Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by C. M. Stunich

  “I was raped, okay?” she said, like it was no big deal at all. Her eyes, her shoulders, the way her head drooped forward on her neck all told a different story. I felt sick to my stomach. My mouth fell open, but I didn't know what to say. Sorry seemed pathetic and insincere. When seemed offensive and frankly, none of my damn business. I closed my mouth. Opened it. Closed it again. Reached my fingers up and realized I still had smeared black lipstick all over my face.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I said honestly, dropping my hand to the table. Makeup streaked across the glass and Chelease frowned at me. I knew as soon as I got up, she was going to grab a bottle of Windex and some paper towels and start scrubbing it. I'd do it myself, but she'd just come after me and do it again. She had a thing about glass and streaks and all that.

  “It happened in high school,” she added, making me think I'd made the right choice by holding my questions. Her eyes stayed focus on the lipstick smear as they glazed over with some memory better left forgotten. “He was a quarterback, too, you know?” Chelease glanced up at me. “A big shot.” A glance back down at the table. “I grew up in Texas, so football isn't just a game. It's life. No way were they gonna bust a QB for banging some drunk chick at a party.”

  Chelease sucked in a harsh breath, like there were tears waiting on the horizon, but when she looked up at me, her eyes were dry. I wasn't sure that mine were. I wanted to get up, walk around the table and hug her. But we didn't have that kind of relationship, and I knew it.

  “But I didn't drink, not really. I had half a beer. Nobody gets plastered on half a beer. He drugged me, filmed it, too.” Chelease stood up, grabbed the Windex and paper towels like I'd expected. I scooted back and let her clean the table, her purple maxi dress swishing around her ankles. “When I told people, they called me a liar. My own family accused me of making up stories.” Chelease rubbed the table in wide, slow circles, her gold bracelets bright against her skin. “You know what happened to me? I lost my friends. I got treated like I was wearing a damn scarlet letter. And you know what happened to him?”

  I didn't answer, just sat there and wrapped my arms over my chest, fingers digging into my bare biceps. In the back of my mind, all I heard was Tyce, Tyce, Tyce, Tyce, Tyce. It was selfish and stupid, but I couldn't help it, so I swallowed the murmur back and focused on Chelease.

  “He got recruited to a division one school, full ride scholarship and all that and everything else.” Chelease stood up straight and stared down at me, her eyes burrowing right through my face and into my skull. “So guess what? When I see football players, I want to puke. When I see people worshipping them and coddling them and letting them get away with everything from a speeding ticket to dog fighting to fucking rape, I feel like I'm gonna die inside.”

  “I'm so sorry, Chelease,” I said, but she didn't want to hear anything at all from me right now. Her feet whispered across the beige carpet as she moved over to the table and picked up her phone. The screen reflected off the surface of the glass.

  “Now you know. I'm sorry I've been a bitch about everything. I don't mean to be.” Chelease flipped her phone over and sighed, staring at it instead of me. I felt like I was being dismissed.

  “I'm sorry, too,” I said, and I was. I shouldn't have snapped at her when I walked in the door. “If you ever want to talk—”

  “No.” Her brown eyes flicked up to mine and she gave my smeared lipstick a raised eyebrow and a shake of her head. “That's it. I just thought you should know. If you're gonna hang around with those guys, you should be careful. I don't have anything else to say on it. Just don't invite me to no Ducks game.”

  Chelease gave me another assessing look, rolled her eyes, and then moved down the hall into her room. I waited until I heard the soft snick of her door to stand up. My body was still pulsing from Tyce's touch, a little sore between my legs, a lot sore inside my heart. But Chelease's story had poured a bucket of ice over me that I didn't know what to do with.

  I hurt for her. I wanted to strangle the guy from her story. The world was unfair and it sucked.

  I sighed and ran my hands down my face, coming away with green and yellow and black smears. Between my legs, I felt the warm wetness from my encounter with Tyce. Maybe later tonight I'd cook Chelease dinner or something, try to let her know I was there for her. But right now, the only thing I needed was a long, hot shower.

