by Lily Cahill
The power of that look makes my knees watery as I walk over to the bleachers. I find a place to perch at the edge—easier to make a quick getaway if this all gets to be too much—and try to look like I belong here. But peering around, it’s so obvious that I don’t.
Off to my side, a bunch of men and women in blue-and-silver cheer uniforms are taking turns doing back flips. Nearby, there are older men—obviously donors—standing close by. I don’t miss the way a few of them elbow each other as one cheerleader tosses another up into the air and she kicks her legs out. She lands, only to be thrown up again, five other girls joining her in a series of stunts that make my head spin. I can handle myself on a bike and run in heels, but what they’re doing is close to miraculous.
After a few minutes and polite clapping from the assembled donors, the cheerleaders disperse. A few of them come sit near me in the stands, and it’s only a matter of seconds before one girl slides over to me. She takes a long swig of a water bottle then points at my shoes. “Those shoes are killing me.”
I tip up one of my black leather boots with diamond-shaped cut-outs. “Thanks.” It comes out more as a question than I mean it to.
“My roommate, Lou, would probably try and buy them off your feet. Watch out.” She points to a young woman wearing a structural gray dress and some amazing heels standing with a bunch of guys in team apparel. One of the middle-aged guys looks suspiciously like Denzel Washington, and I can’t help but think of Gamma and smile.
Next to me, the girl holds out a hand. Her brown skin is a shade lighter than mine, and her hair is relaxed—something I gave up years ago. “I’m Nara, and you’re new here, right?” She smiles. “Are you a reporter? My dad’s an editor, and I can spot that observer look anywhere.”
Lord, am I really that obviously out of place? “I’m a painter, not a reporter,” I offer. I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment before I add, “To be honest, I’m not really sure what I’m looking at.”
“Oh!” Nara lights up and slides closer. “Well, then let me fill you in.” Her heart-shaped face and wide, mischievous eyes look like they belong on a fairy. I start sketching her as such in my mind.
“So, you’ve got your offense and your defense,” she says, pointing to different groups on the field. “And then your special teams. They started out earlier running drills—sprints, tires, fast feet, the usual—and now they are working on specific skills. In a little bit they’ll scrimmage, which is what everyone is waiting to see.”
“How can you keep them straight?” I say, looking out over the sea of players.
“You get to know their numbers and positions.”
I frown. It takes a minute to find Riley and read the number off his jersey—32. It seems like something I ought to know. To make up for it, I latch onto something I do think I’ve figured out. “And that’s Coach Prescott?” I ask, pointing to the Denzel look-alike.
Nara nods and glances over at the tall head coach. He’s got dark skin and close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, and he seems to be watching the whole field simultaneously. “That’s our fearless leader and Lou’s doting father.”
Ah. Now that I’m looking for it, I can see the resemblance between the two. I’m about to ask more—it’s nice having my own, in-person Google—when another girl stomps up the bleachers and collapses next to Nara.
“God, football players can be such pains in the ass,” the girl says. She’s wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt embroidered with the rearing blue mustang. “I had to stitch up Mayhew, and he acted like he was doing me a favor.”
“Are all the rumors true?” Nara asks, craning her neck until she apparently spots him. “He’s really as arrogant as they say?”
The girl groans. “Worse.” Then she notices me, and her face goes blank. “I mean, he’s crazy fast and a huge asset to the team.”
Nara laughs and glances at me. “She’s not a reporter.”
The girl slumps over. “Oh, thank God.” She reaches across Nara to extend a hand. “Megan Noble,” she says, introducing herself.
“Lilah Stone,” I say, shaking her hand. “Are you on the medical staff?”
“God, I wish,” she snorts, pushing her reddish ponytail back over her shoulder. “I’m in the physical therapy program, and working with the team is part of our grade. I’m years away from actually working here.”
“Gotcha.” I’m starting to enjoy myself. It occurs to me that I haven’t had nearly enough girl-time since Natalie died. “And who is this arrogant guy?”
