Blindsided

by Shey Stahl

  The light streaming in through the skylight gives me enough visibility. I wondered why there was a skylight in the closet when I bought this house, but now I’m glad there’s one as it means I can see her clearly.

  “What are you doing?” she whisper-laughs when I trap her against the wall and push a weight against the door. There are no locks on the closets, so I legit carried a weight up here. Perfect planning on my part.

  “You’ve been ignoring me all day,” I tell her, sweeping my lips along her neck, and then to really get her attention, I lick the path my lips just made all the way up toward her ear. “It’s time to pay attention to me.”

  As I had been hoping for, she fucking moans, eagerly wrapping her hands around my shoulders and yanking me to her chest. “I haven’t been ignoring you. You haven’t even been home until an hour ago.”

  “That’s an entire hour you’ve gone without paying attention to me.” I grab her tits in both my hands and squeeze. My lips move to hers, and I remember the blister but place the softest kiss on the corner of her mouth. “Your lips need to get better now.”

  With a sigh, she opens her mouth over mine, kissing me gently and it’s so fucking hard not to stick my tongue in her mouth.

  Running my other hand up her thigh, I grip her ass cheeks. “Take your jeans off.” I start to unbuckle my belt. It’s been too long. Only a day, hours if you want to get technical, but it’s been long enough.

  “Is that a demand?”

  Unfastening my belt, I pull out my cock and run the tip over her cunt. “Yes.” Reaching down, I grab the backs of her thighs. When I have a good grip, I haul her up around my waist. Instantly, she wraps her legs around me and positions my cock against her. “It’s a fucking command.”

  That gets her. “No teasing. We don’t have time for that,” she whispers, her voice ragged. “Adler has football practice in twenty minutes.”

  “Have Kasen take him.” I rub the head of my cock against her opening. I do this just enough to get my tip wet, then slide in an inch. Our eyes catch, and I can tell a few things by the look in her eyes. One, I won’t last long, and two, my knees might buckle, and I might drop her. Holding someone against a wall of coats isn’t easy.

  “He wants you to be there,” Ember whispers, pulling her lips from mine and if you’re looking closely, can you see the moment her eyes roll back in her head? Mine damn near do, too.

  “I want to be in you.”

  “Landon.”

  “Fine. I’ll take him.” I slide in further. Goddamn. She’s hot, wet, and so fucking tight. How’d I get so lucky? I don’t ever remember it being this good with anyone else. It takes everything in me not to bury myself balls deep and never ever pull out. “You better get on with it. The play clock is ticking, and we have five minutes.”

  Adjusting my hold on her, I widen my stance to prepare for the movements that are about to take place, and I stare at her. “I thought you said twenty?”

  “It takes ten to get to the field.”

  And now I’m frowning. “I’ll take him in the Bugatti. It’ll take two.”

  “You’ve wasted two minutes on the play clock by talking. It’s fourth down. Punt or field goal.”

  It’s probably the hottest thing she’s ever said to me. Groaning, I attack her chest and neck with my tongue and lips, nipping at her like an animal. “Fuck, I love it when you talk football.” I push in deeper.

  Because I like torture, not really, I pull out in a slow slide then in once again, savoring the feeling of her tight cunt as her walls tighten against my head. Ember shudders in my arms, her forehead resting against my chest.

  Smiling, I push back into her.

  “I refuse to beg you for this, but hurry the fuck up,” she orders.

  “Pretty sure I’m the one in control here,” I point out, pulling out once more to test her reaction. You should know me by now. I like to get her just on the edge of wanting to fucking punch me, and then I give in.

  Ember tightens her hold around my hips, and by doing this, I slip in deeper. She stretches around me with a gasp, her pussy so tight and wet I’m lightheaded. Yep. Never been this good. I know, men say that shit all the time when they’re with someone new, but this time I mean it.

  “Two minutes,” she points out, her head moving back to rest against the coats behind her.

  Enough messing around. Slamming my hips forward, I bury myself in her again, and she hugs every inch. She’s scratching the shit out of my shoulders to hang on, and you know, it’s a lot of fucking work screwing in a closet, against the wall. While I thought it was a good idea, I’m thinking maybe the floor might have been better. I refuse to admit defeat though.