  Tyce texted me later that night, right about the time I'd given up hope that he'd contact me at all.

  'How was your first live game?' he asked me, playing the friend card again. I could see from his message that what he wanted right now was to reset to yesterday, act like nothing had happened. But I was tired and sore and emotionally exhausted from Chelease's story. The last thing I needed or wanted right now was to play games.

  'Great until you pulled me out of my seat for sex.'

  There was a fifteen minute pause between that text and the next.

  'Teagan.' Just that. Just Teagan. And then he sent me a call on Skype that I ignored. I didn't want to fight with him again. In fact, it was one of the last things I wanted, but I didn't really know what else to do. If I brought up my feelings, he'd get pissed, and then I'd get pissed and well … It wasn't my fault that Tyce had serious anger problems. 'Maybe I should come over there?'

  The idea was tempting, more so than it should've been, but no. If he did come, we'd probably end up screaming or fucking again, possibly both. I couldn't handle the emotional rollercoaster. Besides, I didn't want to put Chelease through that right now.

  'Sorry. That can't happen.'

  'Then what?'

  'If you don't know why I'm upset, then you have your answer right there.'

  There was another long pause, maybe twenty minutes or so where I got so pissed that I ended up turning Netflix on on my phone and starting an episode of The Returned, the French version not the American. Les Revenants, I think it was called.

  'If your ankle feels okay, can we run together tomorrow?'

  I stared at the text for a whole minute before responding. Run? Tomorrow? What the hell, Tyce? I had no idea where he was going with this. I felt deflated by his lack of responses, his seemingly blasé attitude. I didn't have the energy to whip up another confrontation by myself.

  'Sure. Whatever. After math.'

  I turned my phone off and closed my eyes.

  There would be no phone sex in this house tonight.

  I was running alongside Tyce, but I wasn't talking to him. I could barely even look at him.

  “What are you doing after this?” he panted as we paused next to our favorite water fountain. I swept my braid aside and leaned over, tasting the cool water on my lips as I tried to decide how to respond to that.

  Not having sex with you, my snarky side chimed in. But I was trying not to be that girl anymore. I was trying to handle things in a different way, the way that'd gotten me good grades, good SAT scores, a good scholarship. That stuff worked. The dead squirrel and the lighting crap on fire routines usually only led to more trouble.

  “Tea?”

  “Studying I guess,” I said with as little energy as I could muster. I didn't want to start a fight, but I wasn't going to stand around and pretend everything was pretty and perfect and okay because it wasn't. I wanted to turn around and shake Tyce by his beautiful shoulders, dig my fingers into his skin and scream why don't you want me?! Because even if I knew I deserved better than him, even if I hated him for leaving my mom to die missing him, even if … he used me and yelled and had anger problems, I wanted him.

  I wanted Tyce to be mine. My boyfriend, my lover, my future husband, a someday father to my someday kids. I really, really wanted all of that. But instead, I was going to have to watch him run off and join the NFL, make his millions, marry a sexy blonde cheerleader and forget all about the summer we charted stars in the desert and painted our own maps on cardboard boxes. That sucked. The thought of that made me want to punch him in the face.

  “Okay …” he start
ed as I clutched the sides of the water fountain and tossed a glare over my shoulder.

  “You can't just decide you're amped up and want to fuck. I'm a person, Tyce. I'm supposed to be your friend. I bet you don't use Kai like that.”

  “I don't … fuck, Teagan, is that what you think? That I'm amped up?”

  I swiped my arm across my mouth and stepped back, but it didn't look like Tyce wanted any water now. A few seconds later, a group of girls jogged by and cheered for Winship as they passed. As we stood there in the awkward silence, one of them even jogged back and stuck her number in Tyce's hand.

  “Call me anytime,” she told him and then she was off, brunette ponytail bouncing.

  “Are you gonna call her?”

