by Sara Ney
Her eyes soften with my words, eyes scanning for him again. Her gaze roams up, over the student section, and I know the instant her eyes land on a poster board sign that says: DOES RETT STILL NEED 2 GET LAID?
And another: RETT ANSWER MY TEXTS & I’LL BLOW YOU & UR “MIND”
If I thought Wendy’s eyes were narrowed before, they’re nothing compared to the daggers she’s shooting across the gym floor now. “Are girls always this forward? Why would a young woman offer to have sex with my son?”
My lips clamp shut.
“Do you see that?” She’s pointing now, jabbing her husband in the arm. “Charlie, are you seein’ this? Look.” Jabs him again. “Look.”
Mr. Rabideaux squints, glancing briefly around the stadium seating. Goes back to ignoring us, leaning forward, hands braced on his knees to better take in the action.
And that face Rhett is making now, as he waits to start his match? It’s the same look he makes when he’s concentrating on something I’m saying—or when he’s putting his big hands on my body. He’s making that same intense face now, under the bright lights of the center mat.
Stretching on the balls of his feet, working his hamstrings.
Stalwart focused.
Beside me, “What is wrong with those girls?” She nudges me, truly worked up. “Is it always like this?”
I answer as honestly as I can without ratting myself out. “Well, I’ve only been to one other match, and there were signs like that, yes.”
“Why would they do that? ‘Get Rett Laid’? Of all the things.”
She huffs, agitated, crossing her arms. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. Squirming.
“Yes.”
“Does it bother him?”
“I don’t know if he notices. He hasn’t said anything, and I haven’t asked.”
“Honestly.” Huff. “Where do these girls get the nerve? How are they allowed in with those signs?”
If my face isn’t flaming as hot as my hair, I would be shocked. It must be; the blush burning me up from head to toe has the temperature in my body skyrocketing. “I don’t know ma’am.”
I gulp. Guilty.
Sweating.
It’s horrible.
I can’t outwardly admit I was one of those girls. A girl that called her kindhearted son out of the blue, because of a poster hanging on campus, to mock him. To tease him because I thought he wasn’t that good-looking.
Granted, I didn’t show up in public waving a sign promising blow jobs and sex, but I did text him, proposition him in a roundabout way.
Nagged until he relented, talked, and flirted with me.
I’m a terrible person, with no better morals than those young women, or my cousin Alex.
My eyes shift to Rhett, who removes his warm-up clothes one article at a time. Watch as he pulls the pants down his hips, steps out of them, the word Iowa in bold yellow emblazoned on his dense left thigh.
God, how could I have ever thought he wasn’t attractive when now, he’s the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen? It breaks my vain heart knowing how I acted—like an asshole.
I’m not out of his league; he’s out of mine.
I swallow the hard lump of emotions in my throat, adapting a forward pose, just like his father, waiting for Rhett to step center ring, under the lights, his pale skin already glistening from perspiration.
He reaches to adjust the spandex of his singlet, tugging the fabric out of his crotch, fiddling with the leg holes. Shakes one leg then the other. Each arm. Pivots head from side to side.
His opponent is a big guy, virtually identical in stature down to the serious expression, neither acknowledging the crowd when the announcer broadcasts their names, their stats.
Rhett Rabideaux, transfer from LSU. Winningest wrestler in the past three years at both Louisiana and Iowa. All-American. Two-time NCAA champion in his weight class. Six foot. One ninety. Hometown: Bossier City, Louisiana. Proud parents, Wendy and Charlie Rabideaux.
I suck in a breath when the wrestlers take their positions, anxious.
Rhett and I have known each other only a matter of weeks and the amount of pride I’m feeling at this moment is insurmountable. Indescribable.
I want to puke I’m so nervous.
His mom notices my bouncing knee, grips my hand, squeezing. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
“He’s amazing.” I sound breathy and wistful, even to my own ears, captivated by her half-naked son.
I feel her stare a few long heartbeats as she takes my measure. Gauges my sincerity.
