Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by C. M. Stunich

  “Kick ass,” Risika said as she leaned back against the couch and crossed her bare feet at the ankles. “You were a wild child, huh?”

  “Yeah, but not anymore,” I said as I reached out and grabbed my soda, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a drink. “That was the Teagan Fletcher from four years ago. After …” I wasn't sure how to explain Tyce to them. Could I tell them that their star quarterback was a bratty little boy from Nevada? It didn't feel like my story to tell. How stupid is that. Of course it's your story. Your mom went through so much to protect Tyce from his foster mom, to show him love, make him feel safe. And she paid for that. We both did. If anything, he owes me. “Anyway, I cleaned up my act, made good grades, got into the U of O.”

  “Boring,” Melia said, taking another hit. “You forgot the last question. Sex. How old, with who, and was it good? You can forget the last part of that if you want. I'm sure the answer is no.” Melia and Risika both laughed, digging into the bowl of tortilla chips that was sitting between them.

  “Who cares about high school sex?” I laughed, wishing my stomach didn't feel like a lead weight. I should've just made up a lie and rolled with it. But knowing me, I'd end up forgetting what exactly that lie was and eventually botching the whole story. Best to just let it go completely.

  “Me,” Risika said, raising her hand. Melia copied her and they both proceeded to stare at me. I'd heard their virginity stories about a dozen times each, and we'd been friends for about as long as I'd been without the V card. “Tell us or I'll let Melia read your aura next.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” her friend said, tossing a sea of chips in Risika's lap. “Let her talk. She has a story. I can tell.” Melia folded her legs up and leaned toward me, rainbow colored bong in one hand, white smoke drifting from between her closed lips.

  I stared back at them, at the different shapes of their faces, their lips, their eyes. They looked so different, but yet they were so similar at the same time. I felt trapped beneath their gazes, and I still felt sick from that text conversation between me and Tyce. I kind of wanted to tell someone. Hell, they probably wouldn't even believe me if I told the truth.

  “I … lost my virginity two weeks ago?”

  “Is that supposed to be a question?” Risika asked, sitting up and raising her eyebrow at me again. I really wanted to reach across the space between us and rub the chocolate brown lipstick from her mouth. With her peach pale skin tone, she'd look better in pink. “With who?”

  “Tyce Winship,” I said, and they both laughed. I didn't. I reached down and straightened out my gray wife beater, the one I'd been wearing since I was sixteen. It was still in relatively good shape, and it looked flattering on my body so I kept it. Hey, it wasn't like I was swimming in designer tops like Chelease.

  “Tyce … Winship?” Melia looked confused as hell, giving her bong an evil look like the weed was probably to blame for my strange hallucinations and her misunderstanding. “Like, the QB for the Ducks?”

  “Exactly like that guy,” I said, feeling a weight fall off my shoulders and crash to the mound of Persian rugs beneath me. “Like your future husband,” I joked, but nobody laughed at that one. The air was getting foggy and thick, and I was just about ready to leave, but I figured I was stuck here until I explained this one in detail. “We kind of have a history together.”

  “What kind of history?” Risika asked, like she didn't believe me either.

  “We grew up together. Since I was four.”

  “You've … known Tyce Winship since you were four?” Melia again, still sounding confused as hell. Her brown eyes were narrowed on me suspiciously. “And you failed to mention this before, why?”

  “It's complicated,” I told them, feeling my throat get tight and my hands turn into fists. I really didn't want to go through the full story here. Then I'd have to tell them about Tyce's family, about how his mother was killed at age twenty-two on her way to work. I'd have to tell them about the evil bitch that was his foster mother, how she hit him. Starved him. Abused and berated and tore him apart until my mother couldn't take it anymore. Then I'd have to explain the kidnapping charges that the city levied against her when she refused to give Tyce back to that monster. That story was not something I enjoyed telling.

  “Holy shit, woman,” Melia exhaled, blowing smoke in my face. I needed to go before I got a contact high. I wasn't against smoking pot per se, but I personally wasn't a fan of it. “You lost your virginity to Tyce Winship, your childhood friend, two weeks ago?”

