When those soft fingertips slide past my chin and clasp behind my neck, I moan into her mouth and twist my head, getting lost in her.
“Kira.” I press my hard want into her and she responds by grinding little circles into me with her pelvis.
Finding the hem of her sweater, I pull away from her lips just long enough to get it over her head. Our mouths crash while I reach behind her and unclasp her bra.
Mmm-mmm. My hands slide over her breasts, my cock hardens, and when she wraps her legs around my waist, I lift and drop her on the king-sized bed.
She squeezes her thighs tight, her skirt rides up, and her wet panties dampen my t-shirt.
“Babe. I, ah… I got to be inside you.”
“Stop talking and do it.” She lets go, rolls to her side, and slips off her heels and underwear while I drop my slacks and shuck off my shirt.
Then, I climb up her body, place my tip at her core, and her wet heat is my green light.
“Go.” She arches, I enter her opening, and thrust in.
Balls to core, she locks her ankles behind my back and bites my earlobe.
“Fast and hard.”
I don’t think she understands what she’s asking and yet the way she bucks underneath me is driving me to the brink of madness.
“Fuck me, harder than ever before Ryan.” Her nails dig into the top of my butt, she pulls me so tight, I can’t figure out where she stops and I begin.
I am so drunk on her, a switch goes off in my brain, and I do as she asks. In and out, faster and faster, our bodies join. Sweat lubricates our skin as we work ourselves into a frenzy. Dark purple and swollen, my cock searches for release.
She cums screaming out my name and shudders.
“Kira.” My lower back coils and I groan.
With her inner muscles pulsing around my length, I thrust and dive deep. All the day’s frustrations flow out with my seed. Then, I drop onto her, spent not only physically but in another way. I’m so connected to this girl; I never want to let her go.
“I love you.” I whisper, hoping and yet not hoping she heard.
“I love you, too.” Her sleepy voice responds so fast, I wonder if I’m dreaming.
My cock, still within her, stirs and her orgasm, not quite finished, responds. I thought, once we said the words, I’d be relieved. Instead, my heart beats like it’s the last down, I got the ball, and there’s no one to pass it to.
Chapter 22
Kira
I wake up wondering. Did we actually admit yesterday we loved each other? I’ve known it for the longest time but now what?
I squirm out of his embrace and search for his phone as his alarm begins to chime out the tune, We Are the Champions.
Ryan turns, opens his amber eyes and smiles. “You are so fucking beautiful.”
“You are.”
He kisses me and jumps out of bed. “Uber?”
“On it.”
Quickly, we pack up our few belongings, check out of the hotel, and dash to the airport. Once there, we wait at the first-class gate, and as soon as I get seated, snooze. In fact, I sleep all the way to Atlanta. At the front desk of our hotel, Star, my roommate, has already checked in.
Ryan gives me a quick kiss. “I’ll text you as soon as I get a break. I love you.” His boyish wide grin makes my heart thump.
“Love you, too. Good luck.”
“Luck is for loser’s darlin’.”
After, time passes in a whir. I don’t have time to think, let alone worry about us. I drop my stuff in my hotel room and rush out to the bus where they take us to the stadium to rehearse.
I share a quick hug with Star while the woodwinds practice their difficult passages.
She rests her drum on her leg. “How was Christmas?”
“The first half, not so good. Last night? Amazing. We finally said the big three words.”
“No shit.” She grins. “About friggin’ time.”
“Right? How’d it go with Jackson?”
“We’re really good, too.”
The whistle blows, we line up, and then, it’s all about marching, music, and formations. I get yelled at only once, which isn’t bad, considering how little sleep I got last night.
Before I fall into bed, I check my phone, grin, and text back, <3U2
My conductor takes the battle of the bands as seriously as CJ does the Cotton Bowl. For three days, we practice morning, noon, and night.