Smiles. We hold hands when the ref blows the whistle, signaling the start. Wendy clutches my forearm as Rhett and Eli Nelson grapple, bent at the waist, heads lowered, both wrestlers dipping low.
“You want to stay low when you’re wrestling someone who can shoot hard doubles from their knees,” his mom says by way of explanation, as if I have a clue.
I obviously have no idea what she’s talking about.
The boys are quick, fast on their feet. Rhett’s head drops, pushing into his opponent’s midsection until they’re both barreling toward the white outer circle. Eli fights it, but slides out of bounds.
“That’s called a push-out,” Wendy says. “Rhett gets one point.”
“One? That’s it? He should get five for that!”
Rhett and Eli immediately enter more grappling, pulling on each other’s heads. “I don’t know how I feel about this,” I admit. “He’s not going to get hurt, is he?”
“Not likely. He hasn’t really had any major injuries in the past few years besides cuts.”
The whistle blows, and both guys stand, walking to their respective corners for coaching, water.
Then just like that, the whistle blows and they’re at it again, Rhett with three points, Nelson with one. It’s fast, much quicker than I thought matches were going to be, both men determined to get the upper hand. Agile and swift. Legs hooked, Rhett has his around Eli’s waist, shoulders pressed into the mats, near the white, out of bounds.
Reset, and Nelson is down on his knees.
Just like he had me last night.
I tune out Wendy, the announcer calling out the points earned. Watch, riveted, as both men take to their knees, Rhett positioning himself behind Eli, cupping his elbow, arm sliding around his waist. I know it shouldn’t remind me of sex, but it does, and my wanton girly parts come to life.
God, he is so damn hot.
The muscles flexing in his arms. Thighs.
Ass.
All of it so, so hot.
Maybe we should play wrestling tonight? Would he be into role playing?
I squirm in my seat, leg bouncing impatiently, hormones in overdrive. “We’re not allowed to go down to see them afterward, right?”
“No sweetie, not until the event is over.” Wendy pats my hand. “And they usually head straight to the locker rooms.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “What are you kids doin’ tonight?”
“Are you not staying?”
“No, it’s a long drive and the boys have school Monday.” Her eyes are glued on her son. “We’re going to stop at a hotel tonight so we’re not so tired getting home tomorrow. My husband has some work calls to make on Sundays so he wants the whole day.” Her smile is secretive. “That gives you free time. Alone.”
I knew I liked his mother for a reason.
“We haven’t talked about plans for tonight. Maybe he’ll want to go out with his friends? But, um…I didn’t know it was his birthday before yesterday, so I just went and bought him a cake today. I thought I’d surprise him if he’s not too tired to hang out.”
Her brows go up. She takes her eyes off the mat and turns her entire body toward me, the crooked smile on her mouth looking so much like Rhett’s.
“Birthday cake?”
“What? Can he not eat cake?” Ugh, I am such a thoughtless idiot. Duh, the calories! “Crap, I’m sorry—I didn’t think about him weighing in.”
&nbs
p; Although, I can think of a few other things to do with the frosting instead of eating it.
“No, honey, he can have cake. I’m sure he’ll love it.” She pats my thigh the way only a mother can, so knowingly. “He’s going to love it.”
Rhett
I’m so fucking tired.
Drained.
Ass dragging, I meet my family in the tunnel by the locker room, Laurel’s bright red hair the first thing I see when I lug my duffle of dirty clothes into the hall.
Tight black Iowa t-shirt. Skinny jeans. Black boots. Sexy as hell, and here for me.
I want to fist pump, slap myself on the goddamn back for my good fortune. I peel my eyes off her just long enough to greet my parents.
My mom steps forward, arms spread wide. “Congratulations honey. Great match.”
“Thanks,” I mumble into her shoulder as she crushes me to her body. My mom is tiny compared to me, small in stature but not in attitude—not with three sons.
My dad might wear the pants, but Mom controls the zipper.
