Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology

by Adriana Locke

  My breath stutters and I lick dry lips.

  “I know that people enjoy following you so much they don’t even realize you’re leading them,” he continues, taking a step closer and stealing another ounce of air from my lungs. “And that you’re usually the smartest person in the room, but you know when to let other people think they are.”

  I thought butterflies in your stomach were some urban myth from Harlequin romance novels, but sure enough, something is fluttering in my belly at his words.

  Aw, crap. I don’t do butter fucking flies.

  “And I know that as much as you light up onscreen, there’s something sad in your eyes, and I hate it.” He steps as close as he can, cups my cheek, locking our eyes. “I saw it tonight and I hate it, Avery.”

  He flattens his other hand against the door, his arms making an intimate alcove I couldn’t escape if I wanted to.

  I don’t want to.

  He pulls back just enough to search my face. Surely he sees my bottom lip trapped between my teeth because I must resist yielding to the warm comfort of him.

  “I want to make it better, Ave,” he whispers, the cool mint of his breath breezing over my lips. “I just want to . . .”

  He scans my face, waiting for some sign from me that it’s okay. That the desire to kiss me so clearly telegraphed in his eyes is okay. I can’t find words to articulate that in this maelstrom of grief and desire and confusion, the only thing clear, the only thing that makes any sense right now, is for him to kiss me. So I don’t say a word. I just lean forward until our lips meet.

  6

  Decker

  Soft and fresh like petals.

  I’m a jock. Not a dumb one, but a jock nonetheless. I don’t describe a woman’s lips as soft and fresh or compare a kiss to flowers. Besides the few years I was married to Tara, if it opened its legs and said yes or please, I fucked it. I always rushed it. A man’s got needs, but I got in and I got out. This woman, this kiss, I have to savor. I’d be a fool not to. It’s a first kiss. I understand the difference now between the first time you kiss someone, and a first kiss. This is a discovery of tongues and lips and heat. An introduction of our souls, if that doesn’t sound too pussy-ish. It’s how I feel, though. Like as our lips brush back and forth, as our tongues tangle, as I taste her, mouthful by delicious mouthful, I’m learning her secrets. I’m telling her mine. My hands slide from the door to flatten into the warmth of her back through the silk blouse, bringing her incrementally closer. The air shifts and takes the shape of lust; assumes the form of want. The sound of her moaning, the slight lift and fall of her breasts against my chest, testifies that she feels it, too.

  The elevator dings, and our bodies go still even as we keep exchanging breaths and heartbeats through our clothes; even though my mouth is still poised above hers. I have her against the door, and every curve of her body is impressing itself on me, making sure I’ll never forget how right we fit together. I look over my shoulder toward the elevator. The doors open, but no one gets off. That interruption was enough to bring her back to her senses, though. God knows I can’t find mine.

  “Um . . . you should go,” she whispers, a muscle rippling along the smooth line of her jaw.

  I bend to breathe over her mouth, so she can taste our kisses lingering on my lips. “Or you could invite me in.”

  Her scent and the warmth of her body take my senses hostage. I smell her and want to kiss her again so badly it stings my taste buds.

  “You don’t want to come in, Deck.” Her eyes already regret the last few moments I thought were so perfect. I can’t calm my emotions or my body that quickly.

  “I assure you I do,” I tell her.

  A short laugh, deceptively light, breezes past her lips. She glances down to the floor and shakes her head.

  “I’d make the worst one-night stand ever,” she says.

  “One-night stand?” I take her chin in hand and lift, forcing her to look at me. “I’ve waited a long time for this path to be clear. No conflict of interest. No other people standing in our way. I don’t know exactly what I want, Avery, but it’s damn sure more than one night.”

  If anything, my assurance that it’s more than just physical, more than just a night to me, lights panic in her eyes.

  “Oh, that’s worse.” She frowns even as she sends a sad smile up at me. “I’m not anywhere near ready for something like that, Deck.”

