Sugar Rush (Offensive Line #1)

by Tracey Ward

  “Well, your granddad has a barn back in Kansas with exposed beams too,” she told me frankly, glaring at the ceiling, “and I wouldn’t pay half a million for it.”

  “It’s closer to seven point five.”

  “Stop it, Colton,” she scolded sternly. “You’re hurting my heart.”

  The heat kicks on with a whoosh. I can hear it in the ducts. I wouldn’t be able to if they were buried under walls, or if there were other noises in the apartment. Someone in the kitchen or the living room cooking and watching TV. Coming and going through the front door, calling out to me to tell me they’re home. Crawling into bed with Kat and I to scratch her ears and talk to me about their day.

  Suddenly the silence is deafening, surrounding me and suffocating me.

  I check the time. It’s only two. It’s still early. I can’t call her. She’s probably sleeping. I need to let her sleep.

  I need to kiss her again.

  Lilly was like fire in my hands this morning when I finally got to touch her. I’d thought about it all night and when I couldn’t take it anymore, when she gave me the greenlight, I wasn’t ready for the way it felt. Hot and slow. A low burning flame that licked at my veins and made me sweat everywhere her skin touched mine. It made me think of the rest of her skin, all of it, all of her under my hands. My mouth. My tongue.

  She tasted like sex. The arduous kind. The kind you gotta work for, the kind that wears you out.

  The good kind.

  Great, I think glumly. Now I’m half-hard in the dark.

  I have two options here. One will feel weird with the dog in the room and the other could make matters worse. I’m willing to take that chance.

  I dial Lilly’s number, waiting eagerly as it rings. And rings. And keeps right on ringing. I’m waiting for the voicemail to kick in, debating whether or not I’ll leave a message, when she answers.

  “Hello?” she mumbles groggily.

  Fuck me, I think painfully. Her voice. Her sleep slurred, husky voice is almost too much. It makes me wonder if I made a mistake calling her.

  “Hey,” I reply, feeling like I’m fumbling. “Were you asleep?”

  “Mm-hmm. You should be too.”

  “I can’t. I tried.”

  “So you called me to make sure I couldn’t either? That’s so sweet.”

  “I called to beg you to talk to me.”

  She yawns. “What about?”

  “The baking time for a soufflé? I don’t care. Anything.”

  “Twenty-five minutes.”

  “I didn’t know that. Can I ask you something else?”

  “Sure.”

  “What the hell is a soufflé?”

  Lilly chuckles quietly. “It’s a French egg dish.”

  “Is it sweet or savory?”

  “It can be both.”

  “Will you make it for me?”

  “Not right now,” she laughs.

  I smile into the dark. “My party is tomorrow. Can you make it?”

  “The soufflé or the party?”

  “Party.”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “Are we playing this one again? The tell-Colt-no-to-everything game?”

  “No,” she teases, her voice quivering with quiet laughter.

  “Will you come to my party?” I push gently.

  “Rona wants to go, so yes. I will be there.”

  “Only because Rona wants to go?” I prod.

  “Yep. It’s my only reason. See you then.”

  “You’re leaving me? In my hour of need, you’re ditching me?”

  She groans dramatically. “I thought you were nice. Why are you being mean to me?”

  “Because you were mean to me first. Besides, I like talking to you,” I answer honestly. “Will you stay on the phone with me?”

  “You’re asking but it doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice.”

  “You could hang up. Are you going to hang up on me, Hendricks?”

  She grunts faintly. I can hear the sound of cloth rubbing across the phone. Probably a blanket brushing it as she shifts in her bed. I imagine her brown hair splayed across a purple pillow, a blanket pulled up close around her neck. Her eyes hooded. Sleepy. Sexy. Her lips that perfect pink color that’s either lip gloss or life granting her an unfair advantage. I imagine them pursed. Swollen from kisses I can’t stop giving her, taking from her.

