by Stacey Lynn
“I don’t have your number.” I smirked, holding out my hand to ask for her phone.
She smiled at my hand and then sent me a devious look—one I wanted to spank off her before I fingered her to the brink of orgasm. “I think you can figure out a way to get it.”
She shut the door then, but I heard her laughing as she walked away. When she reached the door to Beaux’s place, she waved at me, the smile still ingrained on her cheeks.
She was going to make me ask him for it if I wanted it.
She was going to make me work for her.
As I pulled out into the street after she disappeared inside, I realized that I was okay with it.
I hadn’t had to fight for anyone I wanted in years, and she’d be worth it.
At least for a month.
***
“Don’t fuck her over,” Beaux whispered as he handed me Shannon’s number.
Sweat still dripped down my back. I still had my pads on. For once it wasn’t Beaux moving slow in practice; it had been all me.
I couldn’t find a fuck to give. I’d been waiting for this moment the entire practice. Waiting for him to threaten me or punch me in the face.
I’d deserve it, and I’d take it, once.
“She understands where we’re at,” I told him. I hoped like hell she did.
He made a gagging sound and held up his hand. “Please. Fucking spare me. She told me the same thing earlier, and I almost puked all over her. I don’t want to know what’s going on between the two of you. I just don’t want her heart broken again like her fiancé just did to her.”
“Understood.” I did, too. I sort of wanted to beat the asshole up, too. I reached for his shoulder as he turned away from me, stopping him until he spun back around.
“Yeah?”
I swallowed the criticism I wanted to give him. He’d played a great day. I’d been off my game. He was still moving too slow. “Good practice today.”
His eyes narrowed and he put his hands on his hips. “Even if I’m too slow in the pocket?”
I popped my jaw. Was he teasing me? I assumed Shannon had told him what I’d said, but had she made me seem like the asshole I probably was? I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know if she’d shown up at his place this morning ranting about me.
“You’ll get there,” I replied. “Takes a few weeks and it’s a new team. You’ll adjust.”
His eyes narrowed further. “If you hadn’t just been with my sister last night I’d ask if you somehow slipped your dick into magical pussy to make you nice today.” He held up a hand again. “I don’t want to know. Honest. So don’t tell me.”
He grinned then and shook his head, almost as disbelieving as me that we might actually be getting along.
“I’ll up my game,” he responded. “Anything else?”
He seemed honest—sincere and open to anything I could say. We’d reached some detente. He wasn’t going to be a jerk about me screwing his sister.
I could trust that Shannon was honest about how much he wanted his team to be successful.
“Yeah.” I grinned and stepped back, out of his punching range. Then I held up the paper with Shannon’s number. “Voodoo pussy. Not magical. Thanks for helping me get more.”
He lunged for me, but I jumped back, straight into Rudolph. We both tumbled to the floor, a round of shouts and What the fucks echoing in my ear from the surprise of our movements.
I rolled to my back and off Rudolph only to get his elbow in my ribs. Hale’s body landed on me with a thud.
The madness of the locker room took over and soon I was on the bottom of a fucking dog pile of men who had never outgrown their teenage years. We acted like assholes, pushed and punched and shoved until I realized that my abs weren’t hurting so hard from the playful hits and kicks I’d taken from my teammates, but from the fucking laughter that wouldn’t stop.
Chapter NINE
SHANNON
The crowd around me rose to their feet as we shouted for the amazing forty-yard pass Beaux had just made. It landed soft and perfect in Oliver’s outstretched hands, where he ran another seven yards for a touchdown to move the Rough Riders ahead.
Twenty-one to seventeen. The team was doing it. It was late in the third quarter, but I couldn’t relax. Beaux had played the first quarter and then the first string had taken the bench until late in the third quarter. I had seen what Oliver meant: Beaux hesitated in the pocket more than normal, like he hadn’t quite found his rhythm.
I’d chewed off any nails—which had grown since summer training camp—during the first quarter, but when he took the field again he looked more relaxed. More confident. More like the Beaux Hale people were used to seeing, and the crowd ate it up.
I stayed on my feet, cheering, and gave him a thumbs-up as he hurried off the field. I’d done it since he was in the youth leagues in Iowa and never stopped. It didn’t matter that most of the time he couldn’t see me.
He’d bought these seats. He knew exactly where I was. I was still surprised when he trotted off the field, slapping Oliver on the back for the leaping catch he’d had to make, and his eyes came directly to me.
He hit his hand to his chest and flashed a peace sign in my direction. My grin exploded as the fans around me whispered, “He’s looking right at us.”
Fifteen rows up from the fifty-yard line behind the Rough Rider’s bench, I had the perfect pair of season tickets.
I tilted my chin toward Beaux, in acknowledgment, and then looked at Oliver. He was still standing next to Beaux, the animosity between them either having disappeared or been expertly hidden, when I saw him looking directly at me.
His hands went to his chin straps and he ripped them off before yanking off his helmet.
His eyes met mine and my breath faltered. Amidst the crowd of cheering fans, I still knew he was looking directly at me. I hadn’t seen him since he’d dropped me off at Beaux’s earlier in the week, although we’d spoken.