  I also refuse to let this go without her getting off. I strongly believe women she get off every single time you have sex. With this in mind, I reach down and stroke the her clit, but again, fucking against a wall makes it damn near impossible to let go of one of her legs and achieve this maneuver. I nearly rip my own dick off in the process and break the door.

  “Stop messing around,” she moans, trying to steady herself against the wall by holding with her arms splayed out.

  I rest my forehead against hers. “I want you to come.”

  “I am….” And then she’s moaning into my neck, her cries muffled against my skin. It’s fucking amazing.

  It’s a second later when I come, the pleasure tearing through me as I bite her collarbone since I can’t fucking kiss her. Swearing under my breath, my hips jerk forward, and I pour into her, loving that there’s absolutely no barrier between us. I can finally leave my mark on her.

  When I pull out of her, the loss of heat is instant, and so is my cum dripping down her thigh. I smile, reaching down for my jeans around my ankles. “Looks like you’ll have a reminder of me for a while.”

  Ember retrieves her jeans, she looks up at me, her face flushed. Then she notices the cum on her legs, or rather probably feels it. “Damn it. We need to go back to condoms.”

  I shake my head immediately and reach for the door handle. “No fuckin’ way.”

  The moment we’re out of the closet, or halfway out of it, Adler is standing there staring at us.

  I pull at my shirt, hoping it’s covering the bulge in my pants. It’s gone down a little, but still pretty noticeable. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not long.” He shrugs. “I find you in closets a lot.” He holds up two fingers. “Twice.”

  I throw him over my shoulder. “Come on, boy. We got football to get to.”

  He groans as I carry him down the stairs. “We’re gonna be late.”

  “No way. I’m driving. We won’t be late.”

  Do you think we’re late?

  If you said yes, you would be right. You can’t get anywhere in Seattle in under fifteen minutes. By the time we’re at the fields, Adler is a ball of nerves. Turns out his feelings on being late mirror my own.

  I’ll tell you something else. I didn’t think about taking him to practice through. In fact, I hadn’t considered about my presence in their lives at all and what it would mean for them. Melanie and Grant were normal white-collar people. I’m not. I’m in many ways a celebrity, and my life is in the public’s eye. In turn, these kids are as well, which is why we have security with us. But the moment I step onto that field is the moment Adler’s life changes forever. I know what you’re thinking. That’s a drastic statement to make. But it’s true. They no longer think of him as Adler Slade, the boy who can read the defense better than any other player on the team and had eighty-seven running yards last game. No, he’s now Landon Slade’s nephew.

  When you’re nine years old and trying to navigate through a new school, new team and find real friends, that’s not exactly a title you want.

  I try to talk to him on the way home that night, but I’m not sure it makes much of a difference. “You okay, buddy?”

  He sits next to me, fascinated by every detail in my car, constantly flipping through the playlist lookin
g for a song he wants to listen to. I glance over at him, waiting for him to answer me. “I’m fine, I guess.”

  “Did it bother you that I came to your practice?”

  “No, well, not really.”

  It’s not convincing, is it?

  Nope.

  “Are you sure?”

  His lips kick up in the corners. “I’d be a lot more sure if you’d let me drive this thing.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Weak side – Using the offensive center as the middle, it’s the side of the offense that has fewer players lined up. Usually the side opposite where the tight end lines up. Some plays have a balanced formation and don’t have a weak side.

  Do you have those days when you wake up in the morning, and everything goes wrong?

  That’s my day.

  With the game this weekend being our first, and an away game, we put on our annual fan day at practice tonight before we fly out to Miami. Yippee. Can you sense my level of excitement?

  I don’t mind a practice being dedicated to the fans, but this shit is crazy. The team goes all out with live music, media everywhere, and cheerleaders. Management pulls us aside prior to the practice and demands we stay and sign for everyone. No exceptions.

  It’s stupid if you ask me.

  “This is bullshit,” Quinn says, to no one in particular. We all feel the same way, but most won’t say it. I suppose when you’re paid millions every year, and you’re a multiyear Pro Bowler, you can say whatever the fuck ya want.

