Third and Long: A Sports Romance

by Caitlyn Maxwell

  Logan soaks in the cheers before returning to the huddle, and I get curious. The way he’s working the crowd, even in the huddle, calling attention to himself. It can’t be the same guy can it?

  “Look Tamber, I’m setting you up on a blind date. I’m not sure with who yet, but you are obviously so, so sexually frustrated,” Gwen says. “Do you know why The Party Girls piss you off so much?”

  “No why?”

  “Because they are out there getting laid, working out their frustrations. Meanwhile, you’re sitting at home with your broke-ass pussy getting all mad and shit about everything when you really just need one wild ass night to calm down.”

  She still has my phone. I want to look up Logan, but she still has my phone. Logan throws a quick strike over the middle to Cam, and the Lions score again. I suddenly desperately need to know if he’s the same Logan. Memories of the pecs and biceps of the guy I met out on the track come rushing back to me. He had the body of an athlete and the cocky attitude to boot. But there’s no way a billionaire was hitting on me, right?

  I ask her for my phone back, and she tells me to shut my whore mouth. If my mouth was a whore, we wouldn’t be having this whole conversation about sexual frustration.

  “I want to see a picture of Logan Oliver,” I say.

  “The third,” she says.

  “Yea.”

  “As in, gimme a third of his cock,” she says.

  “Jesus Gwen.”

  “No seriously, just enough to get me pregnant, so I can live off all that oil money for the rest of my life. Shit. Have you seen his parent’s mansion?”

  “I haven’t seen anything, which is why I’m asking.”

  Gwen nods, and thumbs through my phone. No idea what she’s getting into. When her face lights up, it’s like she’s struck gold. She hands my phone back. The only thing on the screen is a naked torso with incredibly ripped abs and very familiar biceps.

  Gwen leans over me, nudging me to flip through a couple of pictures. When we find a picture of his face, I can hardly believe it. I’d know those gorgeous blue eyes anywhere.

  “Oh shit. I met this guy yesterday. He asked for my number,” I say, explaining the whole story to Gwen.

  “So you gave it to him?”

  I shake my head and try to explain. The whole “he thought I was a lesbian” part has Gwen rolling in the stands.

  “Oh my god, I’d have fucked him right there on the track. He is a billionaire, Tam. Have you learned nothing in our five years of friendship, you incorrigible twat!”

  I mumble something in response as I thumb through every picture on Logan’s Instagram. He is an incredible hottie. Those rock hard abs and cut obliques. His steel blue eyes. His full, totally kissable lips. I’m practically drooling over his bulging biceps and shoulders so broad you could build a house on them.

  It’s also easy to remember how close I came to giving him my phone number. Given the pictures that the media took this morning, I’m glad that I didn’t. The last thing I need in my life is a player, despite the magical qualities of athlete cock that Gwen espouses. I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl, and Logan is definitely the kind of guy that would use me.

  Half time rolls around. The Lions are up by two scores. Somehow with a major hangover, Logan Oliver III is killing it today. The guy that flirted with me. The guy that wanted my number. The guy that thinks I have a great ass is currently crushing the Auburn Tigers.

  I haven’t felt horny, and I definitely haven’t felt wet, in years. Gwen was right about my dried up pussy, but not anymore. Fucking Logan Oliver. Cocky billionaire, hard body. Talk about winning the genetic lottery.

  “I am so setting you up on a blind date, you thirsty bitch,” Gwen says. She sees me salivating as the Lions run into the locker room below us.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Logan

  For every bullshit article they write about me, I throw another touchdown. That’s three to my main man, Cameron “Cam” Phelps. We’re having a banner day. The Auburn Tigers are fucking nothing to me. Call me out. Take pictures of me. Stalk me when I’m out having a good time? I know enough not to punch out the paparazzi, so I take it out on my opponent.

  I woke up at 10 a.m. this morning with 4 texts and 2 missed calls from Coach Ainsworth. He actually threatened to bench me. As if he could. The fans would riot. I settled things with him well enough.