Most recently it was this morning, when he’d called me only to whisper in his gravelly voice, “Tonight, after the game, I’m going to do wicked things to you.”
I’d barely been given time to agree before he hung up, leaving me on edge and unfocused for the rest of the day.
All those feelings magnified while he held his helmet in one hand. I saw him listening to the offensive line coach, nodding. He never took his eyes off me.
The crowd cheered again, returning to their feet when the special teams kicked the extra point.
Coach Marks turned from Oliver to talk to someone else, but the whole time Oliver’s gaze stayed fixed on mine—unyielding. Relentless.
Powerful.
It was as if he could see me quiver, my thighs heating and that burning desire I had for him spreading through my veins.
A smirk twisted his lips. That arrogant, cocky smirk I wanted to kiss away to see the quiet and confident man I’d seen on his farm.
A fucking farm. He lived on one. Or on enough land to have a farm. But the mysterious tight end lived in the middle of nowhere and took care of horses, whispering to them in soft, quiet murmurs while wearing board shorts and T-shirts and didn’t seem to care what I thought of him.
For some reason, he’d invited me into his personal space. He’d let me see who he really was, giving me very little information.
I had gleaned enough.
He wasn’t the guy the world knew him as.
It made it harder to keep my heart from getting involved, yet I was still determined to do so.
I had less than four weeks with him. I wanted every second to count.
All of that conflicted with the way my heart quickened as Oliver smiled at me, pressed his fingers to his lips, and dropped his hand to his side before flashing me his signature wink.
I liked him. I didn’t know him well, but it was more than physical attraction that swirled and built into a combustible moment whenever we were around each other.
It’d been days.
It felt like months since I’d been with him, since I’d touched him, since he’d been deep inside me.
“Did you see that?” the woman behind me whispered to her friend. They’d gossiped about the players the entire game, their dates or husbands or partners on the other side of them, ignoring them.
“I saw it. He looked at us. Powell looked at us and blew us a kiss.”
The other woman huffed.
I resisted the urge to turn around and check them out.
They hadn’t been focused on the game for a single second, but had been whispering about the men in their tight pants and what they’d do to the players if given the chance. I assumed the men they were with would be getting the ride of their lives later, the women living out wicked, dirty fantasies in their beds, or the men would be left high and dry while the women searched out the players.
I had great seats—seats where I didn’t mind watching the game alone. Most of the people around me were people I’d be seeing all season. No one said anything about the empty seat next to me, but those questions would come. Eventually they always did. Why Beaux bothered to buy me two seats when he knew I’d rarely bring anyone other than Melissa to the games was beyond me, but I never argued.
For the rest of the game, I cheered when we had great plays, jumped to my feet and stayed there when there were forty-five seconds left and the kicker lined up a field goal to seal the win.
When it was done and they’d won, I pushed through the crowd, headed toward the back hallways where only family had access, and waited for Beaux, and Oliver, to make their appearance from the locker room.
The hallway was packed with media and sportscasters. Cameramen lined up outside the locker room. From inside, the chants and cheers of the victorious team reverberated through the hallway like a dull roar.
“You’re new. You family or girlfriend?”
I turned toward the female voice and smiled, holding out my hand. “Shannon Hale, Beaux’s older sister.”
Her face lit up with recognition. “Oh! We didn’t get a chance to meet the other day. I’m Jillian Rudolph, Danny’s wife.”
“Nice to meet you.” I’d met Rudolph at the party. He’d pointed his wife out to me from the distance, and up close she looked just as pretty as she had in a white, one-piece swimsuit with cutouts just above her hips. Rudolph was a defensive end player, large and strong and had a great game earning one sack. “He played great tonight.”
“He’ll play better later,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “I bet Oliver will, too.”
I jerked back, and she laughed at my surprise.
“They’re good friends. Trust me, there isn’t a thing Oliver does that Danny doesn’t know about. And I’ve been hearing about you all week long.”
“Um.” Nerves suffused my veins and speech was difficult. This was for fun, sure, but he’d talked about me? “We, um…just met and we’re friends.”
She rolled her eyes playfully. “It’s okay. Us girls need to stick together. Did you watch the game from a box?”
“No. Fifty-yard line. Beaux’s always gotten me tickets there.”
“Oh. Those are wonderful! Danny always gets the seats for me in the box with other player’s wives.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “But between you and me, it’s hard to watch the game from there.”
“You can always join me,” I said, my mouth moving before I could stop myself. “Beaux gets me two, but I watch the game alone.”
“That’d be great! And you and Oliver should come for dinner some night. Or just us. Girls’ nights are more fun anyway, you know?” She nudged my side and it took me a moment to regain my bearings.
I was used to women using me to get close to Beaux. I wasn’t used to women seemingly being so open and honest. But as my gaze roamed over Jillian, her kindness and friendly smile made it easy to trust her. Blond hair pulled back into a ponytail with Rudolph’s jersey, skinny jeans and faded, well-worn gray Chucks on her feet, she lacked the pretentiousness so many athletes’ wives seeped from their pores.