  She’s not a tall woman, though the strength of her personality makes you forget that. I’ve easily got a foot or more and a hundred pounds on her. She tucks a shiny chunk of dark hair behind her shoulder, exposing the intricate whorl of her ear, the fine angle of her jaw. She acts tough. Hell, she is tough, but her fiancé died only a year ago. That would leave anyone kind of fragile. Of course, she’s not ready. Up this close, invading her space, past the outer wall, I see the vulnerability; the desolation and pain. It stabs me in the chest.

  “I get that,” I say, my voice rough. “I’m so sorry about him, Ave. About your fiancé.”

  She nods, the tumult churning inside her evident on her face. The need to comfort her has my hand up, palming her cheek and my other hand at her waist, pulling her into me. After a hesitation, she surrenders to it. Her forehead drops to my chest, and a ragged breath shudders through her slim body. The air thickens with lingering grief. She doesn’t cry, but the dip of her shoulders, the tension of her body, broadcasts how difficult this still is. My hand traces a soothing path from between her shoulders to the small of her back, and I don’t say anything, but leave her to take any comfort she can from the human contact. After a few moments, she shifts in the high heels that still barely bring her to my shoulder.

  “Thanks, Deck,” she says softly, pulling back. My hand tightens at her waist, anchoring her to me, despite the gap between our bodies. She feels so good, I’m not ready to relinquish her.

  “I need to go.” She stares at the button on my shirt instead of at me.

  I’m about to refuse; to press the issue of the connection I know she feels, too, but there is just enough shadow in her dark eyes; trace amounts of the grief that brought us into each other’s arms in the first place, to change my mind. My hand drops, and she turns to unlock her apartment door.

  “I’ll see you on set Monday.” Her eyes meet mine cautiously like she thinks I might grab her.

  That could happen.

  “Sure.” I step back. “Should be a great show.”

  Once she’s safely inside, I board the elevator. She’s right. Tonight wasn’t the night. Based on what I learned about her fiancé, I can respect that. But after tasting her, not just her sweetness, but her tears, I know this is just clemency. She wants time. I can give her space, but I’m not giving up.

  7

  Avery

  Have yourself a merry little Christmas

  Let your heart be light

  From now on your troubles will be out of sight

  I wake up with Will’s favorite Christmas song in my head and my hand between my legs.

  Sad and horny. That’s what I am. I literally cannot remember the last time I had sex. I know it was with Will because I never cheated on him in the years we were together, but our sex life was so sporadic at the end, I can’t recall the last time we made love. I need to get drunk and I need to get laid. I’m hoping at least one of those will happen tonight at the SportsCo Christmas party, but it probably won’t be the latter. I told Decker the truth. I’d be an awful one-night stand, and if I were in the market for one, it wouldn’t be at my office Christmas party. I’ve never dated colleagues or athletes, and that’s pretty much the extent of tonight’s guest list. Will was into advertising. He could barely tell a touchdown from a homerun. I liked that he had nothing to do with sports or my career. I needed something separate from the frenetic pace of television and the crazy news cycle I’m always enslaved to.

  “God, Will.” I stare up at the ceiling, fresh, hot tears rolling into my ears and soaking my hairline. “Why did you do it? How
could you do it?”

  I told Decker last night that Will died, but I didn’t tell him it was at his own hand.

  I’ve been through grief counseling. I see my therapist every week. I’ve read about suicide and depression and know all the statistics. Seventy-five percent of suicides are men. Statistically they follow through on their attempts at higher rates. Those stats spike during the holidays. All the signs were there, but I missed them. Ignored them? Denied them? I don’t know how I lived with this man and wore his ring for two years, but never knew this morbid wish was growing inside of him, a dark bud I didn’t even know had taken root.

  And every morning for the last year, I woke up with one question on my lips.

  Why?

  “The last year,” I repeat, my voice an early morning croak. “Oh, my God.”

  He’s been gone a year today. I can’t believe it, and in many ways, I feel as lost as I did the night he died.

  There’s a call I need to make. One I dread, but know I cannot avoid.

