Play

by Holly S. Roberts

  My heart thumped so loud I knew he could hear it. “I’m okay. No harm, no foul.”

  His deep, throaty chuckle was back. “You a baseball fan?”

  “Not really.” I ran track, but wasn’t much for any sport, and didn’t they have fouls in football?

  “Football?”

  “No.”

  “But you came to a football party?”

  I would dream of his voice tonight. “My mistake, but thank you for your help.”

  “You made the party…interesting. I watched you all night. I don’t suppose you’ll be at any others?”

  He watched me!

  “You suppose right.” I would give anything to stop the chit-chat and let him fuck me silly. Why was I pushing him away?

  “You attached?”

  “Attached?” Did I really need to repeat everything he said?

  “Significant other?” I heard the laughter in his voice and knew his dimples flashed. “Boyfriend?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “I’ll walk you inside.” He stepped out before I could protest.

  My door opened and his hand took ahold of my forearm and then slid down to my hand. I couldn’t remember the last time I held hands with a guy; grade school maybe. I entered the security code at the lobby entrance and turned to say goodnight.

  “To your door.” Again, no room for argument, and I scurried along like a trained puppy straight to my apartment door.

  “Key.” The hand not holding mine came out.

  I dutifully placed the key in his palm and watched his large, deft fingers unlock my door.

  He looked up.

  I failed to breathe.

  His incredibly full, sensuous lips leaned in and he kissed my forehead. I mean really…my forehead.

  “Goodnight, Webecca.”

  I couldn’t get any words out and just turned to walk inside.

  “And, Legs…”

  I peered over my shoulder.

  “If you do come to any more parties, say hello.”

  I nodded then shut and locked the door behind me.

  Holy fucking shit. The dream father of my future children just walked away and I knew I’d never see him again. But I would fantasize and my vibrator would get more use than it had this past year.

  Killian MacGregor’s warm lips had touched my forehead and I was a goner.

  Chapter Three

  The entire week after THE party, I spent every available minute on the Internet researching Killian like some obsessed fan. I couldn’t help myself.

  Twenty-five years old, star quarterback in college, first-round draft pick when he turned pro at twenty-one. Two years ago, he took over the starting quarterback position for the Scorpions. One year ago, he was one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. But, as always, there was a downside—he was known to have a quick temper, use his fists when push came to shove, and for a non-thug position like quarterback, he had a thug reputation. And I couldn’t forget… the face of an angel.

  I dug deeper. His single mom raised him along with one brother, but no other articles gave insight into his family. An in-depth feature about his high school years shed some light on his temper. He grew up in Richmond, California, and attended a predominately non-white high school. There, he learned to use his fists until his throwing arm caught the eye of the varsity football coach his sophomore year. His teammates became his gang and they had his back. An early picture showed a big, cocky white kid, surrounded by five dark-skinned teammates, and the same angel’s face without the refinement it showed now. The boys all sneered with their arms strung across each other’s shoulders.

  Killian MacGregor was a bad boy.

  What every girl found attractive. But not me. At least not until Killian MacGregor held my hand and then kissed my forehead when he said goodbye.

  I couldn’t get him out of my mind, so I did what I always did. I ran. Albeit early in the mornings because the desert heat tried to melt my body to the concrete, but I ran nonetheless.

  I slipped on running shorts over my shear-blue bikini panties, followed by a form-fitting sports bra and a white tank top. My socks and favorite running shoes came next, then I secured my hair in a tight ponytail. I jumped on my toes a few times, circled my arms, and set off at a leisurely pace for about a mile. Then I stopped, stretched my warmed muscles for ten minutes, and began the real part of my run. The endorphin high entered my bloodstream on the fifth mile.

  Legs…he’d called me Legs.

  I continued running until all thought focused on my next step. At twelve miles, I reached a point where nothing mattered—the scenery, temperature, or Killian memories, and I kept going. Eventually, I hit the last low-angled hill, which took me back to my apartment.