During the first of the playoffs, my hip is still sore from where my glockenspiel digging into it. We eat an early breakfast and take a bus to the stadium where people are camped out, tailgating, and partying with country music blaring. They cheer as we exit the bus and take our place in the stadium. Even though I’m real excited to be here, I’m worried, too. The Pitbulls lost their last game. If they don’t make the playoffs, Ryan’s chances of getting drafted drop significantly.
The sky’s dark, threatening rain, and a breeze blows up from the Gulf.
Passing the ball is going to be twice as hard in this weather. When it begins to drizzle, the director hands us plastic uniform covers to keep us dry while the stadium fills.
Finally, it’s time. The team enters the field, we stand, and play. I try not to look for him. If I do, I’m sure to hit my mallet on the wrong note. The crowd goes wild as the teams are announced and I can barely hear myself think, let alone keep time with the rest of the band.
The fanfare stops. Ryan and Jackson stroll to the center of the field where they’re joined by a couple guys from Ohio State.
A referee tosses the coin, we win, and he shouts, “FSCU!”.
Quest kicks, the ball sails, and I hold my breath. When it drops onto the field, Ohio picks it up and runs until getting picked off by Matt.
For over two hours, both teams fight like hell but are so evenly matched, neither team scores. In an attempt to have the lead before half-time, CJ calls a timeout. The guys and Ryan huddle and surprise Ohio State with a bold move. Quest kicks from the opposite side of the field to put two points on the score board.
As the players leave the field, Ryan lingers and his eyes find mine. He looks worried, tired. Not like himself.
I mouth out, “I love you.”
In time to the drum cadence, our band marches onto the field. Even though I don’t hear him say it back, I know he does.
For the whole second half of the game, I stand and cheer until I’m hoarse. Ohio State has scored a touchdown, the clock is running down, and we’re out of chances. If we don’t get a first down, they get the ball and there’s only seconds left on the clock.
I don’t even want to think about it so clang on my bells and shout with the cheerleaders. “Charge!”
The other team screams. “Hold ‘em back, hold ‘em back, waaaay back!”
The last timeout spent, Ryan runs onto the field and gives the crowd a wink and a confident wave.
I almost can’t watch.
“Hu-hu-hut seven, right-two, hut.” The play called, Ryan races backwards looking for an opening.
Our guys are too well covered and my heart thumps as two of Ohio’s best defensemen head straight for my man.
I scream as they loom over him.
What happens next is so fast, I can hardly follow. Ryan runs in the wrong direction and spins on his instep. Our lineman takes down the one closest to him and I swear, uses his back to lift Ryan into the air who flies over bodies, stretches long, and taps the ball in the end zone.
The crowd goes nuts and everyone is crying as they hug each other in the stands.
Ryan’s teammates jump up and down as they run onto the field. Then, it’s a total shit show. Our trumpets blare our triumph, I clang my bells, and Star beats a happy rhythm with the rest of the percussionists. This is Ryan’s moment, and I am so proud tears drip down my cheeks.
Back at my hotel, I tune in the sports channel and find a reporter interviewing Ryan. “Finn, you think you’re going to be voted most valuable player?”
Ryan grins
and answers with his thick Texas drawl. “That’d be real nice but there were a lot of great players out there today.”
“What about the draft?
“Well, I can’t think so far ahead. I just want to focus on New Orleans.”
Me too, but first, our band has to fly to Pasadena for the ‘Tournament of Roses’ parade. I text him on New Year’s Eve around midnight but get no response.
The next morning, between rehearsals, I check my phone, and still nothing. My heart heavy, I march in one of the most beautiful parades in the world. We’re allowed to tour the floats, each one more amazing than the next.
One exhibit gives away a small chrysanthemum in a green plastic dart filled with water. The woman explains how the point digs into the base of the float while the miniature vase keeps the flowers fresh.
After our tour, our bags already on the bus, we’re rushed back to the airport and barely make it in time for boarding. By the time I sit, all electronics are off, and we’re back in the air. When we land, I check my phone again, but nothing.