  “In the park,” I continued, putting my face in my hands. “It was so stupid. We could've been arrested.”

  “In the park?!” Risika stood up and moved over to me, sitting down hard next to my beanbag, pulling my hands away, so that I'd look at her.

  “Did he have a big dick?” Melia asked, reminding me of that day I came over and watched the football game.

  “Jesus, Melia, are you stupid? She's clearly upset about this.”

  “I'm not upset,” I lied, raising my brows at them and taking another sip of my soda. When it tasted like ash, I knew I really, really was. Great. No matter how hard I tried to get over this, it kept creeping back up on me. In my heart, I knew it wasn't because of the sex, not exactly. It was Tyce and his seriously terrible attitude problem. It was his lack of empathy, his lack of apology, of explanation. I just wanted it all out on the table. Yet when he came to you to talk, you turned him away. You should've gone out there that day.

  “You are seriously upset,” Risika told me, brushing my hair back and leaning her head against mine. “What happened?”

  “It wasn't anything he did, exactly,” I started, trying to figure out how to explain it both to them and to myself. “It's the cold hard truth that's getting to me, I guess.” I took a deep breath, blowing it out and disturbing the cloud of white smoke in the room. “Tyce doesn't care about me now. Maybe he never did. The only thing he gives two shits about is football.”

  “Well, if you really want to know,” Melia began, lifting up her phone and flashing me with a Snapchat video. “Then you should go and ask him.”

  I took the phone from her hand and watched a dark, bouncing clip of Tyce dancing in New Intentions, drink in one hand, a girl in the other. I almost tossed the damn thing at the wall. Instead, I stood up and brushed my hands down my ratty old tank top. I passed the phone back to Melia and tried to catch my breath. My heart was skipping several beats, making this uneasy rhythm that had me seeing spots. It was one thing to know that Tyce had already gotten over our chance encounter, our single fuck, but it was a whole other thing to have to look at it.

  “I gotta go,” I told them as Risika reached over and slapped Melia on the knee. They were already well into another BFF argument by the time I grabbed my coat, my bag, and my keys.

  I ran the entire way back to my apartment.

  Later that night, I was lying on my belly on the bed, a sea of dusty Polaroids splayed across the orange and yellow comforter. Most of them were blurry, vaguely recognizable figures, but there was this one of Tyce at sixteen that made my heart flutter even now.

  He was standing at the edge of the river, his fingers tucked into the pockets of his black swim trunks. The smile on his face was enigmatic, that full lower lip of his twisted just slightly offside. The brilliant blue-gold of his eyes was startling considering the shitty picture quality. Even at that age, his body was beautiful to look at, a feast for the eyes. He had hard pecs, a sculpted tummy, and arms that made my fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch. Of course, back then he didn't have any tattoos but the brilliant bronze of his skin shone in the afternoon light.

  I remembered that day like it was yesterday.

  “Fuck,” I mumbled, knocking the pictures to the floor like a flutter of autumn leaves. I rolled over and got out of bed to flick off the light, taking my phone back to the covers with me to set the next morning's alarm. As I laid down, the light from the screen reflecting on my face, I found my thumb hovering ove
r my text messages.

  I pressed the screen and scrolled up, reading the exchange between Tyce and me several times. It wasn't good. I wasn't how I'd wanted things to go, but I was hurting. And I'm still hurting. That video was not something I needed to see. Here I was, lying on my bed and looking at old pictures while he was out partying with his football buddies. With other girls. I didn't want to care, but I did. I mean, I figured he'd move on and start dating, but to drop right back into the whole one-night stand casanova bit so soon? Jesus that killed me.

  'Are you still up?' I wrote before I could stop myself, sending my inquiry into cyberspace.

  'Yup.' I got that back in an instant, my heart thudding painfully. Just talking to Tyce was hard. Or rather, just typing to him was hard. I watched the clock carefully. Two minutes later, I got another response. 'Just chilling in bed. Are you okay?'

  I wasn't sure what that question was for, so I didn't know how to answer it. In the immediate moment, I was fine. I wasn't in danger, wasn't hungry, wasn't cold. But okay? How did I even begin to define that word?