“I’d like that,” I found myself saying. “The game, at least. Oliver and I…we’re just…” Heat bloomed on my chest as I tried to find the words. “Having fun. Friends.”
“Right.” She winked. “Of course you are.”
The doors burst open then. Lights flashed and media personnel shouted their questions to players as they began exiting the locker room. All wet-headed and dressed in suits, you could tell they’d celebrated and showered quickly before leaving.
Beaux came out early and was instantly surrounded by the reporters. I stayed back, next to Jillian. Beaux twisted around his Rough Riders baseball hat so the team’s logo was in front and began answering questions.
His eyes met mine and he smiled. I held his gaze, silently encouraging him and letting my pride for him shine through until a different current hit me.
Oliver exited the locker room, hat pulled lower over his eyes, covering his dirty blond hair. His head dipped and he thanked the reporters clamoring for his attention, but he seemed to pay them no mind while he pushed past the small, congregated crowd before making his way to me.
“Yeah. If you two are just having fun, I’ll eat my husband’s hat.” Jillian nudged me again, playfully.
I didn’t turn to look at her, but my lips lifted into a smile.
Whether it was because I liked her and found her funny or because Oliver didn’t stop moving until he was directly in front of me, I didn’t know.
“Ready to get out of here?” he asked, his voice rough and thick.
I was sure I answered.
Certain I tried to.
It felt like a handful of cotton balls were lodged in my throat as my mouth opened and closed.
His hand gripped mine and he tugged me toward him and whispered, “I told Beaux where we’d be. He said he’ll see you in the morning.”
I caught Beaux’s gaze, his eyes tightening as he saw me leaving, and then I was pulled through the maze of hallways, unable to gather my thoughts while Oliver guided me toward his car.
***
“You guys had a great game,” I said once we were settled into his car.
We’d made a brief stop at Beaux’s car, where I’d left an overnight bag earlier, and then a strange silence had permeated the fancy vehicle while Oliver guided us out of the underground parking garage for players and season ticket holders and onto the packed streets of downtown Raleigh.
His hands flexed on the wheel.
“You don’t think so?” I asked when he didn’t answer.
“I never think we play as great as we should.”
It didn’t surprise me. Oliver was intense and focused off the field just as much as he was on it.
“It was still a great touchdown you made in the third.”
His lips went from a pressed line to a hint of a smile. Shaking his head, he looked at me. His expression softened a bit. “You love the game.”
“Well, yeah, it was either find a way to love it growing up or hate all the hours I spent at the fields and driving Beaux around. I could have either become bitter and jealous of his success or been a part of it. I chose the latter.”
“Yeah, but you still didn’t have to like the game. You could have supported him without it.”
I grinned then. “It’s more fun this way.”
He fell silent after that, seemingly lost in his thoughts.
After several blocks where he seemed to be twisting his car around the streets of downtown instead of heading out to his place, when he spoke again, he surprised me.
“I have to admit—that catch was awesome.”
“Soft fingers,” I whispered. “It was incredible to watch. Everyone around me went insane when you hurdled the defender.”
He pulled up to a building and shoved the gearshift into park. We idled at the curb, and I looked at where he’d stopped us. A hotel.
Disappointment uncurled in my stomach.
I closed my eyes and let a soft breath fal
l from my lips.
“Trust me,” he said, reaching out to open his door. “When I get you to my room, my fingers will be anything but soft.”
The desire that was there before sparked, but fizzled quickly as I realized what we were doing.
What I was doing with him.
A hotel. A one-night stand.
Was I really prepared for all of this? For the whispers and the gossips and being treated like his latest fling?
I had never been one to live so recklessly.
Yet hadn’t I earned it? Didn’t I deserve a month of hot sex and fun and no strings and everything else single people experienced all through their twenties?
It was that realization that made me force down my disappointment and the increasing unease as my door was opened.
“Good evening, Mr. Powell. Good game earlier.”
“Thank you, Frank,” Oliver said, lifting his hand toward me as he stood next to the bellhop who had opened my door.
Frank was old, his hands speckled with liver spots, leathered skin telling me that when he was younger he spent too much time in the sun and used too little sunscreen. His eyes met mine with a kind smile. “Good evening, miss.”
“Shannon,” Oliver said, pulling me out of the car. He’d already grabbed my overnight bag and it was thrown over his shoulder. “She’ll be here frequently.”
A glimmer of excitement hit Oliver’s eyes as he made his intent clear.
“Very well, sir,” Frank said and closed the door behind me. He took the keys from Oliver and gripped them in his palm. “Straight to the garage tonight?”
“You have a break coming up?”
“Always plan on it when I know you’re coming.”
“Then take it for a spin, but be kind to her.”
“Will do, sir.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Call me Oliver, for the love of God, Frank.”
Frank winked at me before shaking his head. “Can’t cross all the lines with my job. You know that.”
Oliver smiled at him—the first genuine smile I’d seen on him all night. I had watched the entire conversation slack-jawed. When he slid that grin in my direction, my mouth snapped closed.