  “Really, Tea?” Tyce snapped, shoving the paper at me. It fluttered to the ground between us. “I won't waste energy fighting anymore.”

  “Good, because I'm not fighting. I'm just telling you the truth. If you don't want me, then don't fuck me. Oh, and I'm done with the phone sex stuff. And the sexting. Three times was more than enough. It was three times too many actually.”

  “I'm sorry I can't be the man you want me to be,” he said, and I almost screamed. I turned to look at him, the gap between our faces seemingly more obvious out here in the gray fall day that'd settled over the city. I was about to yell at him, about to ask him why even though I knew the answer, when he surprised me. “Teagan, do I give you butterflies?”

  “W-what?” I stared up at Tyce, at his eyes, wide open and blue as the river flowing behind me in fits and bursts. I expected a lot of different things to come out of Tyce's mouth, but that wasn't one of them. It was so … cheesy and stupid and amazing all at the same time. When he asked it, I did. I got butterflies. The problem was, my butterflies were scared and nervous and always wondering what was going to happen next. I hated that. “Why?”

  “Do you?”

  Tyce took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Opened them back up. His lashes were thick and curved and dark, and his mouth … his mouth was beautiful and soft. For a split second anyway.

  “Never mind. Forget it.”

  His lips hardened into a thin line again.

  I stared back, and my mind just went straight into the gutter. I saw him in his football uniform with his ass hanging out and his dick buried inside me, the sweat dripping down his face, my makeup smeared across his lips.

  I clenched my hands into fists at my sides.

  Tyce didn't get to ask me about butterflies. No. He couldn't fuck me against a cement wall and then do that, not when all he did was fuck me. I wanted more than just fucking.

  “Yes,” I said, and then took a deep breath. When I let it out, it puffed in a small white cloud. It was definitely getting colder around here. The thought that Thanksgiving was coming in a few weeks made me feel sad and small. It would be my first Thanksgiving without my mom. My throat clenched up and tears sprung to the edges of my eyes, completely unwanted. I hadn't cried at all back home. Several hundred miles north of my hometown, it was like the wet sky pulled them out of me.

  I pushed past Tyce and started walking to the apartment, expecting him to just let me go.

  This time, he followed.

  I glanced over at Tyce, flickers of yesterday splashing my brain with sex and need and want. I blamed it on the stadium and the crowd and all that energy that was floating around looking for somewhere to land. Heavy hands, hot mouths, his pelvis pressed tight to mine, the smell of sweat, the roar of the crowd. I shivered.

  “I've never had it be so awkward with someone after sex,” Tyce told me, an actual shirt draped over his glorious body. It was a little cold to be going shirtless right now. But I could see the hardened points of his nipples and his muscular legs beneath the fabric of his shorts. “Actually, I've never really had an after sex with anybody.”

  “So you don't even talk to the girls you use?” I snapped back without thinking. Tyce pursed his lips, but he didn't deny the claim. “I'm sorry for making things so awkward for you, but it's weird for me, too, okay? I only have two awkward times in my repertoire. I was starting to think this was normal.”

  “It's not.”

  “Not for you, maybe. I want sex to mean something to me. Even if it means something shitty. I want to feel things.”

  “You do realize I'm declaring myself for the NFL draft in January, right?”

  I didn't respond to that because I didn't know what else to say.

  “I'm not finishing my senior year here. I might not ever have a senior year.”

  “What does that have to do with you screwing me into the side of Autzen Stadium?” I whispered back, wishing I was home and in my apartment already. I expected a huge row when we saw each other this morning, but this conversation just felt tired.

  “I … there are things I need to do, Teagan. Assuming I get drafted—”

  “I thought you were first pick?” I quipped, pausing at the corner of Leo Harris Parkway and Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard while I waited for the light. Tyce waited beside me, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made his muscles ripple and flex, turning my own to jelly.

  “Counting your chickens before they hatch—especially when it comes to football—is fucked. I could break my spine tomorrow.”

