by Jesse Jordan
I nod, not liking it but understanding. “Mind if I'm there when you break the news?”
“Not at all,” Red replies. “You want, I'll let you even do the little fare thee well speech.”
“You got a deal.”
Me and my big fucking mouth. Watching a thirty seven year old man break down sobbing because he's no longer going to be allowed to do the one and only thing he's been any damn good at in this world tore my heart out.
It wasn't the cut... it was watching the realization dawn on his face when I told him the Knights were cutting him. In the course of ten seconds, I watched him go from dumb hope that this was just a sort of pep talk or counseling session, to shock, to the wild hope of refusal that he'd be able to land with some other team... and then finally the crumbling as he realized that for him, at least, the highlights of his life were over.
“You okay Miss Porter?” Red asks as I sit back in the chair I'm using after it's all over. “You look like you're not liking this part of the job.”
“Why should I?” I demand. “Red, just because I understand the business sense of what we just did, doesn't make it any easier. Holliday looked like he needs to be put on suicide watch.”
“Fifteen years, I'd say he's earned himself a good long break, maybe some golf,” Red replies. “He's actually pretty smart, if he wants he could make something for himself in the coaching ranks. Not a pro, but high school, maybe small college ball? Yeah, if he wants.”
“Small comfort right now,” I reply, getting up. “Listen, if there's nothing else, I think I'm going to go work off some of these bad feelings. Weight room's open, right?”
“Of course,” Red replies. “I've got some film to go over and meetings to take care of, so if you don't mind, I'll see you in the morning. Have a good night.”
Red leaves, and I hurry to my room, a solo job attached to my 'office' in the camp. Burying my frustration and feelings for at least a moment, I change quickly into a sports bra, t-shirt and some Knights shorts from my Watchgirl year. Heading over to the weight room, I understand why the team splits up practices for offensive and defensive players, this university's room just isn't big enough to handle ninety (excuse me, eighty eight) players trying to get workouts in.
I expect the room to be deserted, it's nearly ten at night, but when I open the doors I see someone at the far side of the room, using one of the chest machines. He's lying down, whoever it is, but I can see the massive stack of plates on each side. It looks like he's bench pressing a car practically, I can’t even count the number from this distance. It must be one of the players, but I'm surprised any player would have the strength or energy to want to go so heavy at this point in training camp.
“Whatever,” I mutter to myself, stretching out before going to the squat racks. Growing up in football means that I've learned how to lift like I really know what I'm doing, and I quickly set myself up, putting the safety catches in and setting up the bar. As I slide the plate on the left side I glance over again at the player still using the weights, and see as he sets the handles down with control, but it's still so heavy that I can feel the rumble through the floor even over here. He sits up, and with a little bit of surprise I see it's Lincoln Watson.
I guess Coach Cooper's right, Lincoln's a workout warrior. I checked around with the other scouts and stuff, and they all say the same about him. Loner, bit of a pain in the ass who never makes friends in the locker room, mostly because of his penchant for fading just when the team needs him most. Teams build cohesion on knowing that the guy next to you is going to fight just as hard as you do... and Lincoln's soured a lot of people with his fade act. Still, Cooper's right, he'll most likely make the squad if for no other reason than every team needs at least four defensive ends with the way players get beat up along the line.
Doesn't matter to me right now, I'm still frustrated at what I just had to do a half hour ago. I unrack my bar, putting everything out of my mind but the weights as I work off my emotions at everything. Cutting two players gets me through warmups, but Joe Crenshaw acting like a frat house jerkoff... that hangs around in my head until I'm doing over two hundred pounds, down and up like I was taught all those years ago, squatting not to look cute, not to get a good butt, but to move some damn iron. The good legs and butt come afterwards, or so I've been told.
I go down one last time, growling at I see Joe's smirking face in my mind's eye, but about halfway up I feel a cramp in my left thigh, and that's it. The bar goes down, slow enough that I don't just let the weight crash into the safety pins, but certainly loud enough that it rings in my ears.
