Touchdown and Dirty

by Sidda Lee Rain

  One thing he could say for certain was that her jacked up workout had his body talking to him in ways it never had before. Not that he’d tell her that. Nor did it mean that her antics were going to help him—just that they were different was all. Either way, he was glad the day was over. The massage had really relaxed him and calmed his muscles and he was relieved to not even feel the slightest twinge when his lower back had been worked on. God, he hoped that was a good sign.

  After toting his gym bag and stopping by the front desk to see when he was supposed to return, he was free to go. Normally, he’d return the nonverbal flirting that Missy, the cute little brunette receptionist, had been tossing his way but not today. She was definitely a looker but he couldn’t get that damn witchy woman outta his head. Roxy insults him repeatedly, and then has the nerve to toss him off to some rookie while she what? Probably, went and did some girl shit like got her nails done or her hair freshly dyed indigo or whatever color that was supposed to be.

  As he descended the stairs in front of the clinic, the revving of a motorcycle’s engine caught his attention. Immediately, he looked to the left where he had seen a killer Suzuki crotch rocket when he arrived earlier this morning and sure enough, the bike now had a rider upon it. From the looks of it—a female. Not that he could see much, but the shape that screamed woman. Her legs straddled the bike, the bikes build hid her backside as she settled in the seat, but her waist tapered in giving a defined hourglass figure, even if on the thicker side. Letting his eyes travel upwards, Clayton took in the way her clothing clung to her curves and realized not all of his body was exhausted.

  As the woman walked the bike backwards out of the employee parking spot, he caught a side glimpse of her. Her whole right arm was covered in tattoos, he couldn’t make out the pictures but he could see vibrant colors going up and down its entirety.

  Sexy as hell.

  Finally, his eyes traveled over a more than impressive bust to a face….that was completely hidden beneath a helmet. Her bright white helmet with mirrored lens revealed nothing, no hint of her identity.

  Dammit!

  One good thing? The Suzuki had been parked in the employee parking all morning so obviously she worked at the clinic. It must’ve been another tech or maybe one of the women in the office because he’d remember if he’d seen her. That’s for damn certain. Fixated on the vision in front of him, Clayton watched as the bike and its passenger turned into nothing but a white blur as she sped out of the parking lot and took off down the street at full bore. After a brief glance around to make sure he didn’t have an audience, Clayton reached down to adjust the part that had been awakened by the mysterious inked curvaceous stranger.

  Hmmm.

  He’d paid no mind to the beautiful receptionist Missy, who was all but laying spread eagle on a silver platter, but the creature in the helmet gave him an instantaneous hard-on.

  Go figure.

  Tattoos weren’t really his thing on a woman. He’d been with thick girls—that wasn’t anything new. Not that he searched them out or anything. No, ass was basically ass in his book. Not exactly the most eloquent way of thinking but it was the truth. He was never sure if he was an ass-man or a tit-man; all Clayton knew was he was a man who liked pretty much all women. Especially, if they were eager and willing.

  Only women had that sweet smell even without sprays and lotions. How their skin stayed so soft boggled his mind. It always amazed him how arousing the lines of the female form could be. Many times, he’d be in a bed drinking in the curves in front of him in all its glory. Yeah, Clayton definitely loved women. Most definitely.

  Walking to his car, he took out the key fob, and unlocked the doors. Tossing his gym bag into the back seat, he slid inside, and started the engine.

  Damn, did he ever love the sound of good ole horsepower running. He wondered if the crotch-rocket chick checked out his new baby, a Shelby GT500 all- American Mustang, oh yeah. Usually a motor head was a motor head through and through and, on a bike of that magnitude, she was definitely a motor head.

  Tomorrow, he’d find out who she was.

  Tomorrow, he’d also have to deal with Roxy again too, Clayton realized.

  It sure as hell didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out which one he was looking forward to. But, for now he’d enjoy the drive and listen to the V8 engine purr as he shifted the six-speed manual transmission. He had pre-ordered the car long before his surgery and before his back was ever as bad as it was. One of the lowest points for him was the day he had to turn his ‘Stang around just a mile from his home because he found using the clutch to shift was just too painful. Talk about frustrating, humiliating, and aggravating all balled into one swift gut punch. The pressure Clayton needed to apply with his feet as he synchronized shifting with his right arm was enough to tweak his back just right or rather just wrong enough that he’d parked the car for a while.

