False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2)

by Alison Hendricks

  I memorize his lips and commit the feeling of his tongue against mine to some sacred part of my memory. My hands add to it, mapping out the lines of his back even through his clothing.

  He moans into the kiss and I’m undone. I feel this unquenchable need to be even closer to him, and now when I hold his body to mine, I can feel his erection, hard and wanting.

  Desire sparks in me, fanning an ember into a vibrant flame. I slide my hands under his shirt and when he shudders in response, I lift it off him completely. Mine is gone soon after, and his hands are on me, setting my skin aflame.

  I kiss a path down his neck, to his jaw and along his throat, feeling the thready beat of his pulse under my lips. I continue down further, marking a line down his chest, until I reach his nipples. He groans as I lave my tongue over the flat of one and then the other. His hands are in my hair, holding and stroking, and I revel in the taste of his skin as I make my way down his body.

  My lips skim over the soft dusting of hair leading from his navel to the waistband of his pants. I unbutton them, pull them down, and drop to my knees in front of him as I pull down his boxers, too.

  He stands thick and erect before me, and I wrap my hand around his cock, giving a few slow strokes while I look up at his half-lidded eyes. I refuse to break that connection, even as I lean forward and take him into my mouth.

  His hands encourage me without ever once controlling me. I use my hand, mouth, and tongue to good effect, savoring the texture and taste of his cock, for once not really thinking of the inevitable conclusion. My body is already wound tight, and physically I’m looking for release. But I’m not actively chasing it. For now, I’m just enjoying the fact that this man is mine again.

  When he gets too close to the edge, he pulls me back up for a searing kiss. It takes him leading me into the room to realize we were still standing in the hallway, and I laugh breathlessly.

  He leads me to the bed, sits me on the edge of it, then pulls off my pants and briefs. Rather than returning the favor—because even now I can tell things have changed between us—he seems to draw the same enjoyment from the action that I have.

  His lips and tongue tease my cock, his hand works me into a full, painful hardness. He takes me deep, his strokes slow, his lips pulled tight around me. My hands grip his shoulders, and I allow myself to feel everything he’s giving me.

  But I can’t withstand the pleasure of it for very long. My eyes close, I bite back a moan and use my very last shred of willpower to avoid being thrust over that edge. My nails dig into his skin, and he looks up at me with a self-satisfied grin.

  My eyes must give me away, because when I open them again, that grin disappears. It’s replaced by the most telling expression of need I’ve ever seen.

  “I want to feel you inside of me,” I say, my voice hoarse.

  His eyes flash with heat, and he claims my lips. I submit to him without any hesitation whatsoever, scooting back on the bed and feeling his body cover mine.

  He starts to tease me, sliding his cock between my cheeks. I moan and grip his ass, pulling him closer to me, begging for the connection we both crave.

  But Dante curses and pulls away from me. “Condoms are in my bag.”

  My heart stops for a moment, but it recovers and goes back to an elevated beat as I let my head rest against the bed, a breathless chuckle leaving me. He goes to get his bag, and I watch him in all his naked glory, thoroughly enjoying the view. He comes back ready, his dick covered and glistening. There’s a bottle of lube in his hand, too, and I shiver in anticipation.

  But he doesn’t climb over me again. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed. I look at him quizzically, rolling onto my side.

  “You said you wanted us to be equals, right?”

  A slow smile touches my lips as I catch his meaning. “Right.”

  I get up off the bed, coming to stand in front of him. He hands me the lube and watches with hungry eyes as I make the most of it before straddling him, my knees on either side of his thighs.

  It’s a precarious position for a guy my size, but his strong arms brace me, and I settle my hands on his shoulders for extra support.

  I lower myself onto him, inch by inch. He slowly fills and stretches me, and pleasure shakes through my body as I take him deeper. Once I’m practically sitting on his lap, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him deeply, and the feeling of him inside of me while he explores my mouth makes me gasp.

  I start moving, just a gentle gyration of my hips. He groans, his hands following along with my movements. And when I start to lift up and back down, he helps guide me. We reach a rhythm together, our bodies moving in time. My lips are a mere breath away from his, and I can feel his every shaky exhalation; feel every sound as it vibrates through me.

  As we approach that edge, our pace increases. Nothing else exists but the feeling of him inside me and the overwhelming tightness in my body. His hips buck against me, his thighs hitting mine. He hilts himself inside of me one last time and lets out a deep groan that shakes through my whole body. It’s all I need to push me over, and I join him seconds later, crying out as my orgasm washes over me.

  We stay like that until our limbs give out, just trading sweet kisses and caresses. When we can’t maintain the position any longer, we lay side by side in each other’s arms, and for the first time, we’re perfectly in sync. Right down to the beating of our hearts.

  It’s so different from anything I’ve experienced with him before, but somehow, it feels like coming home.

  “I love you,” he says softly.

  I could feel that in every careful stroke, every murmur and moan of my name. But hearing him say it makes my heart flutter in my chest.

  “I love you, too.”

  Looking into his eyes, I feel safe, adored, and completely confident in our prospects. If this is what we can achieve together, then the obstacles don’t matter.