Has Ryan changed his mind about me? Maybe, now he’s about to become an NFL star, he’s having second thoughts.
I call him as soon as we check in but go to voicemail. At dinner, I ask Star if she’s heard from Jackson.
“Didn’t you hear? The assistant coach banned all electronics until they win the big game.”
“Wait, then how did you find out?”
She grins. “Jackson never follows the rules.”
I shake my head and my heart lifts. At least Ryan hasn’t been ignoring me on purpose but at this moment, I wish he was more like Jackson.
The next few days are long and tiring and our time together at Christmas seems more like a dream. Star tries to cheer me up but I keep thinking about how different our lives are going to be. He’s not going to want a short, redhead with freckles standing next to him for photo ops. My new obsession is searching the internet for pictures of NFL wives. Not one of them is less than a nine-point-five on the babe scale.
He said he loved me but it happened during sex, in the heat of the moment. Jackson managed to call Star, why couldn’t Ryan use his phone to call me?
By the day of the championship, I’ve worked myself into a deep funk and when he runs onto the field, my heart just about cracks in two. He’s so damn handsome in his Pitbull blue. His hair’s been cut since the last time I saw him and he’s even more muscular, if that’s possible.
His eyes search the stadium and I wave, hoping Ryan’s looking for me but I’m just one little fish, in a sea of band uniforms. Through the cheers of the crowd, I bang on my Glock, hoping the clear tones will reach him.
He smiles widely and waves his helmet over his head in my direction, and mouths, “I love you.”
Star nudges me. “You do know millions of people on national TV just saw you?”
My face heats and my insides get all warm and fuzzy but it’s short lived. The referee tosses the coin, the ball goes to Alabama, and our guys run down the field.
Ryan, on the sideline, watches his teammates let the ball drop.
Confused, I turn to Star. “Why didn’t they pick up the ball and run with it?”
“New rules. If the ball makes it to the end zone, it gets placed on the twenty-five-yard line.”
“And?”
“The players are less likely to get an injury early in the game. Coach is playing it safe.”
Our offensive team takes the field with Ryan hanging back to talk to CJ. Then, he jogs toward the huddle. I can’t see the play from where I sit so stare at the giant screen, holding my breath. The opposing team is huge.
Star, reading my mind says, “They’ve sacked more quarterbacks than any team in the league.”
The ball snaps into Ryan’s hand, a wave of red flows over white, and I scream. He’s about to be buried in a sea of defensive lineman. Other quarterbacks would’ve run to the sidelines but Ryan finds a hole and dashes up the field.
Holy shit. He leaves both red and blue uniforms far behind.
Touchdown.
The crowd goes ballistic, the huge screen replays the amazing dash, and Ryan waves as he trots back from the endzone.
The game starts again, Quest kicks, and the ball sails through the goal post. We’re ahead by eight.
The rest of the game is grueling. The ball changes hands, Alabama scores but misses the extra points. I can hardly believe it’s already halftime and we need to play.
Our moves are difficult but we’re so well-rehearsed, my feet go on autopilot. We make a big blue Pitbull on the field as we finish our march, a medley of tunes from the hit movie, Bohemian Rhapsody.
The crowd shows their appreciation by banging their heels on the bleachers as we march back to our seats. This was our moment and we shined. Our conductor grins and shouts his praises as we take our seats in the stadium to watch the Alabama band.
When they’re done, the teams burst onto the field for the second half. CJ, a former NFL quarterback, exudes calm confidence while the opposition’s coach paces and shouts, his face about the color of his team’s uniforms.
No one scores during the third quarter and the crowd grows quiet at the start of the fourth. The play is called, Ryan shoots the ball but it’s too high.
For sure, it’s about to be grabbed by the Alabama. However, Jackson jumps into the air, clearing what has to be close to four feet. Holy shit, high in the air, hands over his head, he catches the ball at the ten-yard line.
He lands and he’s tackled under a pile of their offense.
Does he still have the ball?