  When it rings and rolls into voice mail, I hesitate. I could call back later, but I’m not sure I can handle it today, hearing the pain in his mother’s voice. I’m ashamed to feel relief that Mrs. Hattfield doesn’t answer. Even more ashamed that I take the coward’s way out and leave a message.

  “Hi, Mrs. H,” I say after the beep. “It’s me, Avery.”

  I pause, the right words eluding me while I squeeze the cell phone like it’s the only thing anchoring me.

  “I . . . um . . . I know today is difficult for you.” I shove the words that feel so trite out of my mouth. “It’s difficult for me, too. I can’t imagine . . . I just . . .”

  My voice evaporates for a moment.

  “I miss him,” I whisper, biting my lips against a sob and pressing my eyes closed to hold onto the last image I have of him. The deathly peace he’d taken for himself.

  And it’s true. I miss the guy I knew before; the one who went down on one knee at dinner and promised me forever. I even miss the sullen man who lived in the shadows the last part of his life. I’d take Will any way I could get him just to look in his eyes, grab his hands and beg him not to do it. For me. For his mother. For himself, to reconsider living.

  “I hope you’re not alone today.” I take a second to compose myself before going on. “I know the next few weeks will be hard, Christmas will be hard without him.”

  I run one hand through my hair, frustrated that I don’t have the right words and have nothing more to say.

  “Okay, well, call me when you get this message,” I say into the mechanical silence. “Talk to you soon.”

  Losing a child, it’s the worst thing. When a child chooses to forfeit the very life you gave him, the pain must weigh even more. I wonder if she stares up at the ceiling some mornings asking why the way I do. Do her pain and grief cohabitate with a stewing rage? Does she want to drag him from the grave and shake him and call him a coward? I hate even thinking these things, but not acknowledging them to myself and at least to my therapist was ruining me. I don’t know if these thoughts make me a bad person, but I know they make me sad. And frustrated. And helpless.

  In my closet, I consider the row of beautiful dresses I could wear tonight. The last thing I want to do is go to a Christmas party, much less one Mack Decker is attending. Those moments at my door two weeks ago have been a source of torture. It wasn’t just a reminder to my body what it’s been missing, but to my emotions. That just beyond my comfort zone there may be solace for, not just my body, but for my soul.

  What was I thinking? Letting him hold me? Letting him see my vulnerability? Those moments of letting go, resting against the solidity of him; being comforted by his heart beating just beyond the wall of his chest, were some of the sweetest I’ve had in a year. It was intoxicating, and I have no intention of getting drunk on him. He’d go straight to my head. Straight to my heart and between my legs, and I’m not ready for any of that.

  I press my thighs together against a tide of want when I recall the moments that simmered between us. Waking up thinking about Will, and getting wet knowing I’ll see Deck in a few hours—it feels so wrong, but at least I’m feeling. I haven’t allowed myself to want a man since Will died. Maybe no one appealed to me the way Decker does, but he’s the first one to punch holes in the fence around me.

  I return to my selections for the party. I’ve worn the black dress to several office functions. It’s flattering and conservative. It’s the classic “little black dress” that goes everywhere and can serve many purposes. I touch the silky material of my other option. It’s a dress made of sunsets, a glorious blend of gold and red, and it still bears the tags. I’ve never worn it. The deep V neckline is outdone by the deeper V that bares my back. The bottom is narrow and tight and will be a testament of all the squats I’ve done, though my ass is mostly genetics and years of track and field. My mother and aunts have never done squats a day in their lives, and you could bounce a quarter off their butts. As good as I know the dress will look, I’m still not sure I’ll wear it. It’s a statement dress, and knowing Decker will be there tonight, I’m not quite sure what I want to say.

  8

  Decker

  “So what’s next?”

  The question catches me a little off guard. With a Jack and Coke halfway to my mouth, I pause to study Mike Dunlov, one of SportsCo’s most popular anchors.

  “I mean now that your co-hosting gig’s up,” he clarifies.

