Team Player 2: A Sports Anthology

by Paige, Rochelle

  Over the next fifteen minutes, I field questions. The usual. Do I have phantom pain? How does it feel to walk with a prosthetic? What about showering?

  The moderator walks to the edge of the stage. “I think that’s all we have time—”

  “Sorry,” a deep voice interrupts from one of the aisle mics. “I have one last question.”

  I glance up sharply, recognizing the deep rumble of that voice. But it couldn’t be him. Why would he be . . .?

  “Ms. Barrow,” Ean Jagger says, squatting because the mic won’t pull up far enough to reach his mouth. “My question was of a more personal nature.”

  Women and a few men around him study him closely, whispering behind their hands. Some may recognize him. Some may just be admiring what is, I must admit, a fine specimen of a man.

  “How personal?” I ask, managing a teasing smile, partly to put the audience at ease and partly to demonstrate to him that I’m not easily flustered, even when ambushed in front of a crowd.

  A white smile is a flash of brilliance against his tan, which is part California sun, part genetics.

  “With such a demanding schedule,” he says, “is it hard to find time for personal relationships?”

  “Personal relationships?” I ask, crinkling my expression into a small frown. “Of what nature exactly?”

  A murmur of interest ripples through the audience. I’m not that chick who gets bothered with attention, but even meeting him only once, I know he is not a spotlight guy. Let’s see what he does with it.

  “Well, I guess of a . . .” He meets my gaze boldly, and even with the length of the theater separating us, I feel the impact of those dark, intense eyes shielded by his glasses but so exposed. “. . . of a romantic nature.”

  The mumbling of the audience grows louder, punctuated by clearing throats and giggling.

  “Be more specific,” I command, standing and slipping my hands into the pockets of my pencil skirt.

  “Dates,” he fires back, never dropping his glance from my face. “With your schedule so full, do you make time for dates?”

  “Are you asking for a friend?”

  The audience outright laughs at my retort, and a muscle along the side of his jaw tightens and flexes. He doesn’t smile.

  “No, I’m asking for myself,” he says, the serious note in his voice squelching the crowd’s amusement to low murmurs that peter out while they wait for my response. “Would you have dinner with me?”

  “No.”

  I let the word land in the room, and feel the tension and the embarrassment on his behalf, the awkwardness on mine. I let us all live in the tighter walls and cloying air of our collective discomfort for a moment before I go on.

  “But how do you feel about ice cream?”

  Ean

  I still can’t believe I did that.

  The guy who avoids cameras as much as possible, and who leaves the spotlight to my players whenever I can. The one who finds relief in being the coach and garnering less attention than star athletes.

  I still can’t believe she said yes.

  Well, sort of.

  “So you like ice cream?” I ask, filling the quiet of our first steps from the theater through Princeton’s Palmer Square.

  “Not much.” She glances up at me, eyes gleaming emerald in the golden light of the lamps lining the college town’s sidewalks. “My assistant told me about this place and said to make sure I check it out.”

  This place turns out to be The Bent Spoon. There’s a short line spilling beyond the entrance, and a wooden bench beneath the large square window providing glimpses into the charming space.

  “It’s famous for the unusual flavors,” she tells me.

  I nod, unsure of how to proceed. I didn’t think this through very well. Fly to Princeton. Ask her on a date . . . in front of five hundred people. Hold my breath and brace for complete humiliation.

  Possible outcomes from there:

  Hit a bar and drown sorrows in the hardest liquor I could find.

  Jump on a plane and drag my ass home.

  Have dinner with the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.

  This isn’t exactly any of those, but it’s close enough to number three for me to feel like this was a good call.

  “So you do this often?” she asks while we wait in the short line for the ice cream shop.

  “Do I do what often?” I ask, deliberately playing dumb so she can articulate exactly how she views my actions. Stalking? Grand romantic gesture? Kamikaze mission?

  “Oh, you know. Ambush women in the middle of public speaking engagements so they’ll go out with you.”