  “The store was busy again today,” she tells me quietly, giving in. “Tons of people came in this morning saying they saw you on ESPN talking about us. We sold out of your footballs.”

  “I knew you would. People love my balls.”

  “I never said I wouldn’t hang up,” she warns me, but she’s smiling. I can hear it from here.

  I chuckle, settling deeper under my comforter. “What are we making tomorrow morning?”

  “I can’t pull another all-nighter like last night,” she warns me.

  “We won’t. I have another early practice. You have to be at the store by four-thirty again, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meet me there at four.”

  “Why would I want to go in any earlier than I have to?”

  “Because you want to see me. You want to spend time with me.” I drop my voice low. “Because you want to eat with me again.”

  “You’re making some wild assumptions here.”

  “Tiramisu, Lilly. You know you want it.”

  “Remember how I said it’s slow?”

  “Did I go fast this morning?”

  “No,” she admits softly. Fondly. “You went very, very slow.”

  “And you liked it.”

  “Ass-umptions,” she pronounces carefully.

  I grin. “I’ll see you at four?”

  Lilly sighs light and smiling. “Yeah. I’ll see you there at four.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  LILLY

  November 14h

  Mad Batter Bakery

  Los Angeles, CA

  Colt is early. I pull up to the bakery at three fifty-five to find him waiting for me by the door. My headlights sweep over him where he leans against the building. A tall, white coffee cup is between his hands, one ankle crossed casually over the over. He’s dressed in jeans and a black V-neck pullover, the collar popped against the early morning chill. He smiles when he sees me, crooked and cocky, and every tired piece of me wakes up instantly like I’ve had a shot of caffeine straight to the vein.

  I could get used to this, to seeing him. To that smile and those eyes. Those lips.

  “What’s up, Beautiful?” he calls when I open my door. He’s there fast as lightning, his hand on my elbow as I slide down to the ground, his lips on my cheek kissing me chastely in greeting.

  “Whoa, you are charming as shit this morning, aren’t you?” I chuckle.

  He smiles brilliantly. “I’m in a good mood.”

  “Are you ever not in a good mood?”

  “Only when we lose a game. You don’t want to be around me at the tail end of a loss.” He holds out the coffee to me. “I brought you this.”

  “Thanks. You didn’t get one?”

  “I already drank it on the way over.”

  I gratefully take it from his hands, immediately thrilling at the warmth of the cup. But when I take a sip I almost spit it back out.

  “How much sweetener is in here?” I gasp.

  Colt shrugs. “A lot.”

  “Holy dammit. That is not coffee. That’s… that’s something else. That’s what they feed to hummingbirds.”

  “You don’t want it?”

  “Will you be offended if I say it’s undrinkable?”

  “Nope.” He plucks the cup from my hands, taking a big swig and smacking his lips happily. “More for me.”

  “Thank you for the thought.”

  “Thanks for being honest about hating it. I’ve given that same drink to other people and they’ve sworn up and down that they love it.”

  “You
didn’t believe them?”

  He laughs, shaking his head, dipping his free hand into his pocket. “No. They looked disgusted the whole time, but people don’t want to offend you when you’re, uh… recognizable.”

  I grin. “Are you trying to avoid using the word ‘famous’?”

  He lifts his cup to his lips, his eyes watching me over the rim. “Maybe.”

  “You can say it.”

  “You don’t like it.”

  I step past him toward the store. “I don’t like the way you take your coffee either, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

  I open the store, locking the door behind him when he follows me in.

  “So you like me now?” he clarifies happily. “We’ve upgraded from thinking about it to actually doing it?”

  I flush, embarrassed by his point blank approach to everything. “You say ‘we’ a lot.”

  “I like the way it feels with you. Don’t you?”

  So, so, so much, I think zealously.

  I grin calmly at him. “Yeah. I like it.”

  “And me,” he drives home. “You like me.”

  “Yes. I like you. A lot.”

