Personal Foul (Moving the Chains Book 6)

by Kata Čuić

  The least she could do is hide in her office like a little troll instead of hanging out around the field with us, looking hotter than the sun.

  “She’s so exotic,” another rookie mumbles. “Every time I look at her, all I imagine is veils, gold coins, and Dr. Deep shaking her hips for me. I’d go deep all right.”

  Fuck no. That’s my fantasy. I’m not sharing it with anyone.

  “I will cut you,” I hiss. “I will gouge out your eyeballs with a spoon, grind them up into powder, and add them to my next protein shake.”

  They obviously don’t take my threat seriously.

  Another guy chimes in, “She looks like a less fake version of Kim Kardashian. I’d do her, then sell the sex tape.”

  I’m going to have a stroke. And not because it’s a hundred and ten in the shade. “No sex tapes! No one’s going to do her!”

  They laugh.

  “Yeah, especially not you!”

  She places her hand on Mayview’s arm. Swear to God, I want to rip it off his body. He’d never throw another football again. I’d rip off his other arm, too. Just so he’d have to jerk off with his feet like the freak he is.

  Her long legs eat up the field, coming toward us.

  “Shit! Shit!” Gorge panics, turning in a circle like an idiot. “Act normal!”

  I roll my eyes. We’re pro football players. None of us are normal. If anyone knows that, it’s Amira.

  “Gentlemen.” She smiles when she reaches us.

  She’s been meeting with all the squads over the past week. We’re the final group she’s graced with her presence.

  “Saving the best for last?” I grin at her.

  “No.” Her smile looks a shade evil. “I was putting off having you annoy me at work as much as you annoy me at home.”

  The guys ooh and aah and laugh at her burn.

  Fucking hell.

  She just admitted we’re living together—publicly—but they didn’t even hear that part.

  “I know we met already at the start of camp, but I wanted to introduce myself personally.” She gives my squad a genuine smile and extends her hand, shaking each of theirs in turn. “My contact information is in the packets you received on day one, including my cell phone number. Any time of day or night, I’m at your service.”

  I swallow down a lump of dread. That’s the spiel she’s been giving the whole team? She’s not stupid. She has to know how bad that sounds.

  I extend my hand last since she never bothered to offer hers to me. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” She glances at my empty hand then back at my face.

  The guys laugh harder.

  What fucking game is she playing at? If she doesn’t want me to embarrass her at work, then she can’t do it to me either.

  I grab her hand and haul it to my lips for a sloppy kiss.

  Her black eyes scream murder. It’s a look I haven’t seen in years. I didn’t realize I missed her homicidal urges until just now.

  I bark out a laugh. “I forgot how much fun it is to fuck you.”

  A couple of the guys choke on air. Gorge wheezes from laughing so hard.

  Amira’s tan skin goes deathly pale.

  “Fuck with you! Fuck. With. You!” I backpedal.

  “Oh, Alex.” Her voice oozes disappointment. She takes a step toward me.

  I step back.

  I didn’t realize I had PTSD until just now either.

  She glances at my squad that’s watching us like they wish they had popcorn. “As I’ve already explained to the rest of your teammates, Alex and I have known each other since college. I want to be fully transparent by making you aware that I’m staying with him until I find my own place in Orlando, but anything you choose to discuss with me will be held in the strictest confidence. I am not even required to share anything you confide in me with your coaches, trainers, or staff physicians. Our sessions are entirely private and for your sole benefit.”

  They nod like the good little players they’re pretending to be for her benefit.

  I’m so distracted by their weird behavior, I don’t notice Amira finally reach her goal.

  Her tits brush against my chest with every breath. “You, however, will receive special treatment.” She holds out a business card. “If you have need of any psychological services, they will not be provided by me.” She steps back and smiles at my squad again. “I will not tell him anything you share with me, but I feel it’s only fair to warn those of you who might have to share a hotel room with him on the road—he talks in his sleep.”

  “I do not!” Do I?

  I glance at Gorge. We’ve been sharing a hotel room all week.

  He shrugs.

  That’s not an answer.

