Filthy Forward : A Hero Club Novel

by Kelsey Cheyenne

  “Line up. You’re going to run the cross-country path and I’m going to time you.” A few groans sound from my teammates as we line up.

  “Bria, hold back a minute,” Tatum says. Sam is standing right behind me and sees the opportunity to mumble under her breath.

  “Off for a quickie in the locker rooms?” I want to grab her shit-colored hair and rip it from her skull.

  “Fuck you, Samantha. Enjoy your run.”

  “Enjoy your romp.”

  “She’s back with Ben, you idiot, so shut the fuck up already.” Morgan comes to my defense and she yelled it loud enough I think everyone back on campus even heard her. I hang my head, not exactly thankful for her involvement.

  The team takes off and I hang back, walking over to Tatum. He rubs his chin with his right hand, his jaw clenched. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days and I can hear his stubble scratching against his hand.

  “What’s up, Coach?” Once I get close enough, I can smell stale alcohol permeating off of him. I’m not sure if it’s coming from his breath or his pores. His eyes are bloodshot and he smells almost as bad as he looks.

  “I want to meet up tonight.”

  I almost choke on my tongue. “What?”

  “For training. Since I was away all weekend, I thought we could play catch up tonight.”

  “Training right. Oookay,” I draw out the word. “I wasn’t even sure you’d be here today.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because of…everything going on.”

  “I don’t know what you think you heard, but either way it’s none of your business,” he snaps.

  That’s not entirely true, but I don’t point it out right now. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for my sass today.

  “Noted.” There’s a beat of awkward silence. I feel the need to fill in the quiet. “Long night?” I ask, though my stomach pinches at the thought.

  “Yup.” His tone is clipped and I read between the lines, even though it turns my stomach sour.

  I stretch my calves as I wait to see if he’ll say anything else. When he doesn’t, I speak up. “Do you want me to catch up with the rest of the team?”

  “No, you’ll be running enough later. Cool down and head home. I’ll see you at nine.”

  Fuck.

  Once the team gets back to the house, Morgan comes up to our room with Lindsay following close behind.

  “Where the hell did you go? I was looking for you after practice.” My roommate falls back onto her bed and Linds leans against the door jamb to our room.

  “I have training tonight. Since I was off all weekend he wants to start back up right away.” I let my head fall back against the wall and a groan escapes my mouth. I’m not looking forward to tonight at all.

  “How’d you get home?” As usual, Morgan drove me to practice in her SUV and I surely wasn’t going to walk home.

  “I called Ben.” My face heats at my admission as if I’d done something wrong.

  “So, you two are really happening, huh?”

  “Can you try to be nice?” I eye my best friend but she rolls her eyes.

  I look to Lindsay for support, but she shakes her head at me. “Leave me out of this. I’m with Morgan on this one. Ben’s a douche.”

  “Linds, you practically forced us together at the party Saturday. This is, like, half your fault.”

  “I was drunk. I can’t be held accountable for my actions.” I throw my pillow at her.

  “Screw you guys. It’s not like we’re getting married. We’re just…hanging out.” They both open their mouths to protest, but I hold up my hands. “I’m done discussing this with you. In two months when he screws me over, you can come yelling ‘I told you so’ and I won’t even be mad about it. Deal?”

  “Deal,” they say in unison.

  Sam gives me a death stare as I head out the door for practice. She always seems like she has an agenda and being around her makes me uneasy. I make a mental note to keep my distance from her and to watch what I say when she’s around.

  I pull up to the field and I have ten minutes to spare. Coach will be proud that I showed up early—or he’ll take the extra time to torture me longer.

  I notice the sole other car in the parking lot and assume it’s his. The field is lit, but it’s empty. I glance with dread toward the track and spot him, but not where I was expecting. He’s running laps. I’m not sure if he’s warming up or working through whatever shit he’s dealing with, but I won’t complain.