  “Good.”

  He leans down fast as lightning, his sugar coated lips finding mine. They linger just long enough to send my brain and body into overdrive, frying half my circuits. He pulls away only slightly, a lazy smile on his face.

  “I’ve thought about that nonstop since last night,” he rumbles deep and low.

  I blink rapidly, clearly the smoke from my mind. “So have I.”

  “Were you mad I woke you up yesterday?”

  “No. I’m glad you did.”

  “Me too.”

  We talked for two hours. I was in and out a couple times, dozing off when the conversation lulled, but Colt always pulled me back, his voice quiet and deep in my ear in a way that sent shivers down my spine. Right around the time my phone started begging for the charger he fell silent. I whispered his name once. Twice. His only reply was steady breathing and a slight snore. It felt intimate being in bed listening to him sleep, like he was there with me. Like I was being granted access to this vulnerable part of him that the masses would never see. It gave me hope that maybe there is some part of him that he keeps separate from the world.

  That maybe I actually could be something he keeps for himself. That his interest in me could be real.

  It’s a heady thought, an exhilarating idea that makes me lean into him for another kiss. Another taste of sweetness from his smiling lips to mine.

  His kiss is my new favorite dessert.

  His kiss is raindrops on my decks.

  Colt runs his fingers through my hair, dancing them lightly over my shoulder and down my back. “Did you decide what we’re baking today?”

  “No, but I have an idea. One I think you’re gonna like.”

  I lead him back through the kitchen where I flip the ovens on to preheat them before we head to the office. It’s a cramped space, barely bigger than a closet. It’s stuffed to bursting with a desk, a filing cabinet, two chairs, and a Kodiak practically twice my size.

  I dig inside the cabinet in search of the digital camera. “Can I take your picture?”

  Colt snorts. “I’m offended it’s taken you this long to ask.”

  “It’s not for me. I need it for today’s special.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Sugar cookies,” I proclaim proudly, pulling the big black camera out of its hiding place. I wave it at Colt. “With your picture on them, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Clothes on or off?”

  “On,” I laugh. “We’re a G-rated bakery. PG at our worst.”

  “How are you going to put my picture on a cookie?”

  “We have a printer with edible ink and paper. We use it to make cakes with people’s pictures on them. I’ll take a pic of your smiling face,” I say, cupping his chin in my hand and gently shaking it side to side, “we’ll whip up some two inch sugar cookies, and print the picture out to fit on top.”

  “You sure you want to use my face? I know it looks good, but it’s not my best feature. For that you gotta go below the waist.”

  “G-rated bakery,” I remind him patiently.

  He grins down at me. “Why do you gotta make everything dirty? I was talking about my calves. They’re killer. Have you seen them?”

  “You’re so full of it, and yourself. How do you fit food inside your body packed so tightly with ego and bullshit?”

  “I had a kidney removed.”

  “Smart.”

  “Can you add text to the picture?”

  “Depends. What do you want to write on it?”

  He smiles. “Eat me.”

  I laugh, nodding my head. “It’s a little PG, but we’ll go with it.” I take his hand in mine, pulling him out of the office. He follows willingly. “Now come over here where the wall is blank. I only have a half hour before I have to start my regular prep.”

  I get him set up in front of a plain section of green wall. The color makes the darkness of his sweater stand out, along with his tan skin and brilliant eyes. I lift the camera to take a few quick test shots.

  “Any directions, coach?” he asks amiably.

  “You’ve done more photoshoots than I have. You can do whatever you want.”

  “Do you want sexy or funny?”

  I pause, considering. Thinking about who we’re targeting this cookie to. It’s not guys, that’s for sure.

  “Sexy,” I request, focusing in on his face. “If you can manage it.”

  He laughs briefly before setting down his coffee cup. I’m about to tell him that it doesn’t matter because I’m only looking at him from the chest up like a driver’s license, but I quickly close my mouth.