  “So, you’re admitting—publicly—that you sleep with me every night?” I thought that was against our new rules.

  She smiles that evil smile again. “Not for another week. Since we are friends, I will redecorate your house while you finish camp. You will not even recognize it when you return home.”

  We all watch in silence as she stalks off the field and heads down the tunnel, out of sight.

  Oh, sure. Now, she’ll go hide in her office.

  “You are never going to close this deal,” Gorge laughs. “Then, you’re gonna have to explain to my wife why I lost all my bonus money this year.”

  Yeah, and I’m going to have to front more money to repair whatever she’s going to do to my house for revenge this week.

  One of the rookies wraps a sweaty arm around my neck. Charlie Jizkowski is everything I used to be in college until our new team psych shook up my world. Minus the unfortunate name. Everyone calls him Jizz. “I’m glad I wasn’t around to get in on this bet, Fossoway. Neither you nor Mayview are going to land her. A fuck-hot woman like that who doesn’t take any shit? Yeah. She’s probably got guys eating out of the palm of her hand. In your house.”

  Oh, fuck. I never even considered we’d both lose. I should have though. I helped create this monster.

  I had not considered that the emotional distress of a cross-country move and my first real job would take such a physical toll on my body. I should have. I am a clinical psychologist, for God’s sake.

  A clinical psychologist who has been undermined by her supposed friend. I grit my teeth as the phantom of Alex’s lips ghost over my hand once more.

  I had a solid plan. I was going to play up our friendship as a way to build rapport with his teammates. I was going to be funny and witty and exchange the kind of banter that’s so familiar between us as a way to prove to the players that though I have breasts, I can be treated like one of the guys. One of the team.

  He just had to put his lips on me. Had to mark me as his territory in front of our coworkers. He violated the rules. Blatantly.

  The luxury Egyptian cotton sheets feel like sandpaper against my skin. Even with the ceiling fan on high and the AC set at sixty degrees, the room is too hot. I’m so overheated that I’m nauseated. Pavlov’s purring at the foot of the bed sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

  I am bone-deep tired, but I am too irritated to sleep.

  Something to help me relax would be most welcome.

  I could wander down to the kitchen and open the bottle of wine that I purchased while grocery shopping this week. I won’t. A drink is not what I’m craving.

  My hand drifts down across my breast then further to the valley between my thighs. I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts and brush against my clit with my fingertips. I close my eyes to block out the sight of Alex’s bedroom. Not out of guilt. He was the one who always insisted during our lessons in college that sacred spaces were a polite illusion, so he wouldn’t mind me defiling his bed now. Not that I care if he’s changed his mind.

  He hasn’t slept here in over a week, but I still smell him on the sheets. The pillow holds memories of fine cologne, a unique-to-him musk, and the scent of hope. I could not get myself there without his help back then. Though I longed for freedo
m, I am still beholden to someone else.

  With a frustrated growl, I sit up and whip off my tank top, then shimmy out of my shorts and panties.

  I am a twenty-seven-year-old who counsels others for a living. How is it possible that I am still unable to take my own advice and achieve this singular objective?

  I close my eyes again and channel the techniques I teach my athletes.

  Focus on the goal.

  I am going to make myself come.

  Visualize the reward.

  I will finger myself as deeply as possible and grind the heel of my palm against my clit.

  Remove obstacles to success.

  I am confident in my own body and in my sexuality.

  I can do this. I am ready. I am willing. I have no better route to take to satisfy this craving.

  My phone chimes on the nightstand, but I ignore it.

  What do you want?

  Alex’s voice rings in my head, as clear as the day he first asked me that question. Six years ago. So much has changed in that amount of time, and yet so much remains the same.

  I can no longer answer that I don’t want to be a virgin anymore. I am still reliant on someone else for my pleasure though.

  I inhale deeply, then relax my muscles from head to toe with my long, controlled exhale. My breast feels heavy and wanting in my left hand, yet too much pressure is painful. The muscles of my abdomen twitch as I drag my right hand lower, lower, lower.

