, kissing his lips, letting his hands slap my ass nice and rough, making it hurt, making it feel amazing.
I can’t say that. I can barely admit it to myself.
“Okay,” I finally say. “I’ll do it.”
Because I have no other choice.
Wood knows it. I know it.
If I ever want to see Sean again, I can’t get kicked out of his world.
As insane as it is, I can’t let go.
Wood nods. “Okay then. It’s a deal. And if I catch you breaking it…” He trails off.
“You’ll boot me out. I get it.”
“Okay.” He stands and we shake hands. “Pleasure doing business with you. I’m sorry it’s been unpleasant. Really, I hate this sort of thing.”
“I know. Not your fault.”
“Let’s agree to blame Sean, okay?”
I laugh, despite myself. “Okay.”
He grins and I leave the room. Robby’s waiting outside for me, his expression blank.
“Well?” he asks.
I glare at him. “Well, what?”
“Did you take the deal?”
I hesitate. “Yeah, I took it.”
“Smart,” he says, nodding. “Truthfully, I told him just to get rid of you. But Wood is… nicer than me.”
I roll my eyes. “Good thing you’re not in charge.”
He grins at me. “Good thing.”
I follow him back through the halls. My mind’s racing, but the place is more crowded than before, and I just want to get out of there.
Someone calls out my name. I think it’s Felix, but I just ignore him.
I leave the facility and drive back to my apartment, feeling like a fraud, like a liar, drained of all life, a useless failure.
11
Sean
I don’t see Brynn until after Sunday’s game.
I try calling her. I try texting. She just never answers.
I don’t know what happened. One second, she’s fucking riding my cock like there’s nothing else in the world, and the next she’s not talking to me at all. I mean, I know she thinks I’m an asshole, but fucking hell.
I hate these stupid fucking games. It pisses me off that she’s playing them. I really thought she was better than that.
All week I look for her during media sessions, but I never spot her. I want to ask around about her, but I know that would only look bad. I know people are talking about what’s happening between the two of us, or at least the fake version that’s actually now kind of true.
Shit. It’s all so fucking complicated.
Sunday comes and we win. I play like a fucking madman. I throw for three hundred yards and my shoulder doesn’t bother me once, much to the chagrin of the Philadelphia Eagles.
We blow them out of the water. And after the game, I dive into press bullshit like a shark in water.
And that’s when I spot her again. As the field fills up with people, there’s Brynn, standing off to the side, closer to the tunnel. I move in her direction, but as soon as she spots me, she hurries away.
I follow her inside, shrugging off interview requests. Microphones get shoved in my face but I push them aside.
I have one thing on my mind, and it’s the girl running from me.
I hurry after her. We step into the back halls, turn a few corners, and I suddenly jog to catch her.
“Brynn, wait,” I say.
She whirls on me. We’re alone, back in the labyrinth of the stadium. I think there’s a janitor’s closet up ahead.
“Why are you following me?”
“I want to talk.”
“Please, just leave me alone.”
I shake my head. “What the hell is the matter?”
She looks around, and I can see a little panic in her eyes. “I can’t talk to you.”
I stare at her for a second. “What happened?” I ask, stepping closer.
She bites her lip. She looks so fucking sexy like this, trapped with me in some back hallway.
“Wood talked to me. We made a deal.”
I frown. “A deal?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to you anymore. And in exchange, he lets me keep my job.” She sounds resentful.
“How could he fire you?”
“If he revoked my press pass, that’d basically ruin me.”
I take a breath. “So he threatened you.”
“He said I can’t talk to you anymore.”
“He can’t enforce that. We’re fucking adults.” Rage tears through me.
“He said… I could see you outside of the stadium,” she says softly, looking away. “But that I can’t interview you anymore. No more football.”
I stand there for a second, staring at her. Some of the anger starts to leak away.
“So you stop talking to me altogether?”
She looks up. “It’s not what I wanted.”
“I get it. I’m just a fucking jock to you, huh? I’m just a guy to fuck and use?”
“No, it’s not—”
I step closer. She stumbles back against the wall. I pin her there, grab her hair, and kiss her.
She’s clearly surprised, but she kisses me back. I can taste her, really taste her, and it’s fucking good. I grab her ass with my other hand, move it up to tease her breasts, pull her hair tighter.
