Tight Game

by Skye Callahan

  “You hold a lot of tension in your lower back. All of your muscles are in knots.”

  I moan my response. I just want him to keep doing what he’s doing. But he suddenly stops.

  “I have some Deep Blue.”

  “Huh?” Why can’t he just finish the massage? Likely, because it would be never-ending, just like the pain.

  He grabs a tube from the top of the fridge. “Bristol keeps me stocked up,” he says, squeezing some into his palm. “But you’ll have to pull up your shirt.”

  I roll my eyes. If it were anyone else, I’d suspect an ulterior motive. With Declan, I don’t have to guess, I know, but he’s seen it all before. Last night, to be exact. When I’m sure he could have gotten much more.

  I inch up my shirt, and the sensation of him rubbing the cool lotion into my skin is almost better than sex. On my end, anyhow.

  I spin my ring across the counter like a top and Declan catches it when it careens off the edge of the countertop. “We’re all replaceable,” I mumble. “The dance company had me replaced before I even woke up for emergency surgery. No fanfare. That’s how it is for us. Always someone younger, faster, with better turnout waiting on the sidelines or in the wings to take our places as soon as we fall.”

  Declan concentrates for a second on a particularly sore spot. Then, his hands move higher, working out the pain, and even more than that, pushing away the anxiety and stress of holding it all together.

  “So that’s what’s been bothering you.”

  “What?” I bash my knee on the island as I spin. “Is it that obvious?”

  “You got so drunk last night that you lost your shoes, puked all over our running back, and don’t even remember me stripping you almost naked and putting you to bed. So, yeah, I’d say it’s obvious that something’s been bothering you.” He drops my ring into my palm and twists me back around so he can continue working on my back while I stare at the meaningless symbol.

  It sure as hell didn’t do a damn thing in keeping my marriage together.

  It sure as hell didn’t mean a damn thing to my husband.

  I wish I had lost it at the party, too. It was a damn good thing I didn’t bring my purse to the party, but I do seem to be missing one other thing—in addition to my pride. “You forgot to mention that I also lost my phone.”

  Declan’s eyes narrow, and then he chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ll call around and find out if anyone has seen it.”

  I hope he doesn’t mean now because I’m not ready for this massage to end. Although, I should let it. Coming here when I’m not strong enough to walk away or thinking entirely straight was a bad idea.

  “I filed for divorce,” I say, not that the flow has started, I feel obliged to get it all out. “I was home when he got served with child support papers last month. Apparently, it’s been going on for years and—no matter how many times I promised myself I’d leave it back in Chicago, I can’t stop feeling furious and bitter over the whole thing. And then, I feel guilty because I don’t want to ruin this whole weekend.”

  Rubbing my back with both hands, Declan doesn’t say a word, but his breath hits the back of my neck and I squeeze the edges of the counter, trying not to shiver.

  “Guess you had it right all along,” I say. “No commitments. No heartbreak.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It’s just a lot of fucking.” He leans down so the next words hit the back of my ear. “Good fucking, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t spent a lot of time watching what I want walk away.”

  Declan

  Londyn’s back straightens, and she slides off the stool. Her bare feet slapping against the tile floor as the shirt she’d borrowed from my drawer falling down until just a peek of her ass still shows.

  “I…. should get cleaned up,” she says. “Do you mind?”

  I wonder if she’s even considered the fact that the only thing she has here to put on after she gets cleaned up is either one of my oversized shirts or her beyond-hope dress from last night.

  I’d love to watch her squirm a while longer, but given her drama back home, she deserves a break.

  I can’t believe I’m going to be the good guy. Again. I wave toward the bathroom door. “Make yourself at home.”

  Not that I’m ever really the bad guy. But when I dial my sister’s number, I realize that not everyone agrees with that sentiment.

  “Tell me you did not fuck her. My best friend. My married best friend.”

  “Okay,” I hold out the word until I’m sure Bristol is going to actually give me plenty of time to speak. “I didn’t fuck her.”