  But… it didn’t matter how many miles I ran, I still couldn’t get a good night’s sleep.

  Two weeks after the party, I wore out my track shoes and bought a new pair. I hit the pavement hard. Three weeks and I stopped watching television news, reading Internet articles, or even listening to gossip about Killian MacGregor or his team. I realized I needed sleep, food, and a shrink; the order was optional. I was nothing but a lovesick groupie who had to get on with her life so…one month post the party I did.

  I still hadn’t forgiven my sister, but per in her usual demeanor, this didn’t seem to bother her. I was boring and no fun to hang out with and basically a complete stick in the mud. She’d asked if I saw the girl at the party who came between Stump and Killian. She had no idea it was me, and I wasn’t going to tell her. She didn’t even apologize for not being around to give me a ride home.

  I applied myself to my summer classes and prepared for spring track season. Ignoring the fact that professional football was gearing up for its first pre-season game, I refused to think about Killian MacGregor. Well almost. Big Ben, my ever-faithful, battery-operated, hot pink, six-inch fountain of joy knew all my deepest, darkest thoughts, and they all centered on one star quarterback.

  Regular classes began in August along with twice-weekly practice overseen by my running coach. My fantasy world, or trying to get past it, had me ready for everything the coach threw my way.

  Still no possibility of me winning at this level.

  In high school I was the star—the tall running giant. Entering the college arena put my Olympic dreams into perspective. I, Rebecca Lesley Cavanaugh, was middle of the pack; nothing special in the world of long-distance runners. On the bright side, many runners didn’t hit their full stride until their thirties. Still, by then I’d be completely into my future career, running simply to stay in shape, and not looking back. I’d given up on my dream long ago and moved on.

  My class load was heavy, but I still managed two blind dates, fixed up by my best friend, Amanda. Both times the men and I didn’t quite meet eye to eye. I was an inch or two taller even though I wore flat shoes. My head tilted slightly downward to speak and I hunched my shoulders when I walked beside them. The last thing I felt was small. Obviously, like my previous dates, my height intimidated men. I knew Amanda gave the guys fair warning, but seeing me in person, even in flat shoes, was a lot more sobering. I’d even taken more than my normal time to get ready for the first date—a little eyeliner to make my blue eyes stand out, a touch of blush to liven my tanned cheeks, and my favorite date outfit.

  The second man didn’t get so lucky, because I didn’t bother with the extra makeup or putting on my favorite skirt and blouse. Not that skirt, I might never wear that one again. None of my lack of preparation mattered, because my thirty-something-year-old second date couldn’t get past my tall frame and my ordinary, non-super-model looks. Life sucked, and then I compared every man to Killian MacGregor.

  I went back to concentrating on college.

  The multi-leveled, stadium-styled classroom held more than two hundred students. I sat in the fourth row dead center, taking notes and trying to stay awake throughout the lecture. The side door opened and a man walked toward the professor. Doctor Lanovitch didn’t both
er turning off the microphone when the man spoke.

  “I have a special delivery.” The voice resounded through the room as he showed a medium-sized envelope to the professor.

  He now had the attention of the entire class.

  The instructor’s eyes skimmed us students, landed on me, and said right into the microphone, “Miss Cavanaugh.”

  Holy shit.

  I stood slowly, squeezed behind the seats of my fellow row mates, and then walked down the side stairs toward the man interrupting my college class. He held out the envelope and after I tentatively took it, he turned and walked out the same door he’d entered.

  The professor’s eyebrows shot up before I looked down. Rebecca Cavanaugh was handwritten in a bold scrawl on the front. I muttered an apology, not looking up, and returned to my seat. The lecture resumed and I tried hard to focus but my eyes kept returning to my name. I no longer had any problems staying awake, but at the same time, I didn’t hear another word or take a single note.

  After class, I walked outside into the one-hundred-and-ten-degree heat and zombied to the library. My ass hit a chair, I drank half my water bottle, and then went back to staring. The fluttering in my chest had me longing for one thing, but I knew I was being an idiot. Killian MacGregor would never send me anything. I lifted the envelope, took a deep breath, and opened it slowly.

