Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology

by Adriana Locke

  Great. Just great. Now he can smell my dead hyena breath.

  “I’m serious,” comes his dark whisper, and he no longer sounds like my Sage. I mean, Sage. Just Sage. He is not mine. I know that. Duh.

  “So am I. Why do you need a fake girlfriend?” I speak into my cupped hand, my eyebrows crinkling.

  “Want the truth?”

  “No, please lie to me. But make it a spectacular lie. Something with unicorns.” I widen my blurry eyes, and he chuckles, grabbing one of the pillows I kicked in my sleep and throwing it in my face.

  “Rascal,” he says.

  “Wifebeater,” I groan. He stands still, stares at me. What? It was a figure of speech. I didn’t mean it like I was literally his wife.

  “I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you that you’re the only girl for the job. I have a Christmas fundraising thing happening in New York next month and I need someone on my arm. You’re the only girl, other than my mama, I’d like to take with me. The only one I trust not to let me down. And my mama can’t get time off work, so that leaves me with you. Say yes.”

  I swallow, not really sure how this is different from all the other times I accompanied Sage to his football events. There’s something desperate and utterly determined in the way he looks at me. Like there are so many words on the tip of his tongue that he’s biting down, afraid to use.

  “I don’t need to be your fake girlfriend for that.”

  “You do. It’s important. Everyone at school needs to know that we’re a thing.”

  “But why?”

  “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. Now, I’m pretty sure I’d be a top in jail, not a bottom, but still—not really into dudes. So, yes?”

  Ugh with this man. “Ugh with you. What do I get out of this?”

  Before you throw rotten tomatoes at me (understandable), accompanied by a collective ‘boo’ (reasonable)—let me explain why I ask: there’s definitely something Sage is gaining from this, no doubt at all, and I’m trying to figure out whether it’s a bet, or if he’s gotten himself into some kind of woman trouble—a stage five clinger or something. Sage scans me through his signature droopy, ink blue eyes, and I swear my ovaries are singing a cappella at the sight of his jaw of steel. He should come with a book-long warning label. I’m half-tempted to Google a question about getting pregnant just by looking at him. Sage grabs the tip of my blanket, unplasters it from my body, and yanks me by the pajamas to straddle him. It happens so fast the oxygen leaves my lungs in a short whoosh. I’m panting now, on top of him, and his hands are on my ass, and I’m not stopping him. Why am I not stopping him? I know I should. He will break my heart and I’ll have no one to blame but myself. I’ve seen it happen countless times before. By the time we finished high school, eighty percent of the girls broke out in hives just from hearing his name.

  “You’ll still get free rent, but for as long as you’re my fake girlfriend, I’ll also pay the bills. You’ll get free access to my truck—anytime you want. Last but not least: you’ll get me. All of me. No other women. No distractions. No games. Just you and me, JoJo. Because it’s always been the two of us, and it’s time we act this way, even if only for a little while.”

  He smells of wood and mint and a real Christmas tree. Like a sweet memory I want to cling onto. My limbs are lax and I know I’m making a huge mistake, but I’m done resisting. Believe me, I’ve tried. It brought me nowhere but to square one, salivating over my best friend.

  I nod slowly. “Okay. What’s the deadline?”

  “End of May,” he shoots, letting out a long sigh and placing his forehead to mine. It’s intimate. So much more intimate than anything I’d ever done with the Brandons of the world, and I never stopped and debated whether I should date them. May is graduation month. Sage is offering me a free ride till the end of school. And let’s not kid ourselves—I could use my waiting money for other things. Paying my student loan debt, saving up for life after college. That kind of stuff.

  We sit like this for a long minute before he cups my ass again and squeezes. It’s so playful and friendly, I don’t bark at him to stop.

  “Welcome to couplehood, bae. We’ve got this.”

  Chapter 4

  Sage

  “Hey, man, bad news.”