  Since kickoff at 6 p.m., I’ve been dominating this game. Nothing like 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and a shit load of Pedialite to make you feel like a new man.

  The only thing that makes me madder than those rat fucks taking my picture is that Tiffany and Kelly caught a cab home in embarrassment, so I had to go home empty-handed. There’s a particularly embarrassing picture of me on the South Texas Dirty where I’m climbing, obviously shitfaced, into a cab of my own, and the caption reads “Billionaire Bad Boy Goes Home to Jerk Off.”

  Fuck them for being right, so I take my anger out on Auburn. Touchdown after touchdown, they can’t even touch me. I roll out, rush forward, and stand tall in the pocket. They can’t do shit to me.

  I am King and Rome is my kingdom.

  When it’s all over, Auburn has to lick their wounds to a four score deficit. Always bet on a lion over a tiger. I can’t wait to hit the locker room and get out of here. Feels like I need to lay low for a few days, so the blood sucking media can move on to some other poor son of a bitch. I can’t count the amount of shit I read this morning about my “character concerns” and “lack of preparation” and how that might affect my draft stock. Watch my performance on the field. That’s all the concern for my character that you need.

  The paparazzi, the media, they definitely focus on me because of who I am. My father. His money. It’s the albatross around my neck. If I could give all that up and focus on football, I would.

  After the fans start converging on the field, security hustles us back to the locker room. I don’t need the encourage to hustle. Linger around too long and some local reporters will take up your entire night with question after question. Especially when they have juicy questions about me and some cheerleaders.

  “Shit man, good game,” Cam says. We grab hands and clap each other on the back. My man, Cam Phelps. Best wide receiver that I’ve ever met. We hooked up for three touchdowns today. Four would have been a school record. There’s still time to get that.

  Plenty of games left before we go our separate ways in the pros. No way do Cam and I get drafted to the same team. He’s going first round too.

  “All you bro,” I say, pointing to him.

  “I was worried. Not going to lie,” he says, taking off his jersey.

  “Don’t tell me you were reading the fucking gossip rags.”

  “When everyone blows up your phone at 7 a.m., you don’t have much of a choice,” Cam says. He gives me a hard look. My antics interrupted his beauty sleep. I almost feel bad.

  “You should have been there,” I say.

  “Next time bro.”

  “Dude there won’t be a time like last night. Two girls! I could have shared.”

  “Could have. Would have?” he asks.

  Damn he’s got me.

  “Logan if you could catch the balls you throw on the field you would,” Cam says. “Besides you didn’t go home with either of them, and I don’t need my face on the front page of the Dirty.”

  “Bullshit. If you got on there, you know Gwen Tully would be calling you up that day.”

  Cam gets me in a headlock. Too far. Gwen’s his ex and a big sore spot for him. There are a lot of dudes on the team bigger than me, but that doesn’t mean I watch my mouth.

  “You thinking about letting me go?” I ask as Cam’s bicep starts to crush my head.

  “Depends. You going to start behaving before game day?” he asks. The only reason I’m not worried about him actually crushing my head is that we’re best friends.

  “I swear on my momma’s grave, I’ll be a good boy,” I say.

  He let
s go of me. “Your momma’s still alive and kickin’,” he says.

  “And I’m not going to behave,” I say, rubbing my sore neck.

  “Catch you later man,” Cam says, giving me the old Lions’ secret handshake.

  We’re like brothers. Fighting one minute, acting like nothing happened the next. When he heads off to the showers, I fish through my locker for my phone.

  It’s lit up like a Christmas tree. Mostly a bunch of missed texts from people that want to be my agent. A lot of manner minders scolding me about my behavior. Every hater tells me that my draft stock could fall if I keep up my party boy ways. Shit, if anyone saw my performance out there today, they’d know that I’m worth every single cent of a first round pick.