  Pennsylvania was nice this time of year. He had purchased a home in Pittsburgh three years ago, after being picked up by Pittsburgh. Clayton knew he had been brought in as a second stringer, a backup quarterback, understanding he couldn’t expect to come in as a starter the first couple of years were tough being the man in the back most of the time. Hell, nobody even knew his name let alone his number then. Truth was that Clayton probably wouldn’t have known his own number if it hadn’t been on the back of his helmet.

  Now, knowing he wasn’t a young, fresh outta college kid worried him. This was his only chance and if he wasn’t played soon, his career would end before he had a chance to even get it started.

  As he drove, almost on autopilot, toward home, Clayton recalled the game that had ended his teammate’s career but kick started his. The epitome of bittersweet. Although, the vision played in his head as if he was watching it on the silver screen, he relived the moment often in his head. Unfortunately, this wasn’t Hollywood magic but instead it was a devastating reality that haunted him on the regular.

  Sunday December 12th, 2012

  Pittsburgh against Minnesota, black and gold versus purple and gold. The Dome was full and the noise from the crowd was practically deafening but he wouldn’t change it for a damn thing—except, he’d be the man throwing the last snap out there instead of Vince Owens, Pittsburgh’s starting quarterback for the last six seasons. But, even he couldn’t deny the man’s skills on the field. Without a doubt, Vince was rockin’ the strongest arm in the league and with precision that couldn’t be touched. Clayton also knew he had been brought in as a backup due to Owens’ ailing neck and shoulder issues. At thirty-nine, he was the senior citizen of the team and when you can’t perform as you once did….you’re gone. That’s football, hell, that’s any professional sport.

  Even though a snowstorm raged outside, the Dome kept them warm enough and free from playing on ice and snow. A quick thanks to the football god’s that it wasn’t game day at Lambeau. Naw, he was in no mood for that frozen tundra even if he wasn’t playing.

  Pittsburgh dominated the first and second quarters and it was looking like an easy win. Not sure what the hell the Vikes had prayed for, or maybe they had sacrificed a chicken or two? But, whatever it was, it had worked. The boys in purple came back and strong. With just 5:34 left in the third quarter, they had tied the game and still had possession of the ball. Where the hell had this offense come from? Watching from the sidelines as Mick Lamb, Minnesota’s quarterback had completed one of two passes that resulted in a field goal. The second pass ended in an interception and that meant back into black and gold hands. Clayton watched as his boys crept, even if only a few yards at a time, closer to that glorious end zone.

  Fourth quarter

  Pittsburgh now lead by a touchdown and just sealed it with an extra point, Clayton felt like the men sporting the black and gold helmets might just have this one. After all, Minnesota’s offense was making a strong showing but their d-line was downright pathetic. The linebackers were slow, cornerbacks seemed confused, and who the hell drafted those linebackers?
He wasn’t even going to mention the safeties. He’d admit the defensive ends and tackles were impressive, but you needed more than four guys to win a football game.

  Owens was sacked by Minnesota’s defensive end Ricky Rogers on a third down near Minnesota’s goal line. He went down hard—landing right on the shoulder of his throwing arm. It was clear from the moment of impact that he was hurt. Even with the crowd’s noise level, Clayton would swear Lamb’s pain was audible even yards away.

  “Karz! You’re up!” Words he had wanted to hear for ages but not like this. Excitement, disgust, shock, it was all running rampant through his head, through his entire body.

  Of course, they’d played him some, but never because they needed him. Never had they used him as their workhorse. No, before Clayton had been brought in when the game was secure or a few times when Owens had sprained his ankle, once when two of his fingers had gotten broken during a game against the Broncos.

  Knowing he had seen the moment Vince Owens career had been ended made him sick. Not, that the moment hadn’t been coming, shit, it was overdue, but not like this. This wasn’t how he wanted Owens to go out and this wasn’t how he’d wanted to go in.