I kiss her neck as she lets out a soft moan. “You want to fucking use me?” I whisper. “Go ahead. You’re my little slut, remember?”
“Fuck, Sean,” she says. “We can’t. Not here.”
I laugh softly. I pull her from the hallway, pushing open the door up ahead. What I thought was a janitor’s closet is actually a storage room for extra balls, grass lining, and other field maintenance stuff.
There’s a big metal rack, and I drag her over to it, turning her around. I put her hands flat on a shelf and spread her legs before tipping her head back. I kiss her lips and love the way she mo
ans into it.
“Fuck what you want,” I whisper. “I’m not playing games.”
“If we get caught—”
I kiss her and bite her lower lip. She gasps as I slide a hand down the front of her slacks.
She’s wet, just like I knew she’d be. I could see it in her eyes the moment I caught her back here, the moment I cornered her.
It’s desire, pure and simple.
I kiss her again as I start to tease her pussy. She groans and I work her clit, sliding in and out.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “We can’t.”
I grab her hair. “You can do whatever I tell you to do.”
“Fuck,” she moans as I slide my fingers inside of her. She looks over her shoulder, eyes hungry, and kisses me.
I pull her from the rack over to a folding table set up against the far wall. I shove a bunch of air pumps onto the floor and lift her up. I tug down her slacks and panties, spreading her legs as wide as I can with them around her ankles, and press my fingers back inside.
She gasps. I bite her lower lip and start to fuck her pussy with my fingers.
It’s hot and frenzied. I work her clit, fuck her pussy, pull her hair. She wraps her arms around my neck and moans into my ear, her breath hot and warm. I pull her close, make her body work, make her muscles tense.
I fuck her pussy nice and deep with my fingers, sliding along, soaking them. I can feel her juices running down onto the top of table.
I drop between her legs and suck her clit, lapping her juice up, loving the taste. She grabs my hair, rolls her hips. I fuck her pussy faster, fingers sliding in and out as my tongue works her clit faster and faster.
“Fuck, you asshole,” she groans. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“Come for me, little slut.” I push my fingers deeper, fucking her faster, licking her clit harder.
She comes seconds later in a burst of moans and tight muscles. It’s so fucking sexy to watch as her whole body spasms, tensing and shaking. She gets off and I slowly pull back, leaving her panting, her pussy dripping, her legs spread.
I clean my fingers off while she watches.
“I’ll call you,” I say. “And you’ll answer.”
She doesn’t say anything. I leave the room, my cock hard as fucking hell.
But there’s a smile on my face. She’s not going to forget that.
The next time I call, she’s going to pick up the phone.
12
Brynn
After Sunday’s game, I get back to my apartment, write an article about Felix, submit it, and go to bed.
In the morning, my boss calls me into his office.
“What the hell is this?”
He’s holding up my article. It’s covered in red pen.
I frown. “I guess you didn’t run it.”
“Of course I didn’t fucking run it.” He sighs. “I told you what I want from you. Not this, whatever it is.” He tosses the paper onto his desk.
I stand. “Okay. Is that all?”
“Play ball, Brynn.”
I shrug and leave his office.
I head over to my desk, sit down, and try to figure out what I’m going to do.
I should be numb right now. I’m caught between two things. On the one side, my boss wants more Sean. On the other, I’m banned from writing about him at all.
Then there’s Sean himself. He doesn’t seem to give a shit about my problems, and I have to admit, I don’t blame him. He just wants me.
And I like that. I really, really like that.
I’m so tempted to tell everyone to go to hell, to run off with Sean, to let him do whatever he wants with me.
The more I sit here, trying to work up the nerve to make a decision, the more I can’t care.
I should be numb. Except I’m not.
Because I’m buzzing with Sean. I’m buzzing with a need for him that I’m shocked still drives me absolutely wild.
What he did to me after the game, the way he dominated me, controlled me, and got me off… it was incredible. I’ve never felt like that before. I got myself together and left that room yesterday practically still shaking from that orgasm.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.
I’m starting to realize something. It’s not a nice thought, not a nice realization, but it’s true.
Of everything that’s happened to me this season, there’s only one thing that actually felt good.
It’s Sean, the way he kisses me, the way he touches me.
He’s the only constant. Putting aside my stupid career, my anger at him lying about sleeping with me, my prejudices against him, putting all that aside, I know what’s true.
I know what I really want.
I want Sean. I want him to kiss me, touch me, make me laugh.