  My sex is swollen and slippery. I press my index finger against the bundle of nerves that rewards my effort with an unfurling warmth of pleasure.

  I will not think about it. I will not think about it. I will not think about it.

  I slide my fingers between my folds, teasing, toying, anticipating. One, then two, then three—stretching myself so deliciously.

  My phone chimes again. I don’t care.

  I set a steady tempo of in and out, in and out. Using my palm, I apply pressure that enhances the fullness inside me.

  Tingles spark low in my belly.

  My phone rings.

  Damn it.

  I consider ignoring the request, then think better of it.

  Revenge will be mine, Fossoway.

  His face appears on my screen. He looks sunburnt, exhausted, and pissed off. More importantly, he appears to be alone. “Oh, so now you decide to answer. Don’t you dare ignore my texts when you’re living in my house! Remember rule 2? If I say jump, you ask how high. What the fuck was that today? You don’t get to waltz into my fucking stadium and embarrass me in front of all my teammates!”

  The gravel in his voice swirls around me, as tangible as the ghost of his breath across my shoulder from so long ago.

  I have never toed the line so dangerously before. My fingers fly faster, faster, faster. A moan slips past my lips.

  “What the fuck?” he breathes, his eyes wide.

  I raise my eyebrows and allow another groan of pleasure to fill the space of his room. I won’t back down now. It’s too late anyway. I have crossed the point of no return.

  “Are you getting yourself off in my bed?” he hisses.

  My eyes fall shut as waves of ecstasy roll through my tense muscles.

  The sounds of his harsh, panted breaths draw out my pleasure until I feel completely wrung out.

  Even through the haze of total relaxation, I’m angry with myself. I still cannot get off without thinking about the man who’s staring at his phone with obvious lust in his cobalt eyes.

  I should have never asked for his help in college. It wasn’t worth using him as my first case study.

  I sit up, not caring that he likely has a fantastic view of my naked breasts. He’s already seen them before. I hold up my sticky fingers and wiggle them around to get his attention. As he watches, I smear my cum across his pillowcase.

  “How dare you accuse me of embarrassing you in front of your teammates. You broke the rules first, Fossoway. Consider this step one in my redecoration plans.”

  He barks out a laugh. “If you dig far enough in the back of my closet, you’ll find a really old pair of sweatpants that are already painted the same shade. Feel free to cover the rest of the house in it. I don’t mind.”

  I vent out my frustration with a scream that sends Pavlov scurrying for cover. Alex laughs harder as I attempt to strangle his image on my phone, shaking it around for good measure.

  I hate him. I hate myself.

  He winks. “We’ll see who’s breaking the rules when I get home next week, sweetheart.”

  He disconnects. I throw my phone across the room. It lands with a dull thud on the carpet.

  I really need to take my own advice and learn healthier coping techniques. For starters, I will absolutely not go digging through his closet to see if he’s lying about those sweatpants.

  An incoming text chimes on my phone from inside my locker. The sound echoes against the metal.

  A shadow falls over me as I turn around to grab my cell.

  “Wow. I’m surprised anyone wants to talk to you.”

  I glance up to glare at Mayview. “Yeah, it must be a foreign concept to a guy who doesn’t have any friends.”

  He laughs. “I have plenty of friends.”

  Friends. Victims. Semantics, really. “Do you need me to buy you a dictionary with my winnings, B-Lake? I’m not sure you understand the definition of friends.”

  “I’m not sure you’re going to get any winnings. Camp is almost over, and Dr. Deep hasn’t so much as glanced your way.” He pretends to stroke his chin. Fucker couldn’t grow facial hair if he tried. His playoff beard last year amounted to a couple of whiskers. “Me, on the other hand? She’s paid me plenty of attention.”

  I wish I could shove my phone in his face and prove him wrong, but Amira’s not just ignoring me at work. She’s ignoring me after hours, too. She hasn’t responded to a single text, and she definitely hasn’t answered any more calls or FaceTime requests. I’m actually a little worried about what my house is gonna look like when I get home tomorrow. And hella excited.