  Then my phone rings. It’s my dad. I immediately start thinking about Tamber. Her biggest worries in life revolve around finishing her fucking school work. She’s got a couple of classes to finish before she goes into the real world. It’s hilarious that she thinks she has problems. Live my life for a day and see what real problems are.

  Damn, what I wouldn’t give to live that life.

  “Hey dad,” I answer the phone.

  Silence for half a minute. That’s typical. My parents live in a mansion on a vast estate outside of Houston. It’s about an hour or so away from Rome. He built the place with all the oil money that Logan Oliver I, my grandfather, passed down to him. My mom was a socialite from Washington D.C. Dad’s the kind of guy who’s always been looking to make political connections. I suppose they love each other, but that’s not why they married.

  A marriage of political and financial convenience. Nothing in the world sounds worse than that. I’ll be straight up: that’s why I don’t date. I’d love to have a girl that actually loves me for me. Honestly, they don’t exist. They all see the dollar signs. No matter how hard I play, no matter how fucking rock solid I am on the football field, at the end of the day, every single girl knows that I come with a big ass price tag attached. I’d be lying to myself if I said Tiffany and Kelly would have been all over me last night if I was some country boy with a decent arm.

  It’s a legacy that I’ll never be able to live down.

  “I’m disappointed in you son,” my dad says.

  I grit my teeth. There’s a million things I want to say like, “fuck you, too asshole,” or “four touchdowns not enough?” But I don’t. I keep my mouth shut because there’s only one man in the entire world that intimidates me.

  I can take a sack from the biggest, toughest defensive ends in the world. What I can’t take is my dad. Since the day I set foot on the field, nothing I do is good enough for him. Four touchdowns in a must-win game, and he can’t even congratulate me.

  “Sorry dad.” There’s nothing else I can say. Count up all the words I’ve ever said to my dad, and sorry is close to the top.

  For an arrogant jackass of an oil man, you’d think he built the company. He inherited it from his dad. My granddad, the original Logan Oliver. For years he called my dad junior. From the day granddad passed, no one else dared say the name junior.

  When your wealth goes back a century, it comes with certain expectations. It also comes with people wanting to take it from you, a fact my father often reminds me of every chance he gets. I suspect it’s the purpose of this very phone call.

  Being the best college football player in the country is a lot like that. I can’t count the number of leeches that have hit me up with all kinds of terrible deals. I feel bad for all the players out there who don’t have the good sense to say no to pie-in-the-sky investments before they’ve ever made their first pro dollar.

  Just once I’d like reporters to ask me why I play. They’d get an earful about expectation and my dad. Nothing makes me feel that good old-fashioned angst like the fact that everyone thinks I’m some no good, dimwit party boy.

  While my dad chews me out for getting caught with some babes after hours, I can’t help but remember why I play. Despite my upbringing, I’m not wired to enjoy being handed things. I want to earn every last thing that I own. Football gives me that opportunity. An opportunity to prove myself.

  “Your mother and I have been doing some talking. Regardless of whether or not you commit the pros, you’ve got to clean up your image,” he says.

  “Sure dad.” He will never stop entertaining the idea that I’ll quit football and return to his industry. A respectable job he calls it.

  “Your wild days need to be behind you. Besides you know how I feel about this football business,” he says.

  “Did you not see me throw four touchdowns today? We crushed Auburn. But that’s never good enough for you is it? You need me to be an oil man or nothing. Is that it?” I can’t believe the words came out of my mouth. I’ve never talked back to my dad like that. I’ve never called him out on being completely unsupportive of my goals. It’s been a long time coming.

  The line is silent for long minutes. My father’s lungs exhale heavily into the receiver. I brace myself waiting for his reply. One thing about my dad is that no matter how hard you come at him, he always knows how to retaliate. I’ve seen some very good men taken down by him without even a thought.

  “Clean up the act. Respect the family.” He hangs up.

  He doesn’t need to say anything else. The silence from the ended call says it all. Far as he’s concerned, his word is law. I could set every record in the book, and he still wouldn’t consider it as impressive as making millions the way his father did.