  29

  Dante

  “Trouble in the Tigers’ Den,” Trent reads from the plane seat in front of Mitch and I. “Could Team Conflict Ruin Eastshore’s Hope for a Championship?”

  I roll my eyes, and Mitch laughs beside me. A week ago we might not have been so quick to dismiss it, but whoever wrote up this article is pretty slow on the uptake. And likely hunting for click-bait that hasn’t been covered by everybody else.

  “Hold on, I haven’t read the best part.” He scrolls down on his tablet and grins like a fool. “Though Eastshore players declined to comment, sources overheard Mills and Erickson bickering on the sidelines during the Ohio State game.”

  Mitch lets out another crack of laughter, and I just shake my head.

  “Did they really try to get a statement from you guys?”

  “Some asshole called me Tuesday morning. Woke me up,” Banks says from a few rows down.

  “What the hell? I didn’t get a call.” Trent mutters under his breath.

  “They could’ve just talked to us,” Mitch says beside me.

  Yeah, they could have. Since we patched things up after the Ohio State game, we haven’t really been trying to hide our relationship. Not that we ever were, but it feels a lot more solid now.

  After a whole season of just missing each other, Mitch and I are finally on the same page.

  “Think someone’s going to try and start shit in Atlanta?” Mitch leans close, his breath tickling my ear.

  A shiver runs through me, and I remember just how much of our time together has been interrupted by practices, workouts, and the press circuit.

  I can’t wait for this season to be over.

  “Probably.”

  Mitch lifts his brows, but just smiles at me. He knows what I mean now; he knows why I’m not worried about it. People will always talk. People will always cast shade on anyone who’s different from them.

  But for the first time ever, Mitch and I are in this together.

  When the Rebels come out swinging, it becomes very clear to both of us that click-bait articles are the least
of our worries.

  We’ve prepared for this game and we’re ready to face any opponent, but their offense is relentless. Their blockers are huge and they pound us with every snap. By the time the first quarter is over, Mitch is shaking off a slight limp and I’ve got bruises covering my entire body.

  We keep at it, and I know we’re both going to need ice when this is over. But we do manage to keep Ole Miss from completely overrunning us. Our offense has a chance to put points on the board, and we head into the half down fourteen.

  It’s not a good spot to be in. Mitch and I sit with some of the other guys who’ve been getting their asses handed to them right alongside us. The defensive coach singles us out during the locker room talk while Coach Garvey plots a way for us to answer their two-score lead.

  Coach Bradford goes over the standard formations, telling us what we already know. We need to be faster on the snap, to get momentum before the offensive line. We need to shore up the holes and be prepared for the plays they like to run.

  Toward the end of our time, as the team medic is helping Mitch wrap his ankle, Bradford addresses us specifically.

  “The play you boys used to run in practice. How comfortable are you with running it here?”

  It takes me a moment to realize what play he means. It was never added to our book. It doesn’t even have a name. It’s just a form of two-man blitz, putting pressure on the QB from both sides.

  “We’d need a lot of help to pull it off,” Mitch says.

  “It’s a big risk,” I add, knowing that for every defender we have blocking for us, we leave one more spot open for the QB to run.

  “We need a way to demoralize them. They’re going to come out of that tunnel thinking they’ve won this game,” Coach says.

  Mitch and I exchange a glance, then we nod. It’s going to take both of us to stop the Rebels. Both of us working in sync. It’s something we wouldn’t have been able to do if this game had happened at any other point during the year; even the first time we faced Ole Miss.

  But now? I think we can pull it off.

  Coach Bradford lays out the plan to the rest of the defense, we regroup for a final pep talk, and then we hit the field with a determination that hums across every player.

  Mitch and I jog out side by side, chomping at the bit on the sidelines as we wait for the Rebels’ offense to take the field.

  Our guys put up a field goal to end a solid run on offense, and once it’s punted away, we’re up. Their QB thinks he’s going to have a leisurely time chucking the ball, but he’s got another thing coming.

  Bradford calls in the play, and I just grin at Mitch. We rush forward as soon as the ball is snapped, just a fraction of a second shy of being off-sides, and the other linemen fan out to fill the gaps we leave behind.

  Mitch gets locked on to a corner, but the guy is much smaller than him, and I know Mitch can throw him off whenever he wants.

  I make a wide half-circle around the line and put on a burst of speed once I clear it, gunning for the QB. He sees me and starts to scramble. Then I see Mitch leap into action. He shakes off his blocker and comes full force at the completely defenseless QB.

  The Rebels try to throw it away, and that’s when Mitch gets his arm in there, slanting down on the QB’s. I know it’s going to be ruled a fumble before it even hits the ground, and I dive for it. I can feel the ball underneath me, and then Mitch’s weight on top of me as he protects me from the oncoming pile and the frantic hands trying to grab the ball out from under me.

  When the whistle’s blown, I’ve got the ball, and we’re right outside their 20.

  It’s an easy score for the Tigers after that, bringing the game to a difference of just four points. When the Rebels get the ball again, they’re shaken. Their QB spends half his time tossing it away too early, and the other half opting to hand it off to a runner.

