I also knew should I want to, I had the energy in my nightstand.
The thought of taking it makes my stomach turn.
I push my books off my bed onto the floor and strip down until I’m in my bra and underwear. The jersey I usually wear to bed is hanging over my desk chair. When I slip it over my shoulders, I smile. It even smells like him. I never wash it in fear I’ll lose that scent.
Sleep comes easy until around three that morning. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s my body and the way it knows when Cash is thinking of me.
Maybe it’s my hope that he is.
I look at my phone to check the time and see a text come through. It’s him.
You up?
I smile.
Just smile.
Moments later he’s at my door with that look. This is what we do.
We run and we hide here, in this moment, in this place, where we don’t have to make sense of anything. It’s not just sex with him. It’s so much more of an undefined thing… but it’s our thing and I’ll take it.
His pants are undone and I’m trying to get them off but he’s not having it. Cash likes to kiss these days and I feel like it’s happening more and more. He shows emotion this way, the little that we give is shared in the passion of his lips. He’s kissing and worshiping me against the door to the bathroom. His strong hands push mine away and pin them to the door. My arms wrap around concrete shoulders, gripping muscles that flex as he holds me. He grunts and pushes his hips into mine, wet swollen lips capture my own. Steadying me against the door, he removes his jersey I’m wearing, tosses it aside and then removes my bra.
There are things I find sexy about Cash that no one compares to. It’s his arrogance. Cash is what most would say adorable. You’d generally think he would be the gentle guy who was intimate in bed. He’s nothing like that.
That arrogance comes from him knowing he’s good at this and the reason we’re still doing this is because he gives me what I’m looking for. He’s right. He also knows what I like. Every move he makes, he knows my reaction to it. There’s a sense of comfort between us.
Leading me to the bed he pushes me down, his hand giving me a little push in the center of my chest and then lets his hands wander up my thighs to the edge of my panties. Drawing them down my legs he lets them fall at his feet. I push back with my feet on his chest, smiling at him and then sitting up with my feet touching the floor. My head is at his waist, and I look up at him through my lashes as I undo his belt. I work his jeans lower letting them fall to his ankles. His hands raise up over my shoulders and cup my face, his thumbs dragging over my lips.
I don’t waste time, my hands eagerly stroke his erection, so hard, smooth and perfect.
When my mouth takes him deep inside and lets him hit the back of my throat, Cash’s hands fist in my hair.
“Stop.” He tells me and shoves me back. I scoot to the center of the bed watching him reach for the condom in the nightstand after kicking away the remainder of his clothes. The moonlight catches his eyes and I get a glimpse of the lust in them and the way he has his head bent, concentrating on the wrapper of the condom.
When he gets the condom on, he climbs between my legs.
There’s a moment I can’t shake. It’s when he enters me and my body curves around his. His left hand reaches between us, his right firmly on my ass scooting me up the bed when he slides inside me. Just as his mouth drags down my jaw, his body trembles, as does mine.
He feels it too.
His hand flies from my hips to my neck and pushes my head down into the pillow. Cash knows how to fuck. He’s a god on the field and fucks just as good. I’ll die the day I know I’m not the only one feeling this. “You fucking love this shit… don’t you, baby?” he whispers in my ear, the roughness somewhat unnerving. “You crave fucking my dick, don’t you?”
“Yes!” I moan.
Nipping at my neck his teeth drags over my heated skin.
“Fuck... ” Cash shudders, his body trembling when I wrap my arms around his neck. “You’re so fucking wet... ” His feet move, his knees spreading slightly bracing himself and gaining some leverage to move easier. When he does, his head falls forward to my shoulder. He’s found the right play for sure.
I look at the clock just to make sure. I never want this to end.
It’s 3:49 AM.
We have time.
I throw my head back and close my eyes letting him take me. His hands stay on my hips, fingers digging into my flesh with each thrust. No words are said after that. We’ve gone to that place where our problems don’t exist. A place that we’ve created and we are the only visitors.
His left hand moves to my neck when he lifts up, watching me, his thumb on one side, his fingers on the other with just the slightest pressure on just the right artery. It was enough that I feel the blood flow leave, but not enough that I can’t breathe. He’s rough. He’s always rough and that’s where the arrogance comes from. He knows what I like and he doesn’t give a shit.
There’s no rules to this. We take what we take and we give it just as hard.
My nails dig into the flesh, each pass leaves a raised red mark. This is me begging him to fuck me harder, give me everything he has to give.
He knows.
He provides.
With a grunt, his hips drive into me unrelenting and his right hand pushes my head into the pillow a little harder.
Gasping at the sensation, Cash moves both hands and then curls them over the tops of my shoulders, the leverage he needs. Still on my back, with my feet flat against the mattress, I push up and arch into him, working together.
With a frustrated gasp, Cash moves his hands to my ass forcing me into his movements. “Jesus… I fucking needed you so bad,” he cries into my hair, pushing it to the side, his hands tangling in it.
Me too.
Me.
Too.
I exhale noisily, moaning into his ear. That provokes him and he groans again, and then finds my mouth.
Maybe it’s his lips.