  For you, not for me, I’m refrain from adding. Actually, fucking fantastic news for me. I still can’t believe she said yes. Then again, I’m not entirely sure she knew what this would entail. When I told JoJo I wanted to be her fake boyfriend, I meant it. We’ll be doing things couples do. In bed, and the kitchen, and the bathroom, and even the fucking stairway, if we can’t help ourselves. There is nothing fake about what I’m going to give her. Especially the orgasms part.

  “What’s up?” Mark lifts his head, a towel wrapped around his waist. He slams his blue locker shut and uses a second towel to rub his black hair dry. Even though he’s on my team, he’s been riding the bench for the last year-and-a-half. I can’t help but internally curse him. Who the hell does he think he is, checking out my JoJo? Whoa. My JoJo? She’s not mine. Only that’s not entirely true. She feels a lot like something no one else can ever have, so who the hell says she’s not mine?

  Though, really, at this point it’s just semantics. JoJo will be mine. End of story.

  “So, Jolie and I are kind of together.” I prop my shoulder against my own locker, looking down at him. God bless my late father. He gave me the height to tower over most motherfuckers who aren’t signed with NBA teams.

  Mark’s eyes widen in disbelief before he schools his features and clears his throat like the good, rich boy that he is. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yep.” I pop the P out with a grin.

  “Let me get this straight. You slept with her this weekend, after I asked you for the one-hundredth time to sniff around for me?”

  “Look,” I say cuttingly, evading the question, “I’ve known this girl since we were ten.” Since she promised me I’d always be a huge chunk of her world and I blossomed in her friendship, set roots in our companionship, and grew up to be someone strong. “This shit is not going away, so I suggest you move on.”

  “You’re kind of a prick, you know that, Poirier?”

  Oh, I know. Grew up with one. Became one. Vicious cycle, etc.

  I clutch my navy football jersey and gasp loudly and comically, flattening my back against the row of lockers. “Now I’m butthurt. Which means that the only way I’ll get over this is if you kiss my ass.”

  “Well,” Mark says, his face red now, “That’s not going to happen.”

  “In that case, you better stay the fuck away from my girlfriend and me, yeah?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Just walks away.

  I watch his back, and for the first time in my life, the taste of victory bursts on my tongue outside the football field. I savor it, my throat bobbing with a swallow. I know I was being an irrational prick to Mark. I know that. But I couldn’t stop it.

  This whole thing made me crazy, and as much as it put me low on the moral scale—because let’s admit it, I had zero reason to feel bitter about any of this—my temper won. It won, and I lost.

  I lost my cool.

  I lost my patience.

  Then I lost my control.

  But I gained one thing, and it was the thing that mattered—Jolie.

  Jolie

  So. It’s official. I’m having the worst day of my life. It starts with Chelsea accidentally spilling her hot coffee on my white blouse—I don’t have time to go back home and change between classes, so the stained shirt remains. It continues with my favorite professor gathering us in class and announcing her sudden departure due to a tragedy in the family, then sometime before noon, Mark Tensely, a guy I’ve been crushing on for six months now (silently, of course. I’m so shy I almost combusted when he came in the other day to return some of Sage’s gear) came to ask Chelsea on a date, all while ignoring my existence.

  By the time I get back home after a stop at the
library, it’s dark and Sage is waiting for me in the living room with two slices of pizza, a Caesar salad, and beers. I’m so relieved to see the food—and him—I nearly whimper at the beauty of having both of them.

  This is what heaven looks like, right?

  “Sit. I’ll put some X Factor on.” He pats the tangerine sofa he’s slouched on. Clad only in gray running shorts, he is naked from the waist up, which is not surprising—Sage has a strict no-shirt policy around the house. I make my way over and plop down next to him with a content sigh. He hits Play just as I take the first bite of my pizza.

  “Nice blouse.” His eyes are already dead on the screen.

  “Thank…” I start, but then remember it has a coffee stain the size of Mississippi and frown. “I should probably take a shower and change before dinner.” I’ve never felt too self-conscious in front of him before, but I do now. Maybe it’s because he’s never acted this way to me. Quiet and attentive and…frankly, odd.