  I can see the muscles working in his legs as he runs. His thighs are two boulders and the definition of his calves could cut steel.

  My gaze moves upwards and I realize washboards got nothing on him. His abs are tight and I can count six of them from my car. His tanned skin glistens in the moonlight with a layer of sweat. As he comes back around the corner turn, I notice his Adonis belt like an arrow pointing down into his shorts.

  For a second, I want to follow the deep V, for it to lead me under the waistband of his shorts and to explore what’s waiting there.

  But I shake the thought away immediately.

  I hop out of my car and walk over to the track, trying to be quiet to not disrupt his stride. Also, for selfish reasons, because he’s beautiful in his run and the power emanating from him is intoxicating.

  As I get closer, I take notice of his ink-covered arm and the intricacies of the design. Around his elbow is a web, like the net of a goal. The top of his shoulder has a large lion and further down, on the outside of his forearm looks like an angel.

  I want to trace every line and learn the meaning behind every image. I want to see all the ones I’m missing and learn their origin. I’m hoping there’s more to their story than being bored and liking the look of them.

  He finally sees me on his next lap around and slows down as he comes over to me. Lucky for me, he starts to stretch and I watch, enamored, as his muscles tug and pull at the strain.

  Unfortunately for me, he picks up his long-sleeved t-shirt that had been discarded in the grass and pulls it over his head. I guess I won’t be getting up close knowledge on all his tattoos today after all.

  He places his hands on his hips as he finally walks over to me with labored breaths.

  “Hey, Coach,” I say. I don’t know why, but every time I say the word ‘Coach’ to him, it comes out sarcastic. “Where do you want me?”

  “Hey, Bria. Start with a couple laps to warm up.” His words are missing his usual bite, as if he doesn’t have any fight left in him.

  For the first time, likely surprising both of us, I do as I’m told without argument. As my sneakers smack the pavement, my mind wanders, landing on a fantasy involving my new coach and his insanely hot body.

  I do an extra lap to clear my head before jogging back to Tatum and stretching out. I’m bent over, touching my toes when he comes up behind me. I feel his presence; the air gets heavier and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I don’t know where this reaction is coming from, but suddenly I can’t stop it.

  “Since your first game is next weekend, I thought we could do another one-on-one scrimmage to see how you’ve improved since our first practice.”

  I nod and a breathy, “Sounds good,” is all I can muster.

  “Let’s get started.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tatum

  I’d have to be blind to not notice the way Bria was raking her eyes over me five minutes ago. I saw her eyebrow lift and her lips part. Her blue eyes were all but black as she stared at me.

  I thought she hated me, and she still might, but she can’t hide her reaction to me if she tried. That’s why I put my shirt on, even though it’s sticking to my skin from the sweat coating my body.

  But her reaction to me isn’t the biggest problem I’m facing. No, it’s the fact that for some reason, I have the same goddamn reaction to her.

  I can’t help the way my eyes find her ass in her little pink Nike shorts. She provokes a visceral reaction from me;
one I can’t control, and even more, I don’t want to control it.

  When I’m around her, I want to lose all control. I want my inhibitions to disappear and to not think about any of it—how I’m her coach and several years older than her. I want to forget it all. I want to forget why I’m here in the first place and use her to erase all of my problems.

  But now she’s becoming one of my problems because I can’t stop fucking thinking about her.

  Then she shows up here in her shorts and flimsy white t-shirt I can see her sports bra through, and it takes everything in my power to not rip the shirt off her.

  She doesn’t know the effect she has on me and I need to keep it that way, but each and every day gets harder to deal with it, with her.

  And now I’m torturing myself with a one-on-one game where we’ll be in close proximity. Where we’ll be forced to touch one another, to get physical in the name of the game.

  The scrimmage wasn’t my intention when I left my house for this practice. It was a spur of the moment decision because I can’t imagine not touching her, even if it’s a mere drop of my shoulder against hers to get around her.