  Pulling into the gated community where he owned his condo, Clayton waited for the garage door to open on the first of the three-stall garage. He slowly parked his sports car next to his Escalade and waited as the door closed behind him. Unfolding himself from the confines of such a prime example of American pride, he snatched his gym bag and headed inside.

  Owens had not only hurt his shoulder but had broken his collarbone in that one tragic tackle. Clayton didn’t want to go out like that if he could help it. Vince Owens had been through surgeries and rehabilitation since that devastating day, but had never set a foot back on the field.

  Dammit! All the more reason for Clayton to make damn sure he worked his ass off to get back on the field. His trainers and Coach swore that was through Roxy—so be it. Whatever it took, he was willing.

  Now, keeping his attitude in check when he was around the infuriating woman would be the real test. Why she aggravated him so much—he didn’t know, but she sure as hell did.

  Chapter 5

  So what if her twenty minute drive home ended up becoming a two-hour joyride? She deserved it. Plus, she had only been in town a total of four days now and had yet to see anything besides her apartment and the clinic. Oh and the gas station across from her apartment building. Yeah, she’s quite the social butterfly, huh? Moving to a new town was nothing new. Roxy actually had lived in six different states in the last four years. But, that’s why she made the money she did. The therapist went where she was wanted. Okay, honestly, Roxy went where the paychecks were to be cashed.

  Love wasn’t a strong enough word to describe how she felt about her job. With no family left but an older brother who lived in New Mexico who only called on holidays if he remembered, she was used to being on her own.

  It had been almost three years since her heart had been broken and Roxy had been in no hurry to be in that position again. Not that she had given up the thought of something more with someone special someday….it just wasn’t someday yet nor had that somebody shown up. She wasn’t about to go searching. Used to being single, it wasn’t a hardship….most of the time. No fighting over the remote, but then again she rarely watched television. She wasn’t stuck seeing Schwarzenegger movies every time at the theater but she never went alone either. Nobody was stealing food off her dinner plate although Roxy never cleaned her plate anyways.

  Maybe she’d get a cat? Yeah right! She hated the things. At least she dodged the single woman with ten cats bullet. Many times a dog crossed her mind but never knowing how long she’d be staying in one spot before moving on, Roxy figured she better not. Before she knew it, she’d make new friends and soon enough her social calendar would be filling up. The loneliness that she was desperately trying to pretend she didn’t feel would be gone. Right? Of course.

  Maybe Pittsburgh would be the place for her to settle. Probably not. Her time down south had spoiled her some. Roxy had become rather fond of the weather, even the heat. Hey, anywhere she could ride her bike almost every day of the year was a damn good enough place for her. San Antonio? Houston? Texas sounded like a good place to put down some roots. Traveling for life was for the birds. At thirty-two it wasn’t too bad, but even Roxy knew she only had a few years left where she’d be willing to live this moving around business.

  No, she needed a clinic where, if they wanted her, teams would just have to bring their players to her. Her past resume should shine enough to bring in the clientele.

  Pulling inside the parking garage of Vista Towers apartments, Roxy took the drive going constantly uphill one turn after another until she made it to floor 17. Her temporary apartment was just inside those double doors and down the hall. Only four units were on the top floor and currently two of them remained empty. She had yet to meet her neighbor but they had told her that apartment 17A was occupied by a forty-something man—all the information she had been given. Not that it mattered. The place was merely temporary until she could find something a little more her style. Roxy wasn’t really a high-rise apartment kinda girl but it’s where the team had set her up.

  Entering her key-code, the green light blinked rapidly and the buzzer went off. Glancing back over her shoulder when she heard a man’s voice—even if she hadn’t understood what he had said.

  A tall—actually an extremely tall man with nearly black hair except for the gray coming in just over his ears and a deadly smile jogged up.

  “Hey, I take it you’re 17B?” the silver streaked fox asked.

  “Ahh…”

  “Sorry, nice way to introduce myself, huh?” The stunning stranger held out his hand and continued.