“Sir Benjamin Mayhew-Fancypants,” Megan says in a syrupy British accent. “He’s a new recruit this year. I guess he played rugby or whatever and comes from royalty or something. No idea how he ended up here in Colorado. Either way, he’s a dick.”
“Which is a real burden for every available girl, because he’s hot and British and seriously, did I mention hot?” Nara adds, deadpan.
Megan smirks, then focuses on something on the field. “Does Reggie Davis look like he’s limping to you?”
I find Reggie on the field, and it does kind of look like he’s favoring one foot. “Maybe?”
Megan sighs. “I should go mention it to Garrett. Nice meeting you, Lilah,” she says, before taking off again.
Coach Prescott blows his whistle three times, which seems to be the signal for the players to do a fast lap around the field. When Riley passes, he waves at me, and I feel the thrill of it like electricity in my body. I wave back, knowing that heat is flooding my face and I’m wearing a silly grin.
“Riley Brulotte,” Nara says. “Nice.”
“Yeah,” I say dreamily. “It is.”
Throughout the scrimmage, when Nara’s not cheering, she makes sure to sit with me and explain what’s going on. I’ve never seen the game this close up, and the roughness of it is kind of shocking. And sure, I’m biased and I don’t know anything about football, but it seems to me that Riley keeps coming out on top. He’s so fast, so strong, so ferocious on the field.
To be honest, it’s turning me on.
The game starts winding down when I get a text from Gamma: I’m going over to Mrs. Levy’s house for bridge and gossip. Don’t wait up.
An idea bursts into my head. “Is there anywhere around here I can get a jersey?”
Nara frowns for a second. “Sure,” she says. “Plenty of places.”
“Good,” I say, shooting a quick text to Riley to come to my place when practice is over. “I think it’s time I bought one.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Riley
BY THE TIME THE SCRIMMAGE is over, I’m so tired I can barely pull my jersey over my head. It’s always supposed to be a laid-back showcase to entertain the donors and get them to pull out the checkbooks, but Coach Prescott seems to have misunderstood the definition of “laid back.”
“Christ, he worked us hard today,” I grumble, wiping a towel over my face.
“I need it,” says Weston miserably as he collapses onto the bench beside me. He’s stripped to the waist with an ice pack strapped to his arm. “I wish I could just quit, but there’s no one else.”
“You’ll get there,” I say, but privately I have my doubts. West put in a performance riddled with mistakes and second-guesses. He does okay in practice, but it’s a different story when anyone is watching. It’s frustrating, being able to see all this potential on our team and still not being able to deliver when it matters. This scrimmage was his chance to show the press and alumni that he has what it takes. That he’s not going to choke like he did at the disaster that was the National Championship last year. And he’s blown it.
Last year during the Blue and Silver game, Jeremy Hudson was throwing long bombs so beautiful they would have made Elway weep. He was one of the best quarterbacks in college ball, and would have been a shoe-in for the NFL if he hadn’t been a rapist.
Well, let’s be honest … if he hadn’t been caught red-handed.
“Coach believes in you,” I say, giving West an encouraging s
lap on the back. “We all do.”
West just shakes his head while I head for the showers. I wish I could be more comforting, but I’ve got my own problems.
The first conference game is tomorrow. There are only eleven more regular-season games this year, followed by the playoffs … if we we’re lucky. If we we’re good. Eleven games that will determine the rest of my life.
The tradition of the Blue and Silver game has always been fun for me, a chance to show off what we can do without the pressure of a real game. But this year, I’d been nervous all day. The air felt like it was swirling with speculation and rumors. If we don’t win tomorrow, the rest of the games this season won’t matter. We won’t get to the playoffs with two losses on our record, hell, we might not even get a good Bowl game at this rate. Even worse, it’ll give credence to the loudest rumor of all—that the Mustangs are nothing without MoFo.