  “Don't talk like that,” I told him, but I got his point. Everything was uncertain until it was inevitable. Life sucks. I stared across the street, smiling at a woman as she passed us with her dog and gave Tyce an 'O' with her hands, thumbs and forefingers pressed together. He smiled tightly back at her, but that was about it.

  “Love is a trap, Teagan. Not just for me, but for you. For everybody.”

  “What's that got to do with getting drafted by the NFL?”

  “I'm just saying that even if things seem easy or simple, they're not. They never are. If we got together—”

  “—assuming that's something I'd even want—” I interjected. Tyce ignored me.

  “You'd, what, stay here while I moved to Seattle or Denver or Green Bay? Or would you quit school and come with me? What would you do while I was at practice all day? Maybe you'd grow to hate me.”

  “That would never happen,” I said, but it could. I almost hated him right now. I had hated him after he'd left, for years.

  “Maybe you'd get bored with me? Maybe I would? What if I cheated on you, left you, just like my dad and your dad and a dozen other dads whose fucked up kids we went to school with.”

  “Those are choices, Tyce. Those men made choices. You have to be confident enough in yourself to know you'd never treat somebody like that.”

  As the light changed for us to cross, Tyce looked down at me with those crazy gorgeous eyes of his.

  “I've done it before, haven't it? So no, I'm not confident and no, I don't trust myself with you, Teagan. I already told you that you deserve a guy who'll put you first, somebody that loves you more than they love football—or themselves.”

  I felt a sharp shock of pain in my chest as I gaped up at him. For a second there, he almost looked like he was going to take it back, apologize, gather me into his arms and whisper I'm sorry.

  He didn't.

  My heart felt like it was bleeding, flooding my internal organs with liquid. My chest was tight and it was so, so, so hard to breathe.

  “I see,” I said, and I did. I got it. And it hurt, and I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.

  “Can we just please keep being friends?” he asked, still staring at me. The light changed again and we were forced to wait through a whole other cycle. Tyce's gaze, the way he wetted his lower lip, it all said that friends with him might mean more sometimes. Or not. “I'm going to Utah this Saturday, and I won't have anybody to harass with my text messages if you say no.”

  He made himself smile, but it was clearly a forced effort.

  “I … don't know,” I said, watching his face collapse into a frown. When I turned and started across the street without waiting for the light, he reached out and tried to jerk m
e back, but I pulled away from him and sprinted across the pavement.

  This time, he didn't follow.

  I'm such a goddamn liar, I thought as I stared at the offense in white jerseys, the defense in green. The QBs—including me—were wearing red shirts to let the guys know not to fuck us up during practice. At the moment, we were working on dynamic stretching and lunging before we moved onto sprinting and burst work. Everyone had a ball in their hands; everyone was more focused than me.

  At least I knew my body would take care of the work, muscle memory and habit putting me through the motions for now. Anyway, little actual teaching happens on the field. It's mostly about reps and pacing. That other shit happens before or after practice, or in a classroom in the performance center. Thank God. Because right now, I wouldn't be absorbing any of it.

  I lied to Teagan. I think. Maybe.

  I already told you that you deserve a guy who'll put you first, somebody that loves you more than they love football—or themselves.

  Could I have been any harsher? Seriously? Even if that was true, something I wasn't so sure of right now, I didn't have to blurt it out there, watch it settle on her already damaged features and let her fall apart.

  That thought haunted me all the way through our two and a half hour practice, into the locker room, outside to Kai's car.

  “You want to hit New Intentions up?” he asked me as he unlocked the doors and we climbed in. “A couple girls from my sociology class are heading over there to party, and, Tyce, when I say these ladies are hot, I'm not doing them any justice. All three of them are from Texas, and they've got this southern twang when they talk … and you're not listening to me at all.”

  “Not really, no,” I told him, turning in my seat and leaning back against the door as he peeled out of the parking lot like he was on fire. “Do you ever really say anything important when you talk?”