  I smile, but it kind of hurts to force it. “Is this a pity date then? You didn’t want to make me look bad?

  “Surely you calculated that as part of the equation.” Her dark brown brows disappear under a fringe of ginger hair falling into her face. “I’m not the only one who’s famous. Many of those people know you better than they know me.”

  “I didn’t mean to manipulate you.” I clear my throat, feeling like an idiot. “Thank you for trying to spare my feelings. You didn’t have to.” I step out of line and back away.

  “Don’t feel like you have to do this.” I gesture toward the ice cream shop. “I’m sure you’re tired. I could walk you to your hotel if you want. Or not. If you want to be alone, I can—”

  “I get a lot of time alone,” she says, looking at me steadily. “I have a lot of miles ahead of me for the next few months. I don’t mind some company tonight.”

  She tips her head toward The Bent Spoon. “Besides, I want to try their farm-fresh ricotta.”

  “Ricotta ice cream?” I ask, skeptical, and step back in line with her.

  “I told you they have unusual flavors. My assistant sent the menu.”

  She pulls it up on her phone and I bend to see. That clean, citrusy scent wraps around me, and I sneak a breathful of her.

  “You’re like really tall,” she says softly.

  I glance down at her and grin. “Occupational hazard.”

  “Not all coaches are tall.”

  “I was a baller first.” I shrug. “I thought when I entered the NBA it would be on the court, not from the sidelines. I blew out my knee in college, and there went my hoops dreams.”

  “I can relate,” she says wryly. “Life gives us limes, but we can make margaritas, is what I always say.”

  I chuckle, shuffling forward as the line moves. “I could have used an endless supply of those when I was in the hospital. All they gave me was Jell-O.”

  “Well, we have that in common then,” she says, her smile dimming. “We both had to rethink our lives. Figure out a plan B.”

  “Yeah, but I think this is how it was always supposed to be. Strategy, statistics, leadership—those things are so much a part of me, and I think coaching is the best thing that could have happened. Not sure I would have seen that so early or so clearly if I’d had years in the league.”

  “Same. I meant what I said tonight. I love my life now. There have been obstacles to get here, and sometimes it’s still tough, but you work for something when it’s worth having.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I endured months of painful rehab, badly fitted prosthetics, the mental agony of letting that old girl go and figuring out who the new me really is, but the new me is pretty great.”

  “Agreed,” I repeat, smiling down at her upturned face with the dewy skin and fine brows and long lashes.

  We finally enter the ice cream shop, and I press my hand to the small of her back, urging her forward. She stiffens. I feel the line of tension in the delicate curve of it.

  Damn. Am I that much of a creeper?

  “Sorry,” I murmur, dropping my hand.

  “Why are you apologizing?” she asks, fixing her stare to the chalkboard menu with the flavor options.

  “I didn’t want you to think I was being intense, touching you when you don’t want me to.”

  She slides her glance away from
the menu to give me a wry look. “You fly all the way from Cali to Princeton, ask me out in front of hundreds of people, and you think a casual touch will come off as intense?”

  We both laugh at how ridiculous that sounds. It’s our turn to order, but before we start, I tell her the truth, hoping she continues to be freakishly okay with my odd behavior. “It doesn’t feel casual to me.”

  Her green eyes zip to meet mine. Before she can respond, the young woman behind the counter gives us a friendly smile and asks a question that shelves Quinn’s response for later.

  “What’ll you have?”

  Quinn

  “How’s your cheesy ice cream?” Ean asks.

  I giggle, scoop out a spoonful of my farm-fresh ricotta ice cream and settle back into our bench on the square.

  “Shockingly delicious,” I say, laughing and thrusting my spoon at him. “Taste.”

  “Nah.” He tips his head away and grins. “I’m fine with my dark chocolate.”

  “All those exotic flavors to choose from, and you played it safe.”

  “I think I’ve taken enough risks for one night,” he says, his voice dry and his smile tipped to one side.