  With continued pressure from our defensive line, their offense crumbles.

  Late in the fourth quarter, as Mitch and I wait on the sidelines, leaning forward from the bench, Grady leads the offense all the way down the field and Trent gets a breakaway run.

  When the ball sails over the goal line and into the waiting hands of a receiver, we’re all on our feet.

  With just minutes left on the clock, all we have to do is keep the Rebels from scoring. Mitch and I fight hard, breaking through their line and shutting them down completely. I get a sack, Mitch leaps up and bats the ball away during a pressured throw, and we both stop their runners before they can make the progress they need.

  When the final whistle blows, fans are already pouring out of the stands. The score is 24-21.

  The Tigers have just won the Peach Bowl and secured their place as the number one team in the nation.

  The field just descends into complete and utter chaos after the game. I can barely find Mitch in it, let alone anybody else. Champagne is flying, caps and shirts are being handed out, and there’s a nonstop run of flash blinding me as cameras snap again and again.

  The podium’s brought out for Coach Garvey’s speech, and Mitch and I manage to find each other in the crowd before the MVP is announced. I’m so fucking happy that I sling my arm around him, not caring how it looks. My mom’s somewhere in the stands, and his sister is up there, too. The whole nation watched us kick ass, and as I look up, I can see rainbow-colored signs waving frantically from the first few rows well up into the nosebleeds.

  “The MVP of this year’s Peach Bowl is… Dante Mills.”

  Despite the fact that it blares over every speaker system in the stadium, I barely hear the announcement. It’s not until my teammates are shoving me toward the podium that I understand.

  Holy shit.

  I’m the MVP.

  It’s so rare for LBs to ever be named MVP. Usually that award goes to someone who actually put points on the board. To walk up those steps and accept that trophy in front of a huge crowd is absolutely mind-boggling.

  A mic is tilted up for me, and I lean down to meet it.

  “Uh. I guess I’m going to have to wing it, because I sure as hell didn’t prepare a speech.”

  That gets a laugh, and buys me enough time to think of something to say.

  “I’d like to thank my mom, first and foremost. She’s in the stands right now.” I give a little wave to the stands. Cameras search frantically for her, and I eventually see her tear-stained face on the big screen. “She’s the strongest person I know, and she made me into the man I am today.”

  Damn, even I start to get a little choked up. And then my gaze falls on Mitch, and I know my speech isn’t done.

  “I’m grateful for the support I’ve received from my whole team, but there’s one person in particular who’s pushed me to become a better player and a better person.”

  An idea strikes me. I look down at the award in my hand, then look back to Mitch. He blanches a little, and I just grin.

  “I know this trophy has my name on it, but it really needs a second name added to it: Mitchell Erickson. We spent all year trying to one-up each other, but really, he’s my other half.”

  I see our teammates push Mitch toward the stage, and then he’s up there with me. He’s blushing clear to his ears, and I just want to kiss him.

  So I do.

  And the crowd goes absolutely crazy for that.

  When I pull back, I whisper to him through the cheers. “You thought I was going to hand it over to you, huh?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. You earned it.”

  “We both did.”

  He smiles at me, and I hold out the trophy so he can get his hand on it. We both heft it up as the team surrounds us.

  I can only imagine the headlines they’ll write about this.

  Epilogue

  Mitch

  Dante’s mom pulls out all the stops for his graduation party.

  With my help—because I’m tall enough to hang the banners and streamers—she decorates the entire apartment. She spent last night making a huge cake. It’s
so big it’s made up of multiple regular-sized cakes that completely dominate the kitchen table. She would’ve tried to make dinner, too, but I convinced her to let me bring my grill out to the parking lot and just set up a line for burgers.

  Since she decided to invite twenty football players, along with Dante’s extended family and my sister, she agreed.

  It’s the Sunday after graduation, and Lydia and I work on last minute details with some of the other early guests while Dante and his mom go to church.

  Trent gives the heads up that they’re home, and we suddenly realize there isn’t time to hide anywhere. So we just stand awkwardly, and I swear nobody breathes as the key turns in the lock.

  When Dante steps through, it’s a ringing chorus of “Surprise!”

  “Jesus Christ,” he exclaims, clutching his chest.

  His mother smacks him on the arm. “Watch your mouth.”

  She’s beaming the whole time, though, and Dante quickly figures out she was the instigator. He catches my gaze next, though, and I just shrug. He gives me a look that tells me just how much he appreciates my ability to hang decorations.

  Despite the crowd, Dante and I manage to stick close together through most of the celebration. He helps me serve up burgers in the parking lot—something that ends up drawing out other tenants—and he makes sure I’m standing right by his side when he cuts the cake.

  At my family’s parties, I felt like a part of the décor, destined to make the bare walls look slightly more attractive without causing too much of a stir. But here, I feel like I’m at the center of the excitement, standing right beside Dante.

  I know he’s the reason for it all. He may have said I pushed him to become a better person, but the same is true for me. I know what’s important to me now, and it’s the people in this room. My friends, my teammates, my family. My other half.

  There’s only one possible snag. Dante still hasn’t decided what he wants to do, and the draft is coming up fast.