Seeing Lilah at practice has been the bright spot in an otherwise-stressful day. I can’t believe she came. She’s been very clear about her disdain for football. The last week or so, she’s been making noises about what a shame it is that football takes up so much of my time, time that I could be using to explore my artistic talent. She doesn’t get that carving is something I do to relax. Honestly, I still can’t believe that something like what I carved for my final project came out of me. It seems easier right now to pretend it didn’t.
It’s stressful enough to think about my future without trying to figure how Lilah fits into it. Lilah won’t be happy in my small hometown, where the only place to buy clothes is Walmart. If I make the NFL, I can’t choose where I go, and I can’t see her leaving her grandmother to follow me to an uncertain future.
But maybe, her coming to practice today was a sign that she’s willing to budge a little. When I first caught sight of her, she looked so lost, so out-of-place, and so damned beautiful. But then, after just a few minutes, she was laughing with one of the cheerleaders. It gives me hope that, even if she isn’t thrilled about it, she can come to terms with this side of me.
I’m glad she’s invited me over. I could use a relaxing evening with her and her Gamma. It reminds me of quiet nights at home with my own family. And maybe I’ll have the chance to get Lilah alone, steal a few kisses. It’s enough just to spend time with her, talk to her, bump her knee under the table where her grandmother can’t see.
I don’t know where my future is going. But I do know I want to find a way to keep her in my life.
My phone rings just as I pull into her driveway. I groan when I see that it’s my dad calling. He’s been driving me crazy, calling and emailing at least twice a day. He’s more nervous about the season than I am. I’m not in the mood to talk to him, but he will just keep calling if I don’t answer.
“Hey, Dad.”
“How’d it go today?” he asks, without even a greeting.
“Good,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice.
“Just good? How is that Sawyer kid throwing?”
I hesitate, which tells my father everything. “Shit. Riley, I’m worried that we made the wrong choice about staying at MSU. I wish I could be there to see what’s really going on.”
“Yeah, but you’re not,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’m here. This is my life, my future.”
“Yeah, but we’re a team, son. I want to see you succeed.”
I suck in a breath. “You want to see me succeed in football.”
“Of course.”
“You don’t care about anything else.”
“That’s not true,” Dad says.
“Yes, it is. You never ask me about my classes or my friends. All you care about is that I make the NFL, so I can live out your dreams.”
I’ve never said this to my dad before, but if feels like such a relief to finally say it. To clear it out of my chest.
“Riley—”
“Look, I’m sick of it! Sick of your expectations. What happens if I fail, dad? What happens then?”
I don’t wait for an answer, just click the phone off. My dad calls back almost immediately, but I send it to voicemail. I can’t take any more pressure tonight. All I want is to see my girl and let tomorrow take care of itself.
I take a deep breath as I approach the house, trying to calm the frustration bubbling inside me. Lilah texted me that she left the door unlocked and that I should come right in.
“Lilah?” I call into the dark rooms.
“Back here,” she calls. I follow the light coming from her bedroom and the faint tinkling of music. The rest of the house is dark and silent, and it hits me that maybe Gamma isn’t here. But who knows—everything feels so mixed up right now. I’m already feeling bad about hanging up on my dad, and I should really call him back after I’ve settled down.
Then I turn into Lilah’s room, and every thought drains out of my head.
She’s lying in her bed, which would have been enough by itself to get my dick hard. We’ve had sex standing, sitting, braced against a wall, inside, outside, and in the back of my truck … but never in an honest-to-goodness bed. She’s curled against soft pillows in a pool of golden light, and she looks so gorgeous she almost isn’t real.
But that isn’t all. She was wearing a Mustangs jersey. My Mustangs jersey, with my number on the front. I’m not an egotistical guy, but seeing her curvy body tucked inside my jersey has a primal pleasure rising inside me.
Mine.
“Hi, Riley,” she says, her voice sultry. She trails one hand up her bare leg, her red fingernails contrasting with the umber of her skin. Her lips are red too, sleek and pouty, and she has done something to her eyes to make them bigger and sleepier. Her mohawk is thick and curly, and I can’t wait to get my hands in it.