  Quinn, he’s a fan favorite and knows he’s about to have a really bad day. He gets stacks of fan mail every day. Does he read it?

  Nope. I think it’s more about his ego that he gets so much of it. He will check out the naked pictures he’s sent. We all do because he makes us.

  I respect the fans who have a deep connection with the team. The season ticket holders who come to every game because it reminds them of a bond they had with their dad or family. That I can respect. It’s the ones who come to the practice to talk shit about us. To those guys, we’re not human beings. We’re commodities, their entertainment and if we’re winning, they love us. If we’re losing, it ain’t pretty.

  We head to practice and all goes smoothly.

  When it ends, we’re mobbed. I’m not talking about the media even—I’ll get to that. I’m talking about the rabid fans foaming at the mouth to get their shit signed. They ain’t asking either. They’re demanding, shoving programs, shirts, and hurling crap at our heads to get us to sign it.

  And we do it. We sign it all. We take the photos and shake hands and be that unstoppable hero they think we are.

  Wanna know the truth?

  Most of us are terrified of interactions like this. While it’s great to be idolized, it doesn’t last forever, and it’s a heavy fucking burden to carry on your shoulders every season. Will these fans still feel this way about us at the end of the season?

  Probably not.

  “LC! Sign this!” a kid yells at me as he leans over the small fence between us, whacking me in the shoulder with a photograph. It falls to the turf at my feet.

  Despite the fact that I’m wearing sunglasses, I squint into the sun at the boy. He looks about thirteen, maybe fourteen, and he’s wearing Bailey’s jersey. I already don’t like him.

  My eyes drop to the photograph, and though I can’t tell if it’s even me, the number 9 on the front of the jersey confirms it is. Trying to remain polite, I toss a smile his way, nod and retrieve the photograph from the ground. “Sure, kid.”

  Just as I’m pressing the sharpie to the shiny paper, he shouts, “Not on the photo. On the side, so it doesn’t mess the photo up.”

  I nod, again, and scribble my name in the corner of the photograph. I hand it back to him.

  Ember was supposed to be here with the kids almost an hour ago. And I’d call her to see where the hell she’s at, but coach made it clear no phones, no distractions.

  These fan appreciation days are great, but they all end up being about the media. The press is going to be all over us, and I want to just get it over with.

  Music is blaring, media is everywhere, cheerleaders are prancing around, and here we are, mingling. I hate it.

  Quinn finds me, bumping into my shoulder. “This chick on Tinder says her three favorite things are ‘whiskey, beer, and burgers,’’ and I’m a little concerned about how big her fuckin’ ass is, but,” Quinn says, showing me his phone, “what do I say my three favorite things are?”

  Naturally, while fans are asking for our autographs, here we are discussing profound philosophical issues. I wonder how the fuck he got his phone past management, but this is Quinn. He probably hid the fucking this under his nut sack.

  Word to the wise, don’t ever touch his phone. You never know where it’s been.

  “Judging by your nightly routine?” Kumonde laughs, joining the conversation, his massive hand slapping Quinn on the back. He’s got his daughter Kalana on his shoulders, but she’s oblivious to everything around her with a bag of fruit snacks in her hand. “I’d go with Courvoisier, Crown, and Hennessy.”

  “No, wait, wait, I got it!” T.J shouts, a giant grin on his face. “Football, football, and football!”

  As a multiyear Pro Bowler, Quinn takes football very seriously, he even talks blocking technique over lunch. He’s also what’s commonly referred to as a manwhore. And he has no problem getting laid, but recently, Tinder and swiping right seem to be what he’s into.

  Like most of the players on the team, he lives by himself in an apartment he rents, and he doesn’t have any real friends in the city, just other players he sees during the season, so he fills his time with drinking, fucking, and analyzing blitz packages. Typical for your offensive line.

  “Fuck all y’all,” Quinn says. “This is serious shit!” He starts typing in one of his many phones. “I’m putting ass, tits, and pussy.”