She stands on her tiptoes, whispering into my ear. “Dad and I are taking the boys. We’re going to head out of town.”
It’s only Saturday; it makes no sense to have driven all this way only to turn back around the next afternoon—none.
“Why?”
She’s still whispering in my ear. “I didn’t realize… We want to give you your space. I’m sure you have better things to do than hang out with your parents.” Her arms go around my waist, hugging me. “Laurel couldn’t take her eyes off you tonight—she really likes you. I hope you realize that.”
Pulls back, straightening the collar of my shirt. Grabs my cheeks and kisses the bridge of my nose.
“So handsome.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom.”
“What? Can’t a mother tell her son he’s handsome?”
Jesus. “Stop.”
“Quit arguing and go say goodbye to your brothers. Hug Dad,” she instructs, nudging me toward my siblings, smacking my rear.
I ruffle the hair on top of Beau’s head. He whacks my hand away.
Austin lets me give him knuckles.
My dad grips me by the shoulders, pulling me in. Slaps my back twice. “Have to get home for my Sunday phone calls. Plus, your mother seems to think you want time alone with your new girlfriend.”
My face was red from adrenaline; now it heats from total fucking embarrassment.
“Wear a condom. Don’t be a jackass.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “I spoke to your coach and he assures me you boys are on the right track after your stay in the woods or whatever the hell that was, but I want you to call us if anything happens.” He shoots a glance at Laurel, who stands laughing with my brothers. “I’m going to assume with that red hair, she’s a little spitfire. Maybe she’ll be good for you.”
She will be.
She is.
“But use your damn head—this one.” He taps my skull. “Don’t get her pregnant.”
Jesus Christ, Dad.
“All right. We’re going to head out. Proud of you.”
“Thanks.” I mean, what else is there to say?
“Walk us out.” Another smack on the back, hand clamping down on my shoulder, guiding me back to my mother. Brothers. Laurel.
She’s blushing when I sidle up, shooting shy glances at my parents, the concrete floor below our feet, back at my parents. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
The tension surrounding us is palpable; the last time we stood in this hallway at the end of a meet, after a match I’d just won, I pressed her against the wall and stuck my tongue halfway down her throat.
Instead, my hands hang at my side, right arm shouldering the weight of my duffle.
Side by side, we follow my parents down that long corridor, walking so closely together our fingers brush. Laurel wiggles her index finger, brushing it over the flat of my hand.
My mom catches me biting back a stupid grin when she glances over her shoulder, raising her brows, watching us both. Pushes my brothers along in front of her because they insist on dawdling.
We reach the heavy steel doors, shoving through to the stadium parking lot, trailing the group to my mom’s black suburban—the same SUV that drove me from practice to matches to meets and home again for years, until I could drive.
We stand next to it, my brothers not giving a shit about saying goodbye and immediately hopping into the back seat.
“Bye sweetie.” Mom’s lower lip has a slight quiver. “So grown up.”
I want to groan out loud, but pull her in for a hug instead. “Bye Mom. Love you.”
She sniffles into my neck. “You look so happy.”
“Then why are you cryin’?”
“Because my baby is falling in love.”
I glance around to see who’s watching, patting her head. “Jeez, Mom.”
“A mother knows these things.”
“Mom—”
She scowls, tearing up. Sniffles. “Let me say what I have to say.”
“Here?” Now? Jesus.
Laurel and my dad look on, awkwardly standing next to the car, not knowing what to do with themselves while we stand having a sidebar. Dad shoots a taut smile.
“You work too hard. I want you to have some fun.”
“I am.”
“But you don’t, not really. You hole up in your room and keep to yourself, and I know you’ve had a tough time.” Her hands fiddle with the buttons on my shirt. “But now you have Laurel, and I think…she has your back. She’s a good friend.”
Friend.
Mom squints at me. “Don’t give me that look, you know what I mean.”
I have no idea what look she’s talking about, so I jerk my head with an acquiescent nod to make it stop. “Fine.” Okay. Whatever.