  It’s all-consuming and sickening, but I can’t fucking help myself.

  I’m in big trouble.

  I place the cones on the half since we’re only playing half the field. We square off on the eighteen and I take a deep breath, but it’s a shit decision. I get a whiff of her and she smells like peaches. It distracts me and she takes off around me with the ball toward her goal.

  I sprint to catch up, but she’s too quick and takes a shot. Of course, with no goalies, it’s hard to miss and suddenly she’s up one-nothing.

  “Lucky shot,” I tell her because I love to goad her. She never backs down from a challenge and becomes quite the spit-fire. Most of the time it pisses me off, but I also have to admit she’s hot when she’s all worked up.

  “Hey, if you want to sleep during practice and give up the shots, I won’t complain.”

  Fuck, she noticed.

  “That was your first and last goal. Going easy on you won’t do you any good against other teams.” We face off once more and I have the ball this time.

  I take off, but she’s as fast as I am. When did that happen? She’s able to keep up with me, and her defense has improved tremendously. We’re bobbing back and forth, both looking for openings; me, for a shot on goal, and her, to take the ball.

  She gets impatient and lunges, giving me the opening I was looking for. I shoot and score, tying the game.

  “You’ve gotten better.”

  “Thanks for noticing.”

  She has the ball and is pulling out all the bells and whistles to get around me, but I see each of her moves coming. She slams her body into mine in an attempt to shove me aside, but it backfires. Her cleat connects with mine and she stumbles over my foot. She goes down and the ball gets kicked aside in the process.

  “Ow,” she groans and I offer her my hand. She eyes it skeptically, as if it’s some kind of trick, as if I could somehow throw her on the ground a second time.

  I sigh and with an eye roll, she grips my hand. Her tiny palm is sticky against mine as our sweat clashes. I pull her up and in an instant, she’s in my space.

  Our chests are almost touching and she heaves heavy breaths, bringing them closer together. She looks up at me with her big, Bambi-like eyes from under her lashes. I inhale and though her hair is matted back with sweat, somehow I still get the sweet fruity smell wafting off of her, as if it’s her natural scent.

  Her hand reaches out as if she’s going to touch me, so I clear my throat, effectively breaking the moment. I step back and run a hand through my damp hair.

  “Get a drink and make sure you’re not hurt.” She nods and jogs to the sideline before digging in her bag and pulling out her water bottle.

  I follow suit, grabbing my own drink and guzzling a large portion of it down. During the quick break, she stretches out her quads and hamstrings and damn, if I don’t watch her do it.

  I pull my shirt over my head. If she wants to distract me, I’ll do the same. Even though I feel like a fucking teenager in a sparring match in doing so, but I’ve already committed. I can’t back down now.

  We get back up and play for another solid forty minutes. I still win, but she manages to score another goal and I’m highly impressed with her progress. There’s no doubt in my mind—I underestimated her before I knew her.

  She collapses on the ground beside her gym bag, sprawling out on the cool turf.

  “You’re going to injure yourself if you don’t stretch,” I warn like I’m her fucking dad.

  “Give me a minute to catch my damn breath,” she snaps at me and I smile. Even bone-tired she still manages to have a comeback.

  I sit on the ground as she cools off. I bend my right leg and cross it over my out-stretched left before twisting my back, pushing my left elbow into my knee and stretching. Damn, that feels good.

  I repeat the process on the other leg and notice Bria sat up and is now staring at my arm. Her eyes trail over the ink extending from my shoulder to my wrist.

  “It took a few years to finish,” I tell her. I don’t know why I’m offering any of this information to her, but she and I have a weird comradery lately and if anything, it breaks the silence.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Some parts did. Others, not as much.”

  She angles her head to get a better view of the more hidden pieces. I turn my arm out, my forearm now up, allowing her to see all the pieces.

  “Do they have meanings?” she asks with a heavy voice as if everything in the world revolves around this answer.