  “Bullshit. I’m your boyfriend. You don’t have to doll-up for me. I like the real you. The girl who snores when she is tired and smells of garlic every Sunday after her grandmama’s special casserole.”

  “You’re my fake boyfriend,” I correct, trying to set some boundaries.

  “Irrelevant. Everything that came out of my mouth was real.”

  I pat his thigh in the most platonic way possible and dig into my pizza and salad, internally admitting that my best friend will one day make a kick-ass real boyfriend, just probably not to me. Simon Cowell is slaying people in the auditions segment. Two girls cry and one guy threatens to sue him. Then the commercials come on and we both stretch out on the couch.

  “Do your Simon Cowell impression for me.” Sage elbows my ribs, showing off his dimples.

  “Maybe later. I’m exhausted.” I rub my eyes. Inhaling the pizza, salad, and beer like food is a foreign concept that’s left me in a carbma (carb coma). Sage stares me down, his face intense yet unreadable.

  “You know what’ll happen if you refuse, right?”

  I do. And I want it to happen. Shamefully, our tickle sessions are the most erotic thing in my life right now. I haven’t had sex in months, and I swear there’d be cobwebs all over my vajayjay had I not purchased enough sex toys to open a store.

  “I do not negotiate with terrorists,” I say adamantly.

  “So happy to hear, because I think I’m about done talking, anyway.”

  His eyes hone in on mine and his ripped body tenses before he pounces on me, tackling me to the carpeted floor. I fall with a bang, but his huge palm is covering the back of my head as it always does. He’s on top of me. With me writhing beneath him. I’m pretending to fight him, throwing balled fists into his chest, waiting for the tickles to arrive, when…

  “Stop,” he breathes, and I notice that he is not moving. His pelvic bones are rubbing against mine, his erection is digging into my groin, and it is thick, and long, and tilted to the right. My mouth waters and my eyes gloss over. Jesus H, since when did my best friend become such a man?

  “What?” I croak.

  He leans forward, his mouth only inches from mine. His body heavy, his hard-on tantalizing, his scent breathtaking, he mouths into my lips, “Game change: if you want me to stop whatever it is I’m going to do as your fake boyfriend, say the name Simon Cowell.”

  I groan. He’s giving me safe words now. I don’t have to ink them onto my brain, because doubt I’ll never use them. His hips start to move, and he is sliding up and down, grinding himself against my groin. I’m on fire, seeing stars, salivating at the intense friction. Every nerve in my body is buzzing with an impending orgasm, because it’s been so long, too long, and I open my thighs for him, my denim digging into my clit.

  “Say Simon Cowell, or I’ll continue.” His voice is heavy and rough and raw. He is the kid I fell in love with at the age of ten, and the man I would give the world to at the age of twenty. I don’t even care that he is probably using me. Using me as a fake girlfriend. Using me as a sexual outlet on this carpet.

  I say nothing, because I’d die if he stops. Maybe not literally, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be the proud owner of the very first case of female blue balls.

  He increases his speed, dry-humping me, one forearm propped near my ear and his other hand sliding to my neck. I want him to kiss me. I don’t want him to kiss me. I want us to break all the rules that helped us survive our turbulent childhood, that helped us defy When Harry Met Sally. The rules that prove the world the men and women can be friends. I want to obliterate our friendship on this carpet. I want to show him that my stupid, reckless, defiant heart only beats for him.

  “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growls, squeezing my neck softly. His throbbing cock is pushing between my thighs, digging deeper into my slit, even through the denim, and I know it must be painful for him. He is half-penetrating me, and my eyes roll back despite my best intentions, the darkness behind them littered with fireworks. It’s always been us…

  “Say it now, JoJo. Simon Cowell. Make me stop, or…” He leaves the sentence hanging in the air. Or he’ll take more. But maybe I want more. He said this was going to feel real. Monogamous, even. And now that Mark Tensely is no longer an option, I might as well take him up on that offer.

  If Sage thinks our friendship can survive it—or worse, that our friendship isn’t worth keeping our hands to ourselves—who am I to disagree?