  We all laugh. “Might as well be honest,” I tell him, smiling. “Wouldn’t want to start the relationship on lies.”

  “Hey, LC,” Justice calls out. I cringe at the sound of his voice. “You ever try Tinder? Or just bag the help?”

  I sweep my glare to his. “You always got something smart to say, don’t you, Bailey?”

  He holds up his hands, Sharpie in hand and winks at me.

  What a motherfucker.

  After we’ve stood in the sun for hours signing everything fans throw at us, it’s the media’s turn with us. A pack of reporters mob me, suffocating me with questions.

  It’s fine, for a while, because they’re asking questions about the upcoming game, but it’s the one asked to my right that sends a sharp pain to my chest. “Can you comment on the ambulance that was called to your house?”

  My eyes snap up, searching for who said that. A reporter to my left. I clear my voice. “What are you talking about?”

  The reporter takes a step back, his shoulders stiff. “Do you seriously not know? 911 was called to your residence.”

  I shake my head, my jaw clenched. In that moment, I don’t think. I don’t worry about telling anyone I’m leaving and why. I just run. Still dressed in my uniform, I run to my car, and as soon as I start the engine, I call Ember, but she doesn’t answer. Next, I call Kasen, and he answers.

  “Landon.”

  I don’t give him a chance to say anything else. “Who and where?”

  Kasen answers quickly, “It’s Nalani, and they’ve taken her to Swedish.”

  I hang up before he can say anything else. I don’t want to talk, I just need to drive. I need to get to the hospital and find out what the hell is happening.

  Seattle around seven at night might as well be labeled a parking lot. It takes me over an hour to get to the hospital. By the time I get there, my mood is far from cordial. Parking my car haphazardly on the road and sidewalk, I run into the ER straight up to the registration desk. “I’m looking for Nalani Slade. What room is she in?”

  The nurse sighs and is about to say someth
ing, but when she looks up and sees who is asking, she seems to rethink her answer. It takes her a minute, just staring at me with a look of surprise. “Oh, uh….”

  “Yes, I’m Landon Slade.” Frustration takes over, and I slap my palm down on the table. “Nalani Slade, she was brought in earlier. Where is she?”

  The nurse shakes her head like she needs to clear her mind and answers, “Down the hall, third door on the right. Exam room three.”

  I don’t bother to say thank you. My mind is racing, and I just need to see that she’s okay. Storming into the room, my first sight is an empty space where a stretcher should be. Second, I spot Ember standing in the corner staring at me with a look of concern.

  She gives me a sympathetic look when she sees I’m still wearing my uniform. “Landon.” She says my name with a tone of relief. I’m glad one of us can feel some.

  “Where is she?”

  “They took her for some testing.”

  “Testing? For what? What happened?”

  “She fell off the balcony.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she climbed the railing to the balcony and then fell off.”

  I shake my head, my jaw clenched. “How the hell did that happen? Who was supposed to be watching her? Where the fuck was Kasen?”

  Anger sparks in her eyes and I know she hates that I’m talking to her like this, but honestly, I don’t care. “He was with Haisley in the other room. I was in the room with Nalani. But she—”

  “So, wait, you were supposed to be watching her?”

  She presses her lips together and looks away. “I was, but—”

  “No, no buts. You were supposed to be watching her. This shouldn’t have happened. Fuck! Seriously, Ember, like I don’t have enough to worry about! First with the pictures, then Alessa, and now this bullshit. You were supposed to be at the field. Why weren’t you at the damn field?”

  “We were getting the kids ready to go, Landon,” she mumbles, pink creeping in her cheeks, her neck growing flushed. “You can’t possibly think I’d let her out of my sight on purpose.”

  I watch her closely. “Do you realize how I found out about this? The damn press! Some fucking reporter asked me right there in front of everyone why 911 was called to my house!” I’m pacing, running my hands frantically through my hair. I feel like my sanity is slipping. I shouldn’t be taking this out on her, I know that, but I can’t stop myself from what I’m saying. “This is going to be all over the news and the papers! Do you know how this looks? I’ll tell you how this looks, like I can’t take care of my family! Fuck. They’re gonna try and take these kids from me.”