  Yet.

  And she’s not so married.

  Not entirely, 100% in her heart kind of married. He fucked up. I shake my head. Why would anyone in their right mind fuck around on her? Londyn? The subject of the earliest fantasy I can remember. And my always forbidden fruit.

  Sure, I don’t have a lot of rules. I don’t cheat. I don’t take chances—like those that would end up as little children knocking on my door one day asking if I’m Daddy?

  And I don’t fuck Londyn.

  I had that rule long before she got married, because I knew as soon as we went there, we’d both be ruined. Don’t get me wrong. I want to ruin her. I want to be ruined by her. I want to fuck her in every position humanly possible in every room of every house I own and every fancy hotel room I can find. Maybe on a plane, and a boat, and why the fuck not, a train as well.

  I want to fuck Londyn to the end of the world because I know she’ll be the end of mine.

  I’ve known that for a long time. And when I heard about her engagement, I figured I’d fucked up something epically within the universe as it sealed our very separate fates forever.

  A lot of people talk about saving themselves for the one they love, but that’s a stupid sentiment, really. What’s the point? You get to be really awkward the first time together? You get to wait until some arbitrary ring is on some arbitrary finger before you lie in some honeymoon bed to fuck each other’s brains out—if you can figure out how.

  All things in life are better with practice and refinement.

  You don’t save yourself for the big game. I mean, who wants their very first game ever to be on Super Bowl Sunday with the entire world watching?

  It doesn’t make sense.

  A good player prepares for every situation and every contingency.

  Except I hadn’t prepared for Londyn to suddenly come back to town, pass out on my bed, and then announce her divorce.

  That, I didn’t see coming. And I wouldn’t wish a heartbreaking divorce on anyone, especially, Londyn.

  “Declan,” Bristol says in her warning tone.

  “We didn’t sleep together. Not even in the same room. But she doesn’t have clothes, or shoes, or her phone, so….”

  “So, why’d you take her to your house and not back to the cabin?”

  “Because she was vomiting all over the place and I didn’t want to be in a car with her longer than necessary.”

  And I might have enjoyed, just a little stripping her and putting her to bed. And thinking of all the things I could have done to her if she wasn’t passed out and married.

  “Uh huh,” Bristol mumbles. “Well, I have her phone. I don’t know anything about her shoes, but I’ll send Nash over with something she can wear to the luncheon.” Then, she adds. “You’d better behave.”

  “Always a gentleman.”

  Bristol snorts.

  “See you at lunch,” I say, then end the call. That’s a couple of necessities down. Now, I just have to get ready for this damn luncheon. I check the time on my phone. We only have an hour before everything starts, so I toss my phone on the couch—leaving the rest of my messages unanswered—to get dressed and prepare for the crowds that will be waiting outside of the banquet hall.

  I try to look innocent when Londyn steps out of the bathroom in a towel, but I had managed to slip in and steal my shirt while she was in the shower. How innocent could I possib
ly be?

  “Are you trying to make my life more miserable?” she asks, but there’s a hint of a smile. Yes, she still enjoys this game as much as me.

  “I didn’t think my T-shirt would fit the dress code for the luncheon.”

  “I’m aware. Thanks.” She plasters a long thin smile across her face. “But a towel isn’t an option either.”

  I should point out that the towel is shorter than my T-shirt. I sigh. “Oh fine”—I toss the bag over that Nash had dropped off, and as she catches it, she releases the towel, and it pools to the floor.

  Oh yes, that’s better than the fantasy.

  In shock, Londyn doesn’t move, she just stares back with her mouth slightly open.

  She’d better move because all of my blood is rushing to my cock, rousing it beneath my dress pants.

  I could come up with an excuse to get out of the luncheon

  They don’t need me. Nash is the star, and he should be the center of attention, but everyone will notice if I’m not there.

  To be specific, all of the needy female fans looking for their own score will notice if I’m not there.