  Colt’s face composes instantly, his chin dropping down and to the right. His lips lift on one side, that same crooked grin he gave me the other day when he showed up here. The one that made me feel like I was falling. It’s intensified today, made more powerful by the smoldering look in his eyes that somehow say so many things with a single expression. They’re challenging and inviting. Like a warning and a promise wrapped together.

  Like he’s planning very wicked things, but don’t worry; you’ll enjoy them.

  He doesn’t look like the guy I spent an entire night with or the guy I pictured on the phone all afternoon. He looks like the guy in the Dairy Queen ad. The one on the Playgirl cover.

  I snap several pictures in quick order, the disappointment on my face carefully hidden behind the bulky camera. “Do you practice this in front of a mirror?”

  “I practice everything. I don’t like being bad at anything.”

  “Is there anything you’re not good at?”

  Click.

  “Cooking,” he answers.

  I smile. “I knew that one.”

  Click.

  “Electronics. I’ve had five tablets in two years. Three different phones. Every one of them has crashed.”

  “What’d you do to them?”

  “If I knew that they probably wouldn’t have crashed.”

  I laugh, sympathizing with those tablets. Colt Avery is a walking EMP. He destroys my circuitry every time he gets close.

  “Anything else?” I ask curiously.

  Click. Click.

  “Losing.”

  “Good thing you don’t do it very often. What are you guys? Six and three?”

  He smiles and it’s him; it’s Colt. Not the model but the man. “You looked it up, didn’t you?”

  I shrug, snapping another picture. This one is my favorite by far. “I might have Googled it.”

  “The team or me?”

  “The team. I figured if I Googled you…” I lower the camera, carefully meeting his eyes. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what the internet thinks is your highlight reel.”

  His face falls serious, his appearance changing again like a chameleon on crack. “I’m not ashamed of my life. I’m actually prett
y damn proud of it.”

  “I’m not saying you should be ashamed. That’s not what I meant. I meant that I want to get to know you. Not an image of you.”

  “She said taking his picture.”

  I chuckle awkwardly, running the strap on the camera through my fingers. “Right. Yeah.”

  He holds out his hand to me. “Come here.”

  I let him pull me close to him. He takes the camera from me, turning it to face us.

  “It’s not easy to take a selfie with that thing,” I warn him.

  He maneuvers the long fingers on his large hand around the casing, easily holding it with the lens pointed at us and his finger on the trigger.

  “Or it’s really easy,” I mutter.

  His body shakes mine with silent laughter. “Smile pretty.”

  I do as he says, smiling big even though it hurts. My face is sore from how often I’ve smiled with him in the last few days, and I think that shouldn’t happen to a person. I shouldn’t be out of shape at being happy. I feel it when I’m with him, though. Like I’m getting a much needed workout. Like he’s a trainer getting me back into form.

  I lean into him, my head on his shoulder the way I thought about last night. It’s better than I imagined. Solid and warm, that scent of his curling around me in an embrace I can feel everywhere, even before his arm goes around me to hold me closer. We’re looking up at the blank eye of the lens, smiling as he takes multiple shots to make sure no one is blinking because the guy is a pro at this. I wonder briefly how he can stand to stare into a lens so often, for so long. Giving and giving to a vacuum that will never be satisfied, never getting anything back. Feeding himself to masses he’ll never know.

  Is that fun for him? Because it sounds like Hell to me.

  Colt has to leave close five to make it to practice on time, but not before he makes me upload the photo of us to the bakery’s social media sites, tagging him so he can share it on his. He wants a copy of it, he tells me. He wants a picture of me being sweet so he can remember it the next time I’m sour. He says it like he knows there’ll be a next time, but he doesn’t mind. I think he’s looking forward to it.

  He kisses me when he goes. It’s softer than the other night. Slow and patient. Lingering. It’s tiramisu and I’m lightheaded from the taste of it.