  “Too scared to cross the line?” I hiss, my eyes widening at my own words. I’ve never taunted Sage about sex. About everything else? Sure. But not this. “I’m not sure what you’re using me for, Sage, but if you’re using me, I fully intend to use you.”

  The words barely leave my mouth before his mouth crashes down on mine, devouring me like a starved wolf. Like that boy who cried to the moon, and the moon finally answered back. It strikes me like lightning. Sage is hungry. And I’m his meal. His pouty lips drag against mine, seeking an opening. He captures my lower lip with his teeth and tug, tug, tugs until I have no choice but to part my lips and give him better access. His tongue is invading, ruling, and assaulting my own. It chases mine frantically, licks the walls of my mouth, moves across my teeth, memorizing every single spot in my mouth. My eyes roll in pleasure again when he takes my tongue between his lips and sucks on it hard, shoving his hand into my jeans. I’m not sure at what point he pulled down my zipper, but now he is rubbing my swollen, sensitive clit through my panties while he’s devouring my mouth, our tongues dancing seductively with one another. My whole body shakes uncontrollably.

  “Please. Oh my God. Sage.”

  It’s too much. The unexpected, sudden gratification. Don’t get me wrong—I make it a point to get myself off three times a week to keep myself sane, but I can’t remember the last time my body danced on its own accord with passion and delirious need. It occurs to me that I’m about to come before he’s even pulled off his running shorts, so I try to make him slow down by saying our very ridiculous safe word.

  “Simo…”

  His lips leave mine and he covers my mouth with his palm to keep me silent while he rises to his knees, pulling his shorts down with his free hand.

  He shakes his head on a smirk. “If you want me to stop, just say no, JoJo. But from this point forward, you’re not screaming anyone’s name but mine. Do you want me to stop?” He takes his hand away and I grab him by the wrist and graze his knuckle with my teeth before slipping the tip of his finger between my lips and giving it a little suck.

  Hell no I don’t want him to stop.

  His thick cock springs out of his shorts, and he presses the long, hot, velvety shaft against my bare stomach. My blouse rode up sometime during this spontaneous make-out session, and now Sage is tugging it further up to accommodate his cock, resting it on the little pink bow at the center of my bra, before reaching under me to snatch my bra, tearing it apart.

  “Gonna tit-fuck you now. Been wanting to do that since your thirteenth birthday. Remember the day? Checkered baby blu
e dress, ham on rye in the meadow, I finally noticed the first sign of tits…” He drags his tongue across my chin, closing in on my mouth with a sloppy kiss. A kiss with too much tongue. Too much saliva. Too much everything, yet somehow, still not enough. My response is squeezing my breasts together around his thick cock. The pad of his thumb is rubbing my clit again, and my quivering thighs begin to jerk uncontrollably. He pinches my clit. I moan so loudly my ears ring. Pinch, pinch, pinch. After a dozen small pinches, I feel a tug on the invisible string of pleasure that connects us. I explode when he finally pinches harder, sending me over the edge. I writhe under my best friend, shouting his name with the kind of wild abandon I hadn’t felt since the day I ran toward him in the pouring hot rain.

  I barely have time to come down from my orgasm before he starts fucking my tits, the tip of his cock poking my chin every time he grinds himself on my torso. He scoots up, sitting on my stomach with his knees on either side of me. His muscular thighs harden, holding most of his weight as he goes at it like a professional porn star.

  “Look at me,” he growls like a wounded animal, his tone far from its usual playfulness. I raise my head. My hazels meet his blues. He smirks the most patronizing, jerk-fueled smile I’ve ever seen, cupping my cheeks with one hand.

  “I want to come in your mouth.”

  I nod silently. I’ve never given anyone oral sex. Not that I have anything against it, but I guess I never felt super comfortable enough with any of my past boyfriends. But Sage is not just a guy I went on a few dates with. He is the boy who kicked other boys’ asses when they disrespected me at school—despite my telling him that I could take care of myself—and tried (and failed) to bake me shortbread cookies every Christmas because he knew they were my favorite.