I can’t get past it. Can’t get around it.
My phone rings a few hours later, just like I knew it would. “Hello,” I say.
“I’m going to come pick you up,” Sean says softly. “Can you leave right now?”
“I’ll be right down,” I say softly, and hang up.
Screw doing what’s practical. Screw trying to get ahead. I need to do what feels good.
So I gather my stuff and I leave. It’s just after five, which is normally fine, but my boss expects new copy on his desk.
He’s not getting it. Not right now at least.
Sean’s sitting outside of the office in a vintage Mustang convertible. He grins at me as I hop in the passenger side.
“Where do you want to go?” he asks.
I shrug. “Anywhere.”
“Good answer.” He puts it in drive and pulls out into traffic.
One of the best things about living in Fargo is the landscape. It’s beautiful out here, especially when you get outside of town. It’s pristine, wild, untamed. I love that about it, the danger, the beauty. We drive for a half hour, following twisty roads, taking the back way. Trees thin out when Sean pulls off the main road, taking a little side street through a state park.
He pulls the car over in a gravel lot. Up ahead, trees spread into the distance.
He looks at me, a little smile on his lips. “What?” I ask.
“I knew you’d answer,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be a dick.”
He laughs. “Sorry.”
“Where are we right now?”
“Miller State Park,” he says.
“It’s nice out here.”
He shrugs. “It’s not bad. I come here sometimes when I need a break from all the football bullshit. Some decent hiking paths.”
“Really? You never struck me as a hiking kind of guy.”
We settle back into our seats. Neither of us wants to leave the car, and that’s fine by me. We’re alone in the woods on a little patch of gravel. It’s surprisingly pretty out here, all alone.
“You don’t know all that much about me,” he says, smirking.
“Tell me something, then.”
He frowns. “Okay. I used to play in a punk rock band.”
I blink. “Are you serious?”
“Yep. Back in ninth grade, before I joined football. We were called The Spunks and we were fucking awful.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You were a punk.”
“Yeah, but a shitty one.”
“Don’t punks hate jocks?”
“They sure do.” He grins a me. “I had really long hair back then.”
“How long?”
“Down to my shoulders.”
I groan and laugh. “Better than a mohawk.”
“I had one of those, too.” He grins and I can’t help but laugh again.
“How did you end up playing football then?” I ask him.
“My dad made me,” he says. “I hated him for it at the time, but he said that if I didn’t go out for a sport in high school then I couldn’t play in my band. So I went out for football, figuring I’d get cut.”
“And you didn’t?” I ask so
ftly.
“I didn’t,” he confirms. “Turns out, I was pretty good. I didn’t start that year because we had this stud guy named Derrick playing QB, but when he graduated the next year, I took over.”
“And won two state championships,” I say softly.
He grins at me. “So maybe you do know something.”
“Just your football stats.”
“Well, yeah. I won two championships. I cut my hair, quit my band, and never looked back after that.”
“Punk turned jock. Huh. I never would’ve guessed it.”
“That doesn’t go in the profile.”
“I can see why. The media likes their quarterbacks to be All American good boys.”
He laughs. “That’s more the NFL, and the media does whatever the league wants.”
I make a face. “That’s not true.”
He raises an eyebrow. “How sure of that are you?”
I go to answer, but hesitate. I’m not actually a part of editorial decision. I usually don’t get to choose what I write about. And I have no clue how Soren comes up with the editorial schedule.
“I don’t know,” I admit finally. “But why would the NFL care about the Fargo Pioneer? I mean, we’re nothing.”
“True,” he says, grinning. “But still, they care about all press.”
I sigh. “You make it sound like a vast conspiracy.”
He taps his right temple with his index finger. “Better not talk so loud, Brynn. They’re listening.”
He gives me a goofy grin and I can’t help but laugh. He leans back in his seat and puts his hands behind his head.
“How’d you end up writing about steroidal morons for a living, anyway?” he asks.
“Boring story, honestly. I was an athlete back in the day, but couldn’t make it past college. Since sports were my thing, I just sort of fell into it.”
He nods a little. “Yeah, sounds about right.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitates for a second. “Well, a lot of these guys that interview us, they never really played sports. You know what I mean? And it shows.”
I snort a little. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Don’t get me wrong, they know their stats and theory and all that, but like…” He trails off, looking for the words.