“Shit,” I mutter, pitching forward onto my hands and knees on the non-slip flooring. I ease myself backwards, but the cramp's not letting go, and I hiss in pain.
“You okay?” a low, and I have to admit, sexy voice, like gravel and velvet, says next to me. “That was pretty impressive, fifteen reps with two oh five.”
“Had... a lot... to work off,” I gasp in between pants, hoping against hope that the stitch in my side doesn't add to my woes. “You sure it was fifteen? Felt like at least twenty five, but I lost count after ten. Hurt too damn much.”
“Very sure it's fifteen. Rule I learned, when someone's squatting, you always keep an eye on them, even if they've got their safeties setup,” the voice says. I turn my head, unsurprised to see Lincoln Watson standing next to me. Straddling me in the squat rack, he effortlessly pulls the bar up off the safety pins and places it back in the upper supports before stepping back. “There you go. Let's get you out of the rack and over to the mat where you can stretch out.”
“Thanks,” I rasp, slowly trying to get up but failing. Lincoln kneels down and offers me a massive hand, nearly swallowing mine when I take it. I've got big hands for a woman, I'm almost six feet tall with hands to match, but he makes me feel like a little waif of a girl as he helps me up and assists me over to the mat area. “So what brings you here at this time of night? Most of the players are trying to get some extra sleep.”
“Just working off some stress,” Lincoln says. “You know I like to work out on my own, like last time. Part of the reason I used the machine, can't risk getting stuck under a bar right now.”
“So you remember me,” I say as I try to stretch out my thigh and fail. “Goddamn, I haven't cramped this hard in a while.”
“Here,” Lincoln says. “By the way, Lincoln Watson.”
He kneels down next to me and puts his huge hand on my thigh right above my cramp. It's daring, I've had first dates that didn't reach up that high on my leg, but I say nothing since it feels so good. His hand is warm and strong, and as he massages my muscle I feel an almost orgasmic sense of relief as my quadricep finally unknots and turns to butter under his fingers. “Mmmm, thanks. And I know who you are. Samantha Porter. How'd you recognize me?”
Lincoln looks into my eyes, his sensual lips twisting in a smirk. “Not too many six foot pinup models walking around training camp. Didn't know your name, though I've heard it since. You used to date Joe Crenshaw, right?”
“Right,” I seethe. Guess the players talk among themselves more than I thought. “In fact, that's what I was thinking about when I decided to squat 'till I dropped.”
“Gotcha,” Lincoln says, his thumb still working on my thigh. I feel a tremble of heat somewhere else, his touch is electric, but he's not being lewd, just making my leg feel wonderful... and it's been a while since someone touched me this way. Even when he wasn't being an asshole, Joe wasn't very touchy. Lincoln though has a touch that makes me wonder if he's a wizard, and his voice feels like he's weaving a magic spell to relax and arouse my body all at once. “If I can give some advice, next time you want to go nuts in a weight room, the deadlift machine's best. Your hands will give out long before your low back or legs.”
“Noted,” I reply, fidgeting. I want him to stop, but at the same time... I don't. This close, I can see all of the flawless ripples of muscle under his t-shirt, and the way his biceps swell and fill th
e sleeves. “So how's camp treating you?”
“We'll see when we strap up the gear Monday morning, won't we?” Lincoln asks, bemused. “Will you be watching?”
“So far I've been able to,” I reply, looking into those dark brown eyes. “Should I be looking especially for you?”
Lincoln's lips twist in another smirk, and he tilts his head. “Perhaps. After all, it's my job to get to quarterbacks. Too bad I can't hit Joe, huh?”
“Yep, too bad,” I reply as my pussy starts to hum. That right hand, it's so good on my thigh, if he'd only move it a bit higher...
I swallow, looking into his ruggedly handsome face. His eyes are gleaming with a look that I'm familiar with, he wants me. And part of me wants him... but I can't. I scoot back, giving Lincoln an apologetic smile. “Thanks, but I think my leg's fine.”