  I snuggled deeper under my blanket and tried to take comfort in the fact that it was printed with shimmering suns and blooming poppies.

  'Did you have a good time at the club?' I sent and then cringed. Crap. That was not what I'd meant to say. It sounded desperate and sad, and that just wasn't what I wanted to be. Before Tyce could respond, I added, 'I saw your video on Snapchat.'

  'God, I hate that fucking thing. It's like, ten seconds of randomness that doesn't mean shit.'

  Silence.

  I wondered what his face looked like then, what he was wearing in bed—or if someone was in bed with him. I debated asking if Tyce was alone, but decided I might not want to hear the answer to that question. I put my phone against my forehead and tried to figure out what to say next.

  'Do you still sleep in just your underwear?'

  I blinked in surprise as I lifted the phone back up and read that message. Seriously? Inappropriate question, but at least some small reminder that he remembered me. A little nothing detail about me. I considered my response for a long time, so long that Tyce was already messaging me back.

  'Sorry. Stupid fucking question.'

  'Definitely stupid. But the answer is yeah, I do.' I replied quickly and then bit the chipping red paint of my thumbnail. I kept picking these bright colors—orange, then yellow, then red. Or maybe I was just trying to mimic the colors of the season? 'What about you? Do you still sleep nude?'

  Was that too inappropriate? I wondered, staring at the letters on my phone like they might scramble up and suddenly form Tyce's face.

  'Hell no. My roommate's a dick. He'd probably take pictures and sell them on the internet.'

  A pause. My turn to respond.

  'Are you naked now?' I wasn't even sure why I'd asked that question, groaning and slapping the phone face down on my comforter. Weak light filtered through the cracked curtains on my window, teased the floor beneath the blinds on the balcony door. I stared up at the dark ceiling and pretended I could see the stars. Life should come with do-overs, I thought as I waited for the buzz of a new message. Or at least texts should.

  My phone vibrated—twice. And I swallowed hard, closing my eyes for a long second before I checked the screen.

  'Why are you asking?' and then 'Curiosity got the better of you, Tea?'

  'Are you drunk, Tyce?' I asked, not that it mattered, but I needed to know.

  'Maybe.'

  'Are you alone?' Didn't know why I asked that. It wasn't any of my business. It was just, the thought of Tyce screwing somebody when I was still caught up in what happened at the park seemed wrong. I started typing a new message, telling him to forget about it when he responded.

  'Yeah.' I hated how relieved I felt to hear that. Of course, he could've slept with her and sent her on her way, just like he did with me. I swallowed hard and tried to figure out what to say next, if I should just tell him goodnight and let it go. 'Been too busy with practice for girls. Just went out and danced for like an hour tonight to let off some steam.'

  I liked the sound of that. Not that it mattered, not that I cared what he did. He'd made it clear that whatever was happening between us was accidental or maybe just plain unimportant. I tapped my phone against my lips, shifting a little against the soft cotton of my sheets. I really wasn't wearing anything but a pair of hip huggers, one of the few new pieces of clothing I owned. I'd set aside a very small portion of my financial aid for essentials. Clean undies, totally essential.

  Buzz. New text.

  It was a picture this time.

  A really, really hot picture.

  Tyce had just snapped a shot of his bare midsection, holding the camera up by his face while lying in bed. I got a nice, long lean shot of his body from pecs to sweatpants, the hills and valleys of his abs lit up from the flash. I could see his sexy right arm, thick with muscle and covered in tattoos, hooked on the edge of his pants with a thumb.

  My body rebelled immediately, flushing me hot through and through, pulsing tight and frantic between my thighs. It wanted Tyce's body back, on top of me, inside of me. I wanted Tyce back.

  “Oh my God,” I moaned, running a hand down my face. “What the hell was that for, you asshole?”

  'See, not naked. Totally alone.'

  I read the text and then quickly typed one of my own up.

  'I didn't need to see that,' I sent at the same time another of his came through.

  'Your turn. Undies. I want to see them.'