  “Most of them do.” She looks at me, waiting for me to elaborate. I point to the angel and she leans in to get a closer look. “This is for my mom. She died when I was eighteen and this is my way of having her with me.” I don’t go into the details of my mom’s passing, but pity still clouds Bria’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” I flip my arm over, showing my outer arm. “The clock is a reminder of how little time we have; in life, in our careers, in all of it. It’s the newest addition I got.” With everything going on, with all the drama and my career hanging in the balance, I needed to be numb. Getting inked gives me an escape and the clock was the perfect metaphor.

  Bria reaches out and runs her fingers over the ink that is slightly darker than the pieces around it. Her touch is soft, delicate and elicits a visceral reaction from me. I clear my throat to stop from groaning.

  “What’s this one mean?” She leans in closer, her thumb brushing over the lion on my shoulder.

  “Courage. Not being afraid to go after what I want, to be the top of the food chain, the best of the best. To do the things I’m scared to do.” I glance down. Her face is inches from mine. Her lips are parted and slightly chapped from breathing heavily during practice.

  Fuck it. I lean in, ready to throw caution to the fucking wind and take what I goddamn want and what I know she wants too. Her eyes widen for a second, but she can’t fool me. Her pupils are dilated with desire and excitement.

  I’m a breath away when her phone rings.

  She scrambles away and digs the phone out of her bag. “It’s my boyfriend.”

  I push off the ground to stand, giving her space. With an aggravated sigh, I run a hand through my hair. I walk to where the cones are from our game and clean up. I walk back to where all the equipment sits and put everything away. Bria hangs up the phone and watches me.

  “You can go. See you tomorrow.” I dismiss her and she nods before grabbing her bag and heading to her car without another word.

  I thought we were getting on some sort of stable ground, building at least a friendship, but I think everything that happened tonight tore any potential friendship to shit. I can’t be friends with her and watch her parade around with some douche who doesn’t deserve her.

  I don’t normally listen to the gossip the girls on the team talk abou
t, but sometimes it’s hard to ignore. This asshole cheated on her and she took him back. Doesn’t she know she deserves more than that?

  First a dry season, and now I’m tempted to implement a no dating rule for the team. Relationships cause distractions and I need her focused.

  But I can’t let my own jealousies cloud my judgment.

  As for distractions, I spent my night balls deep in one and here I am turning into a hypocrite all for Bria fucking Campbell. I need to get her out of my head.

  I grab my phone and consider who can be my distraction tonight.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bria

  “Morgan, ball!” I run into the open space on the field, giving my teammate the space to pass to me. She does and as soon as I trap the ball with my instep, I spin and take off toward the goal. I pass to Lindsay when she’s open, and once I get around the last defender, she returns it to me.

  It’s me and the goalie now and I psych her out, faking one way before taking the shot. She lunges right while the ball soars into the top left corner.

  We’re up three to one as the ref blows the whistle, calling for halftime.

  Endorphins are pumping through my veins as I jog in with the rest of my team. Paxton pats me on the back as I pass. I sit on the bench, grabbing my water bottle and taking a long swig.

  “Great work out there ladies. Just because we’re winning doesn’t mean we can get lazy now. Keep it up, keep the defense tight and the offense strong and we’ll leave with the W,” Paxton urges us and we listen, enraptured. We all need and want this win. It’s our first match of the season and this game could set the precedent for the rest of the year.

  “I’m going to stick with the two-four-four line-up. I don’t want them getting anywhere near our goal. Bria, you good?”

  “Yes, Coach.” I didn’t get subbed out at all during the first half, but I don’t mind. The adrenaline pumping through my veins keeps me strong and all my extra conditioning has done wonders. I barely broke a sweat.

  “Good. Sam, I’m going to put you up top with Bri. Lauren, you drop back with Morgan as our center-mids. The rest of you will stay in your normal positions.”