Lincoln's gaze burns into mine, and a wave of desire flutters through me. I wonder if he's going to push things, but then he relaxes his hand, letting it trail down to my shin as he sits back on his heels. “Sure. Anytime. Listen, I've got a few more exercises to do... but I guess I'll be seeing you around camp, huh?”
I can't help it, I smile. “Yeah, I guess so. See you around, Lincoln.”
I leave the weight room, heading back to my room with my pulse pounding in my veins. God his touch was electric. Yeah, Lincoln's not the classical pretty boy type, he's handsome in that kind of way that belongs on a viking or a gladiator... or a Knight. He's just the kind of handsome that hasn't been popular since cowboy movies started fading out, rugged and powerful. Six foot six inches of man, and every ounce of him screamed that he's all real, too. My body knows what it wants, and my mind knows something else. Lincoln Watson is dangerous... very dangerous.
“Not that I can't indulge in a little fantasy,” I chuckle to myself as I strip off my workout clothes. An advantage of being a female executive in pro football... I get rooms to myself when we travel. I head for the shower, tossing my sweaty t-shirt and sports bra into the laundry bag hanging behind the door and step into the shower stall, turning the spray on.
While I give credit to the college dorms for having a nice water heater, the showers themselves leave a lot to be desired in terms of design. They're way too cramped, and the spray is too wild to be useful. Still, as the warm water flows over my shoulders and down my back, I relax, letting my eyes slip closed as the first tendrils run over my aching pussy lips to drip down my leg. Mmmm, it's been so long, even before Joe and I broke up we hadn't been all that sexual. Honestly, he was never that satisfying.
Lincoln though... I can imagine how those powerful hands would feel on my breasts, teasing my nipples until they're diamond hard and aching to be sucked. I reach down, cupping them and letting my mind carry me away. Circling my nipples, I pull and tug on them, twisting until I'm whimpering and my pussy quivers with need. Reaching down, I cup my mound, rubbing gently at first, not filling my aching walls just yet, but teasing my lips, letting my body anticipate what's coming.
Somehow I know Lincoln would do the same thing, and in my mind's eye I can see him behind me, his hard muscles pressed against my back and his sensuous lips feasting on my neck as he massages me, his fingers dipping between my lips just long enough to gather a little bit of my honey before stroking upward to my clit, stroking over it lightly and making my hips buck.
“Fuuuuccck,” I gasp, leaning back and giving myself over totally to my fantasy. My fingers speed up, stroking over my clit until I can't take any more and I slide two fingers inside my pussy, gripping tightly as I pump them in and out, moaning thickly. The warm shower cascades over my back, and I slide my thumb over my clit, making me throw my head back it feels so good. Just like this... he'd open me up just like this before letting me get on my knees and see a huge....
The idea of Lincoln and his cock inches from my lips pushes me over the edge and I cry out, my hips bucking as my thumb grinds over my clit and my pussy clamps down on my two fingers. Over and over my ass thumps against the tile back of the shower until I can't take it any more and I sag, only the lip of the built in soap dish and the rim of the shower stall itself keeping me from sliding all the way out. I half sit, staggered and shaken against the wall until my heart slows, and I laugh softly to myself.
“Guess I didn't need my old friend after all,” I tell the showerhead as I carefully stand all the way up. I'd packed my old blue plastic dildo simply because I knew I might need some relief... but after Lincoln's touch, I don't think I'm going to need it for a while.
“Still,” I remind myself as I reach for the washcloth and start to quickly clean up, “he's dangerous. No way am I going to get trapped in a relationship with another player.”
Chapter 4
Lincoln
The stadium's quiet this late at night, but they've left about half the lights on still, there's workers up in the seats making sure everything's good for tomorrow's game. Third preseason game of the year, and the first one in The Castle at Knights Field. One of the oldest stadiums still in use, I've been here before, of course. When you spent every free weekend you can watching your dad play pro ball, you get to go a lot of places.