  Checking the news on my phone, half the stories are about my four touchdowns and half are about my night at The Library. Ridiculous that news stations are still talking about that despite the fact that I came out and played my ass off. The talking heads on the sports shows are still using phrases like “character concerns” and “off-the-field issues.” Some of them have my back, but everyone is looking for the juiciest side of the story here. Literally no one is content with discussing my performance as is.

  Then I realize that’s why I can’t get Tamber off my mind. I need to see her again. That cute little runner. She doesn’t have to worry about any of this crap. I’m jealous.

  I bet her that I’d get her number. I bet her that she’d ask about my cock. Goddamn the shit that comes out of my mouth.

  Tonight’s another party, a celebration of our victory. I’m the King of Rome for another week. Tomorrow I’m going to get to work on figuring out Tamber. Someone has to know who she is. What I wouldn’t give to live a day like her. Win or lose, she’s basically anonymous. No one spends all day scrutinizing every choice she makes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tamber

  One Week Later

  Gwen spends all day scrutinizing my choices. Somehow I agreed to a blind date. Apparently while she was rambling on about the earth-shattering benefits of sex with an athlete, I agreed to let her fix me up with someone. It’s become one of my deepest regrets of course. It only took her three days to set me up, but she refuses to say with whom.

  I don’t like surprises. At all. Uncertainty stresses me out like nothing else. Gwen knows this. All week long she’s taken special delight in watching me squirm. To make matters worse, Gwen has arranged an Uber driver to take me to the restaurant where my date will be waiting. She won’t even tell me where I’m going to be eating! Small wonder we didn’t throw down this week.

  The actual date itself doesn’t concern me much. There’s no possible way it’s going to turn into anything. He’d have to be the absolute perfect guy, and such a thing doesn’t exist. I’m not going to suddenly decide to start dating someone in the last month of my last semester of college.

  Speaking of which The Party Girls finally got their shit together and sent me their sections of the business plan. We’ve got the ground work done on our social media marketing scheme. That’s the only thing that makes me feel comfortable taking a night off. However, the perfect product still eludes us. I tossed out Gwen’s douche for men idea. They were as confused as me.

  Al
l day long I’ve been trying to pick out the right outfit. Gwen keeps vetoing my choices. My argument is that if she’s already pushing me out of my comfort zone, I ought to be able to wear jeans and a sweater. She threatens me with real physical harm if I walk out the door wearing jeans. Finally, she resorts to her own closet to “save my pussy” as she calls it.

  Little black dress. Four inch heels. The last time I dressed like this, Gwen and I tried to join a sorority. We both bombed out of all that. Gwen liked the “sex with athletes” part, so she’s been freelancing that ever since.

  Gwen makes me do a runway walk in our tiny apartment before I head out. Walking in the heels, I trip and nearly break my neck. The struggle is very real. Eventually I get the hang of it or at least I can pretend.

  “Get it girl,” Gwen says.

  “I’m going to get you back for this bitch,” I say, wearing more makeup than I’ve worn in years.

  “Promise me one thing, Tam.”

  “Don’t make me promise to bang the guy.”

  She bites her lip, thinking of something else to say. “Promise me you’ll at least consider it. You need this girl.”

  “I promise that I won’t tell the guy I have ebola to get out of him trying to kiss me.”

  “Holy shit! It’s a start. Go get ‘em babe,” she says. The Uber app on her phone buzzes, and she dramatically throws the front door open for me. My date awaits.

  My Uber driver takes me around to the other side of the university. Rome is built around the University of Southern Texas. There’s a main strip of college bars, and for a brief moment I hope that’s where we’re going. I can do some drinks and maybe a little dancing. However given the importance that Gwen put on my dress, I’m probably not going to be that lucky.

  The driver keeps going past the dumpy college bars to the nice part of town. There’s a handful of exclusive restaurants away from the campus. They tend to service the top university brass and visiting football personnel. Definitely not the kind of place that a regular college kid would take a blind date. Naturally, my anxiety starts to kick in again.