“Okay then, I guess we’re going.” Kisses my cheek. “Home for Thanksgiving. We’ll pay for the gas.”
I rock on the balls of my feet. “Okay.”
Her eyes dart to Laurel. “You can bring a guest home this year if you’d like.”
“Mom.”
Her hands go up. “What?! I’m just sayin’.”
“We’ll see.” I smile down at her. “Love you guys. Thanks for comin’.”
Her lip quivers again. “We love you.” She turns, taking the few steps to Laurel, wrapping her arms around her, too. “Bye sweetie. It was good meetin’ you.”
“Bye Mrs. Rabideaux.” Those blue eyes find mine over my mother’s shoulder, sparkling with mischief. “Drive safe.”
“Everyone in the car!” my dad bellows, having long passed his patience threshold, pounding the hood of the car with his fist. “Boys, buckle up.”
We watch as my parents get in the car. Dad starts the engine, puts the car in drive, and heads across the parking lot toward the massive stadium entrance.
Before I can think about what I’m going to say next, Laurel flings herself into my body, arms folding behind my head. My heavy bag falls to the pavement and I haul her against me, mouth melting onto hers. Tongues mingling with no preamble, adrenaline still coursing through my body.
“I love watching you wrestle. It’s such a turn-on.”
“Yeah?” I could get used to this, having her to greet me after coming down off a win—or loss. Telling me how amazing I am after every match, boosting my ego. Sticking her tongue down my throat and rubbing her tits against my chest.
Laurel pulls at my hips, and I guide her back until her ass hits the driver side door of my Jeep, not giving a damn that my parents are probably still on the street adjacent to the parking lot and can most likely see us making out.
“Aren’t you tired?” The palms of her hands sneak beneath my shirt, running across my abs. Belly button. Toy with the waistband of my pants.
“No.” Not only am I not tired, I’ve never been this horny in my whole goddamn life.
“Are you too tired to do something tonight?”
Too tired to hang out w
ith her? Not likely. “Like what?”
“Your mom mentioned it was your birthday last week. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’m a guy. We don’t usually give a shit about our birthdays.”
“I give a shit about your birthday because I give a shit about you.” She plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. “I might have a treat for you.”
This piques my interest. “Oh yeah? What kind of treat?”
“Don’t get too excited—it’s nothing big. Just something small because I didn’t get to celebrate with you on your actual day.”
“All right.” We part so I can open the passenger side door. She hops up. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine, if that’s okay? I cleared it out—Lana went home, and Donovan is spending the weekend with the new guy he’s dating.”
Her roommate is gay? Huh.
How did I not know this?
When we make it back to her place and I sidle up to the curb, she unbuckles, twisting her fantastic body, leaning across the center console for a kiss, breath minty from peppermint gum.
We make out for a good ten minutes, tongues rolling, hands roaming, until I’m painfully hard and ready to bang Laurel in the back seat of my Jeep.
I want her that fucking bad.
Instead, she pulls back, chest heaving. Eyes sparkling. “Give me twenty minutes and come back?”
Shit.
Adjusting the raging hard-on in my track pants with a groan, I nod, raking one of my large palms through my mop of hair. I went twenty-one years with (basically) no sex; I can wait another twenty minutes.
“Yup.”
“Eek!” Another hasty kiss pressed to my mouth and she’s gone, fleeing to the front porch of the house. Gives a little wave before she and her flaming red hair disappear into the house.
Would it be weird if I sat here and finished myself off? Jerked off in her driveway? I sit with my hand hovering about my cock, the stiff erection straining for release.
Cover it with my palm, one of the worst fucking ideas I’ve ever had, because it twitches, triggered.
Glancing at the house again, groaning when I give in and slide a trembling hand into my pants, fisting my shaft with one hand, the Jeep’s grip bar above my window with the other. Slide my hand up and down, building speed, head tipped back when my balls tighten. Stroke and stroke, Laurel’s red hair dominating my fantasy. Her creamy, pale breasts. The well-manicured landing strip between her spread thighs.