But this is the first time I'll be playing on the grass here. Looking around, I still feel a little bit in awe of the design. Some people called it ostentatious at the time... I guess they're right. Just like how the LA Coliseum models itself after its Roman namesake, The Castle looks, in a lot of ways, like a medieval castle from the outside, and even from in here I can see the parapets that dissolve into the lights that ring the field. But The Castle makes a big impression, and it's on any player's list of stadiums they want to play in before they're done.
I step out of the tunnel, closing my eyes and imagining what it's going to be like tomorrow. For only the second time I'm going to be wearing the black and red of the Knights home uniform, and I don't really count that first game at a neutral site as a home game.
“This one's the important one,” I murmur as I walk out, letting my feet feel the grass. On a whim I kneel down, undoing my shoes and slipping off my socks, letting my toes feel the actual grass and dirt under my feet as I carefully avoid the endzones with their fresh paint and step onto the field itself.
“Hey!” a voice calls from above and I turn, smiling as I see the sexy curves of Sam Porter on the walkway behind the fieldgoal posts. “Lincoln, you should know the stadium's almost closed. What are you doing?”
“Walking the grass,” I reply honestly. When she gives me a questioning look, I wave down with my hand. “Come on, join me. Trust me, it's nice.”
“You're not wearing any shoes,” she notes as I cross closer to her. She's wearing what I've come to understand is her 'work clothes,' a sexy skirt that hugs her ass like it's been painted on and a button down blouse that has the Knights logo stenciled over her left breast. She's got the top two buttons undone, and I'm glad my head's a good five feet below her, or else I'd have a hard time not trying to catch a glimpse of her cleavage. After our little incident in the weight room, I've found myself noticing her around training camp a lot, and I've also noticed she's been looking in my direction a lot too.
I chuckle, looking down at my bare feet. “It feels good. Come on, swing a leg over the railing and join me, I'll help you down.”
Samantha chews her lip for a moment, then nods. “Okay. Hell, I should just kick you off the field, but if you're going to break team rules, you might as well do it with a team executive around. No peeking up my skirt?”
I grin, showing her crossed fingers. “I promise I'll be a perfect gentleman.”
Samantha laughs, shaking her head. “Bullshit, but okay. I was a cheerleader for half a season, I'm sure plenty of people have seen up my skirt at some point or another.”
She swings a leg over the railing before turning around, looking over her shoulder as I reach up and place my hands around her waist. I can just reach as she hangs from the railing and lets go, trusting in me totally. She's tall, and curvy enough that she's not a frai
l stick figure, but still she feels light as a feather to me as I set her down on the ground where she smooths her skirt out and giggles. “Wheeee. You know, if you ever want to get a job as an elevator, I know a few places hiring.”
I chuckle, stepping back just enough to give her some space. “Way I've been playing, I think I've got more of a future on the field,” I reply, smiling a little. When she steps out of her shoes I notice she hasn't shrunken that much, and I realize that yet again, she's been wearing near flats. “By the way, thank you for not stabbing me with a stiletto heel.”
Samantha chuckles a little self awarely. “I do what I can to try and not dwarf most people I work with. You're one of the few people I could wear stilettos around and not tower over.”
“I've gotten used to bumping my head in short doorways,” I admit, turning and offering her my arm. “Shall we?”
“Why not?” she replies, placing her hand on the offered limb. “I noticed you did this before, too. The first day you were at training camp. Wanna give your reasons?”
I look up into the night sky, thinking if I want to trust her with what's really going on with me. One look into her beautiful blue eyes though tells me everything I need to know. “Sports psychology trick,” I summarize, stepping with her back onto the actual field. I kneel down, picking up a few blades of grass and inhaling the scent, letting it seep into my mind. “I'm trying to feel safe and comfortable here.”
“Safe and comfortable... Lincoln, you've spent the past two games being a holy terror on defense,” Sam replies. “Sure it's the preseason, but... let's just say a lot of people are excited about your play. But safe and comfortable? I don't think those are words anyone would associate with you.”