  “Little bit of this,” I answer flatly because I’m giving this guy nothing. “Little bit of that.”

  I toss back a portion of the much-needed drink. Playing pro ball allowed me to indulge many vices. I’ve had more pussy than any man has a right to in one lifetime, for example. I’m practically abstemious, though, when it comes to alcohol and what I eat. Always have been. This body was my lottery ticket, and I took care of it. But tonight, this liquor is a lifeline. It’s been a bitch of a day. Mainly because my ex is being a bitch. Bad enough she moved my daughter across the country. Now she’s making it harder for me to see her this Christmas. Changing my holiday plans because she’s still playing the same bullshit games she did when we were married had me almost skipping this party tonight. Except . . . I watch the main entrance to see if Avery has arrived yet.

  “Guy like you can write your own ticket,” Mike continues. “I mean look at how you scored this hosting gig. How’d you enjoy working with Avery, by the way?”

  His eyebrows waggle suggestively. “She’s something else, huh?”

  I stiffen, not much liking him or the look in his eyes.

  “What do you mean?” I take my time sipping a little more of my drink, watching him over the glass.

  “I mean, did you get any? We’ve all tried.” He offers a careless shrug. “Who wouldn’t try with a rack like that, but she was devoted to her fiancé. With him gone, she’s been shut down. I just thought if anyone could finally tap that, it’d be you.”

  My teeth clench around an expletive. I know for a fact Twofer blows this douche’s ratings out of the water. The respect of her colleagues is so important to Avery. Hearing him demean her this way sets me on edge.

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?” I ask, my tone deceptively calm, though my hand clamps around the glass while I imagine his little windpipe crushing under my fingers.

  “So I’ve been told.” He flashes his very-white veneers in that fake smile unsuspecting viewers fall for. “But there’s no disrespect. It has been a year, and you know what the final stage of grief is, right?”

  “Acceptance?”

  “Nope.” He leers over his scotch. “Horny. Somebody’s gotta offer her a dick to cry on.”

  I’m two seconds from smashing my glass into his skull when his eyes latch onto something over my shoulder and light up.

  “Damn,” he mutters. “I really hope we’ve reached the final stage.”

  He’s walking off before I process what he means, but it doesn’t take long to figure out. Across t
he room, he and several other anchors and network executives are buzzing around Avery like she’s a honeycomb. And I can’t blame them. Her hair is pulled up, tendrils of it licking around her neck and ears. Simple gold earrings dangle and frame the curve of her cheekbones. Her makeup is dramatic, but simple, letting her sharply-drawn features speak for themselves. The slick of gold on her lips glimmers against the light copper of her skin.

  And that dress.

  This dress has to be inspiring erections all over the room. I can only speak for mine with any confidence, but it’s pushing painfully against the flap of my suit pants.

  The color, like saffron sprinkled over her firm curves, sets off her dusky complexion perfectly. Sleeveless, the dress showcases the feminine sculpture of her arms, and the neckline dips almost to her waist, the cut of it serving her breasts up beautifully. The bodice flows into a narrow skirt that paints the dress onto the flare of her hips and the tight line of her thighs. When she turns around and walks to the bar, many eyes zero in on her departure. The dress has no back, displaying a stretch of unblemished skin from neck to waist. The skirt strains across the high arc of her ass, and my fingers itch to squeeze it while I piston in and out, anchoring us together with nothing but my hands and my dick.

  I take another measured sip, checking myself and allowing the smooth liquid to cool me off. I sound as bad as the other lechers in here. Mike may joke about her grief, but I’ve seen it up close. Even while the air sizzled with lust around us at her front door, I couldn’t ignore the sadness in Avery’s eyes. I won’t take advantage of that. If I can help it, none of these horny sons of bitches will either.

  “We do have hors d’oeuvres, you know,” Sadie says from beside me. “You don’t have to eat Avery.”

  I smile to acknowledge Sadie’s comment and her presence, but I don’t take my eyes off the only woman I’m interested in.