Star holds her breath until they all climb off with him at the bottom. He’s a bit dazed but he waves the ball at the crowd. Coach calls time out and he and Ryan talk for a long time. My quarterback nods a lot while playing with his mouthpiece.
Seconds later, they’re back on the field and my heart pounds. This game means so much to him, to us.
Our players move into position, Ryan calls out the play but instead of backing up, he dives through a hole of red giants. Once they pile off, the referee places the ball a mere three yards from the end zone.
This is our last chance. No more downs. The opposition tries to run down the clock and calls a timeout. Ryan jogs off the field, stumbles, and I gasp. The last hit was hard. I can see coach wants to pull him out of the game but Ryan argues, face imploring.
This is all picked up on the giant monitors, for all to see. Millions are watching, including agents and scouts. What will they think?
CJ calls over the team doctor who shines a light into Ryan’s eyes and talks to him. After a bit, Ryan grins, the doctor nods at Coach, and he jogs back onto the field. I grab Star’s cowbell and bang like crazy.
My cowboy turns over his shoulder, and his grin is picked up by cameras.
He is so damn fine.
Alabama’s coach shouts, his voice hoarse.
Our cheerleaders scream over him. “Three yards to go! Three to go!”
Me and Star bang away, me on the Glock, her on the drum.
Our team huddles with Ryan on one knee and I pray. Please God, let them win.
As if in slow motion, the ball finds Ryan’s hands. This time, Alabama makes no holes for him to crawl through. Ryan fakes a throw, their eyes follow, and in that split second, he springs over their bodies. With a foot on a defensive’s back, he launches himself. It seems like a done deal but someone grabs his ankle. One of our guys sees the play, jumps right under Ryan, and rolls him into the endzone.
“Holy shit.” Star jumps up and down with me, the noise around us deafening.
Because Alabama ran down the clock, they have no chance of catching up, especially when our star kicker places the sailing pigskin between the goalposts.
The final two minutes are almost anticlimactic. CJ sends in the seconds, so they can say they played in the championship game while Ryan watches, drinking Gatorade from the sidelines.
I clang the Glock, he glances up, and his wink sets my hear
t fluttering.
Thank God, it’s over.
This huge horn sounds, the two teams shake hands, and it is total mayhem in the field. I want to rush to Ryan and give him a hug but our conductor wants us on the bus to the hotel.
With one final clang on my bells, I say my goodbye.
Chapter 23
Ryan.
Holy fuck, we did it. We won the college championship. My teammates hug me, reporters surround me, and fans try to get to me where I stand on the sidelines. When I’m doused with a frigid bucket of water, I turn, and a grinning Jackson pounds me on the back.
“Worst fucking throw, ever, dude.”
“I meant to go high.” I punch his arm and pour the last of my green Gatorade over his head.
Someone pops champagne and hands me a bottle. I take it by the neck, gulp, and hand it to Quest, on my right. In front of me, reporters line up and CJ hands me a towel.
Jeff, who somehow made it onto the field, instructs me. “Keep it short and simple. Thank your teammates, the NCAA, your momma.”
“I know how this is done.” I’m in too good a mood to take offense so I throw my wet towel into his face and walk toward the closest mic.
Frank, from NBC asks, “How does it feel, to be NFL bound?”
“Unreal.”
He grins at my honesty. “You look like you were hit hard in the final quarter. Were you worried you’d be benched?”
I was but say what fans want to hear. “Nah, I knew once the doc had a look, Coach would put me back in play.”
CJ overhears and raises a brow but is too busy with his own interview to argue. The rest of the day goes by in a blur. At some point, I manage a shower, am given a suit, and taken away for more interviews.
“Jeff, can you find my phone for me?” I’m dying to text Kira. I heard her clanging the glockenspiel and I want her to know how much it meant to me.
“Sure, I’ll see what I can do.” Some woman sprays sticky stuff on my hair and pats my forehead with a giant powder puff.
Misconduct (FSCU Pitbulls Book 1) Page 12