Maybe it’s the passion.
Maybe it’s just… him.
We come together, panting and cursing. His entire body tenses as the warmth crashes over us.
“Holy shit,” he says scrubbing his palms over his eyes when he pulls away. “That was hot.”
I smile, not sure what else to say as he pushes away from me completely and sits up on the edge of my bed discarding the condom in the trash under my desk. He looks over at me. He smiles, just barely, and then wards it off but I caught it.
He smiled at me.
My heart pounds as he stands pulling his jeans on.
As I watch him leave, walking without a thought, he keeps his head down.
I know I can’t keep holding him back. I’m forever dark. He’s my light. People like Macy are light. They don’t need all this darkness surrounding them and making them feel like they’re not good enough.
They are good enough.
Deep down I know we’ve all done horrible things. We’ve all fucked up in our lives. It’s just a matter of how bad, and how you right the wrong, when ready.
Unfortunately I was nowhere near ready.
September 25, 2013
I toss and turn at night. Every night. Nothing helps. All I see is my phone staring back at me.
Don’t look.
I look at the clock beside my bed instead.
12:16 AM.
I turn over toward the wall and stare at the blue paint that’s chipped from where I threw my phone at it the other night trying not to call.
I look at the clock again watching the hours count down.
1:29 AM.
I need my sleep. I do. So why can’t I get any?
Madison.
2:18 AM.
She’s destroying me.
Rolling on my back, I throw my arm over my face. When that doesn’t work, I roll on my stomach and squeeze my eyes shut until they burn.
Maybe if I squeeze them hard en
ough I won’t see images of her or look at my phone.
Doesn’t work.
My hands slide up the bed and under my pillow wrapping around my head.
Maybe if I suffocate myself I won’t call either?
There’s an idea.
I don’t.
I look at the fucking clock instead peeking on eye open.
3:04 AM.
I hate this. I fucking hate that she dictates my life like this without even words.
Ten minutes later I pick my phone up and text her. Another ten and I’m in her bed.
When I leave some forty-five minutes later, she’s sleeping on the bed. I pause at the door because I love seeing her like this. Rarely do I ever see Madison sleeping. I’ve seen her stoned, crying, in love, shaking with need, overcome with lust but rarely as vulnerable as she is when her guard’s down and she’s sleeping.
She’s absolutely beautiful like that.
It’s hard to leave her when I see her eyes closed and flushed cheeks pressed into the pillow supporting her head.
I have to though.
Getting up at five AM for most is too early. For me, my day starts with that three AM text. From there I go to the gym with the rest of my team. Most days I’m running on very little sleep but that’s nothing new.
I’m a disaster in more ways than I can say.
In the last three years, my life is nothing like I’d thought.
Remember that ring?
I still have it.
That girl?
She’s gone in the sense that she’ll never be the same. But I can’t let her go no matter how hard I try.
And no matter how much I try, I can never forget that night that changed forever.
I can’t stop seeing it.
I live it over and over again, as do the others in the car that night.
It’s a horrible nightmare that we will never forget. When I have nightmares about it, gasping and struggling to breathe, I feel like that breath I need is never granted.
The worst part for me is that I’m doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. Playing college football.
I’m playing at the University of Oregon and the starting quarterback for the Oregon Ducks. Some think I’m this Golden Boy with the perfect life who is living the dream. Sure. They can say any of that but I have to disagree. And sure, I’ve been on the cover of Sports Illustrated my senior year of high school and offered a full ride to any college I wanted, but if it was so damn good, I’d have my boys beside me. I wouldn’t have buried one of my best friends, I wouldn’t have punched my other one and I would be engaged.
I’m none of that. I have none of that. What I have is right now.
I take my time getting over to the Len Casanova Center, our football training center. It’s unreal the facility we have here and makes me feel like I’m playing for a pro team every time I step foot in here.
We have everything from state-of-the-art training equipment to personal iPads to flat screen televisions everywhere, underwater treadmills, cold tubs, hot tubs, and even a barbershop.
A barbershop.
It’s insane.
It’s probably why I spend ninety percent of my time in there from the early morning to around ten, sometimes eleven at night.
As I’m changing into my shorts and t-shirt, I hear bits and pieces of conversations around me. I’m the quiet one on this team of marauders. I don’t talk much because all these guys are talking about is pussy and football. Sure, I’ll talk football all night long but not pussy. It’s none of their fucking business.
Once in the gym, I’m a little on edge listening to their bullshit and lifting weight relaxes me.
I was with Madison this morning and you’d think I would have been at ease because of that, but I’m exceptionally tense these days. I’m not even sure why. There’s this nagging feeling in my gut since the season started. Maybe it’s the pressure getting to me. We have an open day this Saturday but then we play the Bears and we have the Huskies and Cougars coming up too. It’s not an easy schedule.
Coach Erwin, the offensive coordinator for the Ducks, takes me aside. He starts going over plays immediately while I continue to lift, and leaves little room for confusion or questions. He’s thorough and I appreciate that. I never have to guess and he trusts me on the field. I’ll always remember this saying that coaches make decisions, players make the plays.