  Three tickets slipped out along with a small slip of paper.

  Legs,

  Bring two friends.

  K

  I was too young for a heart attack, or so I thought. Yes, the outside heat left my body overly warm, hot even, but all the blood left my head and traveled who knew where. A wave of dizziness washed over me and I took a quick sip of water. I realized that wasn’t helping, so I turned sideways and put my head between my knees.

  My reaction…completely ridiculous, over the top and borderline psychotic. But it didn’t matter. Killian sent me tickets to his first home pre-season game. My legs trembled and I rapidly sucked in air, trying to get myself under control. I finally managed, barely, to sit up straight and re-read the slip of paper. The four words and one initial hadn’t changed. I lifted the paper to my chest and stayed like that for countless minutes while I tried not to panic.

  Fantasy was one thing, reality totally another. I, simple and plain Rebecca Cavanaugh, was not football god material. I think I liked the dream better. I checked the tickets again. This Sunday, the Phoenix Scorpions played in their first home game and I had three passes.

  Chapter Four

  What the hell did you wear to a football game in an indoor arena anyway? What did it matter? He probably wouldn’t even see me or I him. I might just go, watch the game, and return to my apartment where Big Ben waited.

  I called Amanda.

  “Really, Becca, there’s no dress code. Be comfortable—comfortable shoes and a lightweight top will do. The stadium’s cooled, but still gets warm when all the hot bodies pile in.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I hadn’t told Amanda or Lyle, my prerequisite black, gay friend, as he called himself, how I got the tickets, just that I had them and they were invited. Amanda was great in that she didn’t ask too many questions, because her mind was currently filled with finding a student-teaching position. But she did enjoy football and went to all the college’s games. She also stood nine inches shorter than me and made me feel goliath. Lyle was two inches shorter than me, an arts major, and completely gay since before puberty. He really enjoyed football but only because of the sweaty players.

  If I did happen to see Killian and he didn’t care for Lyle’s lifestyle, that would be that. I had no room for homophobic macho athletes, even if they dripped orgasmic scent into my bloodstream.

  Amanda picked me up in her seven-year-old Honda Civic. Lyle already occupied the shotgun position, so I folded my tall frame into the back and turned slightly sideways to accommodate my legs. I wore my ocean-blue capris and a gray cropped t-shirt with a bright yellow Tweety Bird on the front. White deck shoes minus socks covered my feet. I had put my hair in a ponytail and propped large, dark sunglasses on my head for effect.

  As we drew closer to the stadium, Lyle turned to me. “Let me see those tickets so we can try and park by the entrance we need.”

  I removed them from my small, cross-over-the-shoulder purse, and handed them forward.

  A minute later, Lyle turned my way again. “Umm, who gave you these tickets?”

  I looked into his questioning eyes. “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

  “They’re for the VIP skybox.”

  “What?” Amanda and I asked at the same time.

  Lyle gave me a look. “Sooo, do I need to ask again or will you give up your sugar daddy?”

  I laughed at the thought of Mac the Knife being any woman’s sugar daddy. “Killian MacGregor sent them to me.”

  “What the hell?” Amanda swerved through two lanes of traffic and exited the freeway nowhere close to our turnoff. I breathed a sigh of relief that we survived her display of missile evasive driving. Lyle, totally unaffected by our near brush with death, looked at me with something like horror on his face.

  “What?” I asked with absolute innocence.

  Amanda pulled over in the first parking lot she came to, put the car in park, turned my way and glared. “How the hell do you know Killian MacGregor?”

  Before I could answer, Lyle spoke slowly, “You mean Mac the Knife, starting quarterback for the Scorpions, Killian MacGregor?”

  I kept the nonchalant look on my face. “That would be him. I met him at that party my sister took me to a while back.”

  “Bu…bu…but I set you up on two dates and you’ve had Killian MacGregor on the hook?” Amanda sputtered.