  “The name’s Michael, but feel free to call me 17A since I so rudely asked if you were 17B. Can I ask your real name, not just your apartment?”

  “Roxy, but I’m quite fine with 17B as well.”

  “Well, 17B, that’s some serious horse power you’re riding out there, impressive. I hope you do have another vehicle because Pittsburg’s history of white winters after all.” The man, Mr. 17A, winked at her—actually winked at her. But, she hadn’t found it creepy as about 99% of winks were. Odd.

  “Umm…. I have a Land Rover that should be delivered in a couple days with the rest of my belongings. One load was delivered a few days ago with the Suzuki. My Land Rover will be in my second parking space come this weekend.”

  Michael whistled.

  “Someone has a major thing for horsepower. I may as well just ask….is it you or a boyfriend, husband?” Roxy just eyed him. Was he seriously interested? Or was this his idea of making conversation?

  “Oh maybe, a girlfriend? Whatever, I don’t mean to offend you if I have.” He was nervous. Fidgeting, stumbling over his words—it was….cute.

  Not the first time she’d been asked the girlfriend question. She’d never apologize for not being a girly girl ever. But in the same breath, Roxy would never take offense by someone thinking possibly she was gay. Screw it. Honestly, it had come in handy a few times when she called on it to get rid of some loser. Michael didn’t seem like a loser though.

  “No girlfriend, husband or boyfriend.” She laughed and sounded like a teenage girl. My lord what was wrong with her? “Those are my rides. The Land Rover outta need but the bike outta nothin’ but pure love.”

  “Nice, very nice.” He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back repeatedly on his heels. The action had Roxy wondering if it wasn’t another form of fidgeting? She found him to be somewhat….fascinating.

  “So, Roxy, I’d like to invite you over for a glass of wine tonight—maybe, two? On the terrace we share. I think I’d like to get to know you more, if that’s alright?” What a coinky-dink, but she was pretty damn sure that she’d like to get to know him a bit more herself.

  “Sounds good, but I’ll bring myself a beer because I don’t drink wine.”r />
  Michael started laughing to the point he was nearly doubled over before looking at her with tears in his eyes.

  “Thank God then I won’t have to run out and buy some wine I know nothing about. Beer, I have.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed and eyes squinted she had to ask. “Then why ask me over for wine?”

  “Because, I don’t know. Most women like wine and I didn’t want you to think I was some unrefined buffoon, I guess.”

  He didn’t want her thinking he was unrefined? Had he not noticed the ink covering her skin? Usually she was the one taken for unrefined, uncultured, uneducated—the last one always made her smile. Her seven years of schooling to get her in the position she was in now sure didn’t feel uneducated. Assumptions aided nobody that she knew of.

  “You are so not coming tonight are you? I’ve scared you off already.” His honesty was refreshing, even if somewhat confusing.

  “What time?” she asked.

  His slow smile was a thing of beauty. “Nine, good?”

  “Sounds good.” Her answer left him standing there smiling and the man was even more handsome when he was. A well-defined jaw and strong bone structure hinted toward some possible Greek heritage. His broad nose would’ve looked massive on many faces but suited the rest of his features so well.

  Hmm….maybe Italian not Greek?

  She’d be sure to ask later.

  Chapter 6

  Four hours he had been watching footage. His previous season’s highlights, lowlights—hell, even his last two practices had been recorded. At the time, Clayton hadn’t noticed the expression of the coach or head trainer Charter on the sidelines but what he saw now quite honestly scared the shit outta him. Sonuvabitch, he wanted to know what Charter’s piss ant assistant was scribbling every time he had attempted a pass.

  They hadn’t pushed him the few times they had him on the field with a ball in his hands. After a couple throws, he was sidelined, or taken back to see the trainers. Same exams, same questions, and it pissed him off that he had nothing but the same answers for them. He hadn’t even been fully honest either. His contract went another two seasons and dammit, he intended on fulfilling at least that time frame. If he would’ve said that every time he extended his throwing arm, his legs went numb, and he could barely keep himself standing, Clayton Karz wouldn’t be on the injured reserve list—he’d be on the team-less list. Numbness three and a half months after surgery-not a good sign.