  And it just won’t look good.

  Instead, I’m going to drag myself there, along with a girl I won’t be able to look away from.

  Londyn clutches the bag against her front to cover herself. “You did that on purpose didn’t you?”

  “Isn’t that what we do?” I shift to alleviate the strain on my cock. “Look. Watch.”

  “The roles are normally reversed.” She backs into the bathroom, and I respond by making a sound in my throat. I’ve done a lot more watching than she thinks.

  When she returns—fully dressed in clothes I remember seeing Bristol in once—I hold up the wedding ring she’d left on the counter. “I assume you’re keeping up the façade.”

  She grabs the ring and slips it on, taking a long breath as her eyes glisten. “Congrats on the engagement, did you hear about my divorce, doesn’t sound like a good way to spend the weekend.”

  I swallow, taking in her every movement. The small rise and fall of her chest, the shake of her hand, and her lowered head. “You can’t hide it forever. No one’s going to judge you or—“

  “I know,” she huffs, wringing her hands and shaking them out. “But it makes me angry. Angry. And frustrated. And I don’t want to feel this way. I want to forget about the dozens of women he’s fucked, but I’ve seen the pictures. He didn’t even deny it when I asked if he’d knocked anyone up.”

  “Damn.” It’s all I can say. With all of my fucking around, I’ve always had to hope that some dash of insanity wouldn’t come back to bite me in the ass like that, but Londyn doesn’t deserve this.

  She collapses on the couch next to me. “I don’t even care that it’s over. I just feel like a fool for believing the fantasy for so long.”

  I brush back her hair and pull her against me in a gentle hug.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue,” she says, elbowing me in the side. One of us has to make sure this doesn’t go where it’s inevitably going to end.

  “Let’s not make a habit of it.” I shove her off the couch and set her on her feet. “Now, finish getting ready so we can get to the luncheon before everyone assumes I abducted you.”

  Yes, I watched her ass she walked away.

  And I don’t feel a damn bit of guilt in doing it.

  The guilt doesn’t hit until we pull up to the door of the banquet hall where fans are waiting outside, already surrounding two or three other players. I’ll be joining the fracas, and leaving Londyn to fend for herself, which I’m sure she’s capable of, but it’s not what I’d prefer to do right now.

  Some of the girls scream “Keating” when I step out, others use my first name, and still others are incomprehensible. They’re almost all wearing jerseys or team shirts, but only about a third have my name on them.

  Someone shoves a black sharpie into my hand, and I start signing whatever’s thrust in my direction. Footballs. Papers. Notebook. Cell phones. Jerseys. And even some arms and shoulders.

  When I get a moment or two to look up, I notice Tamara—I’m sure not to get her name wrong after she doused me with her drink—hanging all over Pierson. Now that’s somewhat of an ironic couple since she soaked me, and Londyn puked all over him. Match made in party hell.

  Next thing I know, a curvy brunette with long curly hair steps up to me and pulls down the neck of her shirt. She jiggles her breasts a bit then winks. “Can you sign me?”

  Do they think this shit is new?

  Or that it’s really going to get my attention?

  But, I play along and sign, my hand on autopilot while my eyes scan the crowd wondering where Londyn went.

  Really, there’s a little bit of sadist me who wonders what she thinks of all this, particularly the girl shaking her boobs at my face. Will that break the final barrier or make it thicker?

  Londyn

  Bristol meets me with my cell phone outside of the hall.

  “Charged it for you,” she says, giving me a strange look as she hands it over. Hugh probably sent something offensive again. “So, last night,” she nudges me for information when I don’t immediately open up.

  “Don’t remember much.”

  “Declan?”

  “He was a perfect gentleman,” I assure her, but she frowns and gives me a discerning once-over.

  “Now I am suspicious,” her voice squeaks.

  “Why? Don’t think your brother’s capable of keeping it in his pants?”