  Am I stupid enough to tell this asshat that she was fingering herself in my bed last week? Nope.

  Other guys are already stealing my belly dancing fantasy. I’m keeping her marble rolling habits as spank bank material for myself.

  “So?” Mayview crosses his skinny arms over his chest. It’s amazing a guy who looks like him can throw like he does. He gestures with his chin toward the phone in my hands. “Who’s your friend?”

  I glance at the text and try to hide the smile that threatens. It’s a sonogram picture with a due date and a bunch of exclamation points scrawled on top. Obviously, the daddy-to-be doesn’t give a damn that’s in the middle of the season. He’s worked too hard for this chance to be picky about when it happens.

  When I don’t answer, Mayview snatches the phone out of my hands. “Who the hell is Chickenshit?”

  “Rob Falls,” I admit. It’s still a funny nickname.

  “The quarterback for Sacramento?”

  I roll my eyes. It’s better than acting like a pussy and grabbing my phone back. Even though Mayview’s slimy eyeballs aren’t worthy to see that picture. “You know we played together at State. And before that in high school.”

  Mayview was keeping tabs on me, my ass. This is basic information any idiot sports journalist could look up. It’s not rocket science.

  The not-scientist thrusts my phone in the air like it’s a Lombardi. “Hey, y’all! One of our own knocked someone up! We should send him a say goodbye to your life gift!”

  Gorge plants a hand on my shoulder to keep me seated and from going to jail. He knows me too well. “If you send Falls a gift basket, he’s likely to burn it. Might as well save your money.”

  Mayview snorts, but there’s a glimmer of doubt in his ugly eyes. The guy cannot possibly imagine that anyone doesn’t want what he has to offer. “Because he remembers the way our team shut him down during his rookie season?”

  I still don’t feel bad about
bribing our defense to hit Rob every chance they got. It’s part of their job anyway. Bonus—it worked. He got his shit together. Eventually.

  “No.” Gorge smiles, then lowers his voice. He’ll say his piece, but he won’t do it in a way that the rest of the team can hear. “Because he doesn’t like guys like you.”

  Mayview laughs. He still doesn’t get it. “Are you kidding? Everyone loves me.”

  Our last team psych sure as shit doesn’t.

  “You don’t remember how Falls got fined and suspended at the end of his rookie season for punching a reporter?” Gorge leads.

  “What does that have to do with me?” Mayview shrugs like he doesn’t see the connection.

  I paste on my best interview smile. “I’d love to introduce you two, so you can find out.”

  A happy little montage of Rob cold-cocking Mayview plays out in my mind. My smile grows wider. It’s genuine.

  Mayview wipes it off my face with a rough slap to my other shoulder. “You’re already responsible for bringing the lovely Dr. Deep into my life. I don’t want to strain you too much.”

  My eye twitches. Great. Once it starts, it won’t stop for days.

  “You’re gonna lose, B-Lake,” I insist, grasping at one last straw before I go all in with a plan that I know damn well is a horrible idea. “I don’t want to strain you too much on a Superbowl run, so you can back out now. I won’t even call the ante.”

  Mayview laughs so hard, the sound bounces off the walls. He loves being the center of attention. Hopefully, it’ll be his downfall. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell. Everyone’s betting against you, man. I stand a hell of a lot more to win than you do.”

  Yeah. And I stand a hell of a lot more to lose, too.

  Conflict resolution 101—don’t avoid the conflict. Choose a neutral location; begin with a compliment to disarm defensiveness; look for creative opportunities instead of passing judgment; seek not to punish but to understand; clearly define acceptable and unacceptable behaviors; accept and offer constructive criticism; do not walk away until both parties are satisfied.

  I am armed, ready, and waiting for when Alex walks through the door.

  Today is the last day of training camp. I’ve officially been a resident of Orlando for sixteen days, and I have yet to find a rental that accepts pets and won’t bankrupt me that isn’t also over an hour’s drive from work. I’m seriously starting to consider that Pavlov may end up staying with Alex after all. Even the few apartments that accept pets charge exorbitant pet rent and down deposits.