  I felt myself snort before I could stop the sound. Hopefully, Chelease had her earbuds in and was firmly asleep. She liked to blast classical music like it was rock and take Ativan on the weekends. Still, before I took a photo, I got up and checked in the hallway. The nightlight next to the bathroom was glowing through its frosted glass cover, but otherwise, everything was quiet. I pushed in the lock on my door and tried not to feel like I was doing something wrong. Inside of me, this thrill was working its way down my spine as I tried to figure out if I was really going to do this.

  “This is so stupid,” I whispered, flickers of Tyce's face after we fucked filling my mind. I wanted to keep being hurt, feeling betrayed, but it just wasn't in me. I wanted to talk to him.

  'No pic?' And then I got a sad face emoji. He was definitely drunk now.

  I climbed back into bed and stuck my phone under the covers, taking a crappy, blurry shot of my black hiphuggers and cutting it so my stomach didn't show. When I sent it to Tyce, I got this hammering ache in my gut. What was he going to say? What was he going to think?

  Instead of a response, I got another picture.

  It was Tyce with his sexy tattooed right hand in his pants. In. His. Pants.

  The sight of his firm, lean midsection, those fingers diving beneath the fabric of his sweatpants, it made me want to scream. My nipples hardened and my breath caught in my throat. What the hell is happening here? I wondered as I put a hand to my chest and felt the flickering thunder of my heartbeat.

  I could barely think that stupid word—sexting—but that was kind of where this was heading, wasn't it? Or maybe I was overthinking things?

  Another text.

  'Your turn.'

  Or not.

  I took a deep breath and briefly debated turning off my phone and rolling over to sleep. But I knew that would never happen. I'd lie awake for hours like I'd been doing the last few weeks, wondering where Tyce was, what he was up to. I'd been carefully controlling my days so there wasn't much time to think about him, but nighttime … that had always gotten me. Back when he first left, I used to sit on the porch with the shitty old corded house phone we had, pulled taut against the jack in the living room. I'd wait for him to call, to explain away everything with a laugh.

  'Teagan? Are you there?'

  I adjusted my panties so they sat perfectly on my lean hips and then slid my fingers beneath the waistband. I didn't mean to actually touch myself or anything, but I was so worked up from Tyce
's photos that a flicker of pleasure shot straight through me, right from my clit to my brain. I snapped the shot, of my stomach muscles tucked in tight with a sharp inhale of breath, and I sent that to him. Sending pics of myself like this was about as stupid and dangerous and risky as fucking in the park, but Tyce was scrambling my brain, making me feel like the reckless teenager I'd been with him.

  'That is so fucking hot.'

  I seriously read that five times, sliding my fingers down my aching body until I found the wetness between my thighs. Then I scrolled up and stared at Tyce's photo while I used that moisture to touch my clit, swirling it in easy circles as my breath started to come in shallow bursts. His body was heavenly, clean and cut and molded into perfection by hard work and dedication. As I touched myself, I imagined him touching me, climbing into my bed, kissing me. I thought of him on the field, running goals and leaping deftly away from his enemies. It was like watching a dance.

  My phone buzzed with a new message.

  I flicked my thumb across the screen and scrolled down to it.

  Tyce's cock.

  He'd sent me a dick pic. I'd just gotten my first dick pic.

  And it wasn't stupid or funny or annoying, it was just hot.

  I stared at Tyce's long, curved length, the way his inked fingers wrapped his shaft and held on tight. He'd just barely pushed his sweatpants down, keeping his balls hidden, teasing me with a longer, more enticing view of his hips. It was criminal the way his muscles wrapped his body, the gleam of his tanned skin, the shimmer of moisture at the tip of his cock.

  It took me several tries to swallow past the lump in my throat. My whole body was on fire now, burning and aching to be touched. I wanted him here so badly, didn't even care what might happen afterward. I almost invited him over, but then I remembered he was drunk, and he didn't have a car, and I didn't have a car.

  I almost screamed.

  Instead, I lifted the waistband of my panties and took a quick shot of my cunt, hitting send before I could stop myself. If we'd been doing this live, I don't think I could've gone through with it. The texts were just impersonal enough to make this work, to trick me into thinking this was going to mean absolutely nothing. But nothing between Tyce and me was as simple as that. Leave it up to us to turn sexting into some kind of emotional power play.