  “Oh, I know he’s capable, and it pains him beyond all normal reason, but what I find suspicious is that those were his exact words when I spoke to him earlier. Did you rehearse the ‘gentleman’ gambit or what?”

  I laugh and shake it off, even though I know she’s not going to let it go so easily. “Coincidence.”

  “You two think alike. It’s disturbing.”

  “I think like Declan?”

  Bristol gives me one firm nod. “Grew up with both of you, trust me, it’s disconcerting. Which is why I worry when you two end up alone.” She playfully smacks my shoulder with her clutch. I know where this game with Declan might lead, but will she still be able to laugh then?

  “Ah,” I laugh. “I thought that was the storm of innuendos that usually follows.”

  “Exactly.” She deadpans. “That’s exactly where you two think alike. I shouldn’t say it, but I was a little shocked when you ran off and married Hugh. I didn’t expect you to settle down so quickly.”

  Settle. I know I’m taking it very differently from what she means, but I hate the word settle like some people hate moist. I didn’t settle. Or, at the time, I never thought of it as settling. I thought of it as a beginning. The launch. The set up just before a dazzling firework show.

  Boy, was I disappointed when I found out every canister contained a dud. Or, even worse, that the non-duds were reserved for other women.

  I wanted kids. Especially after my unplanned retirement. Something to fill my days with love and meaning. Hugh got kids with his mistresses. I got an aloe plant.

  Bristol bumps me with her hip. “Are you okay? I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

  “All good,” I say, looking around the crowd until my eyes land on Declan. All good. Maybe it’s time I stop playing nice-girl competitive dancer and start playing dirty just like everyone else.

  It’s time for Londyn “Pointe” to loosen up her perfect posture and have some fun.

  I watch out of the corner of my eye as Bristol joins her fiancée quarterback to the cheers of some and scowls of others, while on the other side of the crowd, some girl flashes Declan. He doesn’t bat an eye.

  I’m fucked.

  The man I’ve always wanted is a known player. There’s no dream life with him.

  But there’s no dream life back home either. At least Declan doesn’t hide his preferences.

  After getting her chest signed, the brunette takes a quick selfie with Declan only to be pushed aside
by the next rabid fan. She still looks thrilled, staring down at the picture on her phone and the scribble across her chest.

  I should find someone quiet and normal. The brunette walks in my direction, but I try with everything I have to ignore her. The scowl I have inside for her would surely burn off my eyebrows.

  But she makes it very hard to take the high road when she stops next to me. “You don’t even have a chance, honey.”

  “What?” I manage not to swallow my own tongue.

  “He’s not going to chase the stick-thin, quiet girl with puppy-dog eyes when he has prime choices”—she pushes up her breasts for emphasis—“lining up right in front of him.”

  “Are you kidding?” Do not wipe that smirk off her face. How can people be that deluded?

  How deluded can I be?

  But then, I look across and see Declan staring in my direction. At me? Or the boob queen?

  I tilt my head, and he subtly mimics my action.

  Oh, he’s mine.

  I’m tired of watching.

  I’m tired of innuendo.

  He’s. Fucking. Mine.

  As I put my head up and move through the crowd, I slip my ring off and make sure it’s deep inside my pocket. If my husband can’t understand the concept of marriage, why should I hold myself to some meaningless set of expectations? I’m done holding onto everyone else’s expectations of me.

  I look up into Declan’s pale-blue eyes. “The ball’s in the air.”

  He puts his hand against my back, lowering his lips to my ear. “I’m predicting one hell of a turnover.”

  I press up onto my toes, standing as tall as I can. “Defense is wide open. Let’s see how far you can run.”

  His breath dances across my face, and his stare reflects the same intensity as I feel projected from the mixed reactions of the crowd around us. “For you,” he whispers, “I run to the end of the world.”

  Declan takes my hand, and we walk through the remaining crowd together, up to the front door where one young boy waits in a 78 jersey—Declan’s number—with a football in his lap. “Hi, sir,” the boy says, waving madly.