  I dropped my evasive act and gave a sigh. “Look, I received the tickets earlier this week, but it’s the first time I’ve heard from the man since the party. One of the players got a little out of line, Killian stepped in and I’m sure this is his way of making things good. I had no idea the tickets were for some skybox.”

  “Not just a skybox…the VIP skybox. And girlfriend…we’re totally underdressed.” Lyle glared at Tweety Bird. I knew it was the bird because he had no interest in my breasts.

  I looked down at myself and sighed. “Look, guys, we don’t have to go. I’ll treat you both to pizza and make up for it.”

  Amanda pulled the car back onto the road. “Over my dead body. Killian MacGregor sends VIP tickets and we are damn well taking advantage of it. I can’t believe you would seriously go out for pizza.” The disgust in her voice came through loud and clear.

  “If you don’t want Mr. MacGregor, I’ll take him,” Lyle said with pure muscle worship in his voice. “That man gets more than just the juices flowing, if you know what I mean.”

  Thinking about Lyle’s juices flowing was not a pleasant thought and I seriously had no idea what more he was talking about. “I doubt we’ll even see him.”

  “Oh, baby girl, we’ll see him. These tickets kind of seal that deal,” Lyle practically purred.

  I wanted to slap the smug look off his face. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “It’s my dick that will go up once I’m in the same room with him.”

  “Not a pretty picture, perv,” Amanda said in a cheerful voice.

  It took twenty more minutes to arrive at the stadium and by this time I was way past worried. All week I’d dealt with the prospect of going to the game; enjoying time with my friends, watching a sport I knew nothing about, and getting a small peek at Killian. But I convinced myself I wouldn’t be talking to him. Now, Lyle had my heart racing and my knees feeling weak. I was willing to admit the lack of circulation could be caused by the tight quarters in the backseat and my scrunched up legs, but I had my doubts.

  Men waving flags directed us inside the stadium parking lot and to a row of quickly filling spaces. So much for parking near the entrance we needed.

  “Let’s get inside, out of the heat, and then we can walk aro
und until we find our way to the skybox,” Lyle said as he looped his arms around our shoulders and steered us to follow the rest of the crowd.

  Most people wore purple and white, the team colors. Even Amanda sported a team jersey. Lyle looked halfway dignified in a form-fitting pair of jeans and an off-white, untucked short-sleeved linen shirt. Tweety Bird and I were out of place. We handed our tickets over at the turnstile.

  “Wait right here, please.” The woman immediately spoke into her portable radio while gesturing us to the side.

  She ignored us after that, but a minute later an electric cart pulled up. “I’ll take you to the elevator,” the driver said.

  Amanda squeezed my hand as we stepped on board. “You’re sure you haven’t seen him once these past two months?”

  “I’m sure.” Somehow my voice sounded normal, at least to my ears. I saw Killian MacGregor every night in my dreams. I needed to stop thinking about what he did to me in those dreams, because it was either girl sweat or my lady bits had just leaked again.

  When we stepped from the elevator, a woman wearing a white blouse and black uniform pants checked our tickets. She didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow when she said, “Right this way.” We followed while staring at the luxury offered on this floor. It only proved we didn’t truly belong.

  The first thing I noticed were men dressed in suits. About a dozen people stood around talking inside the skybox, all looking like they were dining in an exclusive restaurant. One younger woman actually wore a skin-tight, sequined purple jersey that displayed her playboy breasts. Slowly, all eyes turned our direction, and it was obvious these people thought we had the wrong room. Cut that…wrong floor.

  The lady with the night club jersey stepped forward, put her dainty, well-manicured hand out, cranked her head back to look me in the eye, and said, “You must be Rebecca. I’m Malory, Blitz’s wife. Killian asked me to keep an eye out for you and your friends and make you feel at home.”

  “Tha…thank you. Um…these are my friends Amanda and Lyle.”

  “Hi.” Amanda the talker failed me with her one-word greeting.

  “Hi, gorgeous, I’m Lyle.”