  I watch him from the corner of my eye. His legs are a long, steely stretch of muscle. The brown skin of his arms gleams with health, contrasting to the lemon-colored shirt. With him leaned back on the bench, the shirt clings to the ridged abdominal muscles. I roll the cool sweetness of my ice cream on my tongue. How does he taste at this very moment? The dark chocolate coating the lining of his jaw and those full lips.

  He glances up and catches me looking at him. I wonder if something in my face alerts him to my thoughts, or at least that I’m enjoying him. He goes still for a second, searching my eyes in that penetrative way. That way that feels like he’s seeing inside me.

  I scrape the sides of my paper cup and hold up the spoon. “All done.”

  He takes the last bite of his ice cream cone and dusts crumbs from his well-tailored pants. “Me, too.”

  We watch each other in our cocoon of silence while summer traffic flows around us, all polo shirts and sundresses. A palette of bright colors in the dim light from the moon and street lamps.

  “I have an early flight,” I say, dropping my glance from his dark eyes to the firm, sensual curve of his mouth.

  “Yeah, me, too.” He licks his lips and clears his throat, standing to his feet.

  “I’m at the Nassau Inn,” I say once we start walking. I tip my head toward the hotel with its cedar clapboard shingles.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  We walk so close, still silent, and our hands keep brushing. The fourth time it happens, he links our fingers and tugs me closer. Unabashedly, I huddle beneath the muscled bulk of him, feeling protected.

  And terribly horny.

  “I’m on the second floor,” I say.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  We laugh at his continued use of that phrase, and take the stairs. Once we reach my room, I turn to face him, pressing my back to the door. I don’t want the night to end—don’t want this to end. Need and want tangle inside me, building from my core and spreading perilously close to my heart. It’s been over a year since I slept with a man. My last experience wasn’t exactly reassuring when it comes to the male species. Between the frenetic pace of my life and the doubt Ted planted in my head, intimacy, physical and otherwise, hasn’t been high on my list of priorities. But tonight, it is. With Ean it is.

  “You could come in if you like.” My voice is husky, raw with the desire I’m sure he can read in my eyes, and in the way I can’t stop scouring his broad, beautiful body or the stark planes of his handsome face.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he says, a slight frown pulling his dark brows together.

  My chest deflates, a balloon pricked by irritation.

  Seriously?

  Who flies across the country to ask a woman on a date so publicly, so damn romantically, and doesn’t want to get laid when the opportunity presents itself tied up with a bow at the end of the night?

  Unless . . .

  Maybe he’s not sure how it will be with me? It’s easy to forget what I’m “missing” when I’m up and about, so capable and all confident on stage. When the bedroom doors close, the clothes aren’t the only things that come off.

  “It’s fine.” I nod jerkily. “I get it.”

  I didn’t expect it from Ean somehow, but after my last experience with a guy I thought I knew, I shouldn’t be surprised. I really have to stop trusting my instincts if they’re going to keep leading to a dented heart. Not broken. I refuse to have anything on my body break for anyone.

  “What do you think you get, Quinn?” he asks, the slight frown deepening, his expression darkening.

  “I thought . . . it’s fine,” I say hastily, just wanting to get out of the hall and into my room away from him. “Some men aren’t sure how it’ll be. You aren’t the first to think you could handle it and then—”

  He pulls me up against his chest, cutting off my words. His mouth on mine is a brand, a possession of hot silk and sweet, dark chocolate. The taste of him explodes on my tongue and I push up on my toes, widening my mouth under his. He strokes down my back, those wide hands that first stirred sensation between us with a single touch fitting to my hips. He groans against my mouth.

  “Fuck, Quinn,” he says, dragging his lips down the curve of my neck. “How could you think I don’t want this? I’m burning up with it.”

  I reach between us to find him, grasping the huge erection that tells me he’s not lying. He’s so thick between my fingers. My panties are soaked at the thought of him stretching me.