I believe that.
They let me do what I do, I respect them enough to do what they do.
I do a lot of training with the other two quarterbacks on our team and it’s clear I’m the tallest of the three, 6’2”, and I think that gives me a good advantage, let’s me see more of the field.
It’s definitely held some advantages for me because I was the first freshman to start in twenty years at this college as a quarterback. I’ve been the starting quarterback for the last two years. I’m watched by the NFL, talked about as being nominated for the Heisman Trophy and contacted by teams as well as promised the world.
If I play well.
If.
That’s a lot of fucking pressure for someone who just turned twenty-one a few weeks ago.
Playing college football is different from high school. Everything is more pressure, harder hitting and fast-paced. Even with all that I led our team to a 12-1 season. I threw 2677 yards on 230 of 336 passing attempts. I threw for thirty-two touchdowns with only six interceptions.
Yeah, my freshman year was a good season and I earned the team’s respect.
Now, my junior year, we’re four games into the 2013 season and for the most part, we’re looking pretty good.
They say I’m a top prospect for the 2015 draft. I like to think I am, but I’m not getting my hopes up on that one.
I spend the rest of the hour on the treadmill before needing to leave to make it to my classes on time. Most think we’re in there trying to bulk up. It’s not necessarily true. We work on flexibility and conditioning. Not necessarily for strength, but endurance. If you can’t play a whole game because you have no endurance, what’s the point?
Besides the very early start, I enjoy these morning workouts because for once I don’t have to think.
After working out, I take a quick shower and I’m on my way to my Cell Biology class that morning, dragging ass so I grab a coffee on the way there. Once in class, Saylor’s already there staring at the board and then his book.
“I think I forgot about the test.”
I smile and hand him the coffee I brought for him. He smiles too and takes it. “You know the way to my heart, sugar.”
“Anything for you, cupcake.” I wink at him as we continue to tease one another.
A chick walks by and Saylor bites his fist. “She has a nice fucking ass.”
I look. He’s right.
I smile. “You have a nice ass too.”
He winks at me. “You touch it a lot too.” Being the center, it’s a given that my hands are near his ass a lot. Unfortunately.
We both start laughing until class begins.
This class is intense, we not only have to know everything about anatomy and physiology as well as biology at the cellular level, we also have to think like a crime lab and be able to process a crime scene. Why I agreed to take this class as my science requirement is beyond me. We signed up for this thinking there’d be chicks in here like those who work in the CSI Crime Lab in Las Vegas, instead it’s every douchebag wannabe male crime scene tech and a few girls but not the football groupie type that we are used to seeing.
A few girls walk by and smile at us. I give them a nod but not much else. I smile knowing I’ll probably see one or two of these girls back at our dorm room later. My freshman year I had a total douche bag for a roommate, but then I got to room with Saylor my sophomore year and it’s worked well between us. He never cleans up anything but we’re football players so not really a top priority for us.
Saylor Wilson gets a lot of pussy. Like a lot. Every fucking night it seems. He als
o has a porn stash, and a pretty decent one at that. I’m actually impressed. And a little jealous.
My major is in Humanities. Everyone asks me what the hell a Humanities degree would be good for and my response, “it’s going to serve me well when I’m a first-round NFL draft pick.”
My passion is football, plain and simple. I had to declare a degree when I accepted the scholarship to play football and this seemed like the easiest route. I had no idea what I’d be up against with the amped up level of football that is played at the college level. School was important but I knew what I was here for. I thought it would be an easy degree, man, was I wrong.
Declaring a Humanities degree as my major requires me to study everything associated with literature, art, religion… basically the humanities over the centuries. I do a lot of reading, even more writing, and a ton of research and staring at artwork, paintings, and sculptures by the great artists. And by sculptures and paintings, I mean lots of naked women. One more bonus point for this major.
It’s entertaining to me that Saylor, a 6’4”, center who most would assume is dumb as a fucking rock has the same major. It’s not that funny because he’s fucking smart as hell. School is important to me. About as much as football. There’s no guarantee that after college I’ll ever play ball again but you can bet your ass that I’m banking on it. That’s not the goal, of course, but I need something to fall back on. Worst case, I can be a professor someday for a university and teach.
Like any other day, I move from class to class, study my ass off before practice, head over to the player’s lounge directly after that, relax for a few minutes and have a protein drink and then it’s practice for three hours.
Oregon doesn’t have a professional football team. It’s clear when you look at the college football stadium and training center. All the money goes into this place and pretty much anything you want. I’m in the player’s lounge with an iPad in my hand, a bottle of water in the other, watching films from the Bears last game trying to see any advantage we might have. We play them on Saturday and I’m trying to get an idea of the defensive line. My mind isn’t on the films like it should be. Instead, it’s on Madison. It’s hard to focus on anything but her most days. There are times when I can’t think about her, like at football camp because they run you into the ground. Other times, she’s someone I can’t seem to shake. I worry about her. I feel like if I didn’t have her in my life in some way, she would slip away completely. It’s far from pity or sympathy that I feel for her, what we had is so much more. Hell, what we still have is so much more.
Forever Love Page 6