“Hi,” I breathe, trying to take her in all at once. “You look incredible.”
She licks her lips and smiles. “I figured, with the big game tomorrow, you might need a little extra encouragement.”
I nod, still feeling dumb. “Your grandma’s not here?”
Lilah shakes her head, then scoots over a bit on the bed to make room for me.
I nearly trip trying to kick off my shoes and strip off my pants at the same time. I toss a couple of condoms on the dresser, grinning when Lilah raises her eyebrows. “I’m going to need a lot of encouragement,” I say, pulling my shirt over my head and dropping it on the floor. She reaches out for me as I walk naked toward the bed. Mentally, I take a photo of that moment—my woman, welcoming me.
I sigh as I settle in against her. My cock is already rock hard, but all I want for the moment is to be close to her. She is so soft, so warm. Underneath the desire, there is bone-deep comfort that comes from simply being in her arms.
She’s wearing some musky scent that teases my senses, drawing my nose to her neck and throat. She laughs as I nuzzle into her and throws her leg over mine, trying to draw me closer. “My bed’s not very big.”
“But it’s a bed,” I say, stretching luxuriously. My feet are hanging off the end, but I’m used to that. “I finally got you in a bed.”
She bites her lip and looks away from me. “I’m sorry that I don’t feel comfortable in your dorm. We could have been in a bed all along, but—”
“Hey. You don’t need to apologize for anything.” I stroke my hand over her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. “But you should come over sometime. If nothing else, you can check out my collection of carvings.”
She presses her lips together and nods. “I can do that. I’m sorry that I’ve been so stubborn about it. It’s just, with Natalie ….” She shakes her head, frowning. “It felt disrespectful to her, somehow. But that’s just foolish. If I want to be in your life, I should see how you live.”
I nudge her with my forehead, wanting to see her smile again. “So you want to be part of my life?”
She nods, something like a plea in her eyes.
“That’s what I want too,” I say, my voice thick. “I want you in every part of my life.”
; I kiss her as her lips start to turn up. It’s slow, languorous. We’re savoring each other. I run my hands over the surface of the jersey, molding the curves of her body.
She purrs with pleasure and runs her hands over me in turn. Her lips leave mine and trail down my chin, my throat, sending shivers down my spine. “Lilah,” I whisper, for the simple pleasure of saying her name.
She pushes at me until I lay on my back, and she kneels beside me. It gives her hands the freedom to run over my chest and shoulders while her mouth kisses hot trails over my chest. I moan when she tweaks my nipple between her fingers, then gasp when she takes the other with her teeth. My hips thrust up involuntarily, desperate for attention. “You’re killing me,” I manage to gasp.
She lifts her mouth from my chest and kisses me again, deep and dirty. At the same time, she strokes her hand down the center of my abs and takes my cock in her grip. I gasp into her mouth as she begins to stroke the whole length of me, rubbing the head with her thumb.
“Oh, baby,” I groan, letting my legs fall open. “That feels so good.”
“I can do better,” she purrs, resettling herself between my legs. Keeping her eyes on mine, she takes my cock between her bright red lips.
“Fuck, Lilah. You’re always beautiful, but you look so gorgeous with my cock in your mouth.”
I can see from the way her eyes fly to mine that she’s shocked, but that she’s also turned on. Her ass is in the air now as she leans down to work on me with her mouth and hands. She knows exactly how to keep me on the edge, speeding up and slowing down until I’m desperate to come.
As if she can hear my thoughts, she rises up until she’s sitting on her knees. She pulls off the jersey, revealing that she’s gloriously naked underneath but for a pair of cotton MSU panties.
I stroke her ass, tracing the team logo. “Baby. For me?”
“For you,” she confirms, turning so I can admire the way they cut high on her ass.
I pull her down next to me and roll on top so our positions are reversed. It’s my turn to run my hands all over body, to use my mouth on her hard nipples. She’s squirming and moaning by the time I peel off those soaked panties and position myself between her legs, rolling a condom into place.