  “Then stay.” I roll a hand over the tightly muscled curve of his ass, jerking him closer. “I want it, too.”

  He delves deeper into my mouth, his tongue hunting for mine, tangling with mine urgently. He takes his time tasting me and slides his hand lower to cup my butt. He pulls me up until his dick slots between my legs. I moan at the sensation and grind into him.

  “Hell, yes.” I kiss him back, harder, deeper. This is gonna happen. I imagine this towering man slamming into my much smaller body, hovering over me and spreading my legs. My mouth waters. I want to suck his dick. I want to stick my finger in his ass. I want to do all the things I haven’t done with or to anyone in a year, but I want them with him. I haven’t missed dick as much as I thought I would during this drought, but all of a sudden, I’m so damn thirsty.

  He breaks our kiss, pulling me up higher on my toes until foreheads touch. “I’m going to my room, Quinn.”

  My eyes snap open, shock immobilizing me. “You’re what? Going where?”

  “To my room.” With gentle fingers, he pushes the bangs back from my face. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “Gee, thanks, but I don’t want compliments. I want to fuck. With you. Tonight.” I point my thumb over my shoulder toward my room. “Preferably in there, but I’m so worked up I’m not opposed to putting on a show right here in the hall.”

  He smiles, lowers his head for a whisper of a kiss across my lips. “I’m glad you want this, too. That makes me feel like less of an idiot for flying here.”

  “You came all this way,” I say, my tone wheedling. “Don’t you want to just—”

  “I want more than a quick fuck, Quinn,” he says, his smile fading and his voice firming. “Our first night has been great. There’s time for more.”

  “But . . .”

  He reaches into my skirt pocket and pulls my phone out, punching numbers in and sending a text.

  “Now you have my number,” he says. “And I have yours. We’ll stay in touch.”

  In touch? I want to stay in touch all right. I want to touch him from the top of that wavy hair to the tips of his big feet, which I hope portend a huge dick that I can barely accommodate.

  But apparently I won’t find out tonight. If I was irritated before, I’m downright mad now. Sexually frustrated. And a little humiliated.


  “Whatever,” I say, fumbling with my room key and hurrying inside. “Good night.”

  I close the door before he can say another word.

  Ean

  I landed in Atlanta late.

  Not my fault. Damn airline. Delayed flights. I planned to make it in time to hear Quinn speak at Emory University, but when my car pulls up to Glenn Memorial Auditorium, the crowd has dispersed and Quinn’s nowhere in sight.

  “Dammit.”

  This is what I get for chasing a woman across the country . . . again. Especially when she hasn’t returned my texts or calls. I’ve only sent a few over the last couple of days since we saw each other, but I’ve had no response. I hope I properly conveyed how wrong she was to assume me not spending the night wasn’t about me not wanting her. Nothing could be further from the truth. I jerked off in the shower as soon as I reached my hotel room. And try flying four hours with your dick as hard as a brick. It happens every time I remember that kiss, and not just the heat of it.

  But the warmth.

  The sense of rightness from the moment our lips touched until I had to drag my mouth away, acutely aware that I was mere seconds from fucking America’s Titanium Sweetheart up against the door in a hall for anyone to see.

  My gut tells me there’s something that needs repairing. Not just from our encounter the other night, but something in her that needs mending. I don’t have any illusions I can fix it, fix her, but I could at least soothe. If she’ll let me. If she’ll talk to me.

  “Gimme a second,” I say to the car service driver I asked to wait until I knew if Quinn were still here.

  My finger is poised to press Quinn’s contact to call her, when my phone flashes an Instagram notification. I set it to alert me when Quinn makes a post. There’s a photo of her and Banner.

  @QuinnPossible When your girl #BannerMorales surprises you on the road! Thank you for having me tonight @emmoryuniversity! I’m loving ATL. Now to get our grub on. I’ve heard good things about @sluttyveganatl! I’ll report back!