Offense & Defense: A MMF Sports Romance

by Alexis Angel

  “I don’t like saying this… But I told you so.”

  “Well, you’re used to it! You have all the attention, and people love you! You lost that game, and I’m the one being blamed for it!” Okay, fuck, what is this? Are we actually fighting? We've never had a fight before, and I can’t believe that our first fight is about the fucking media. Jesus fucking Christ.

  “Okay, Fiona, I don’t know what's got into you, but you have to forget about --”

  “Forget, forget! That’s all you know how to say. I can’t forget; I can’t walk around as if this isn’t happening. No matter what they say about you, you still have your career, your contract… Everything! And what do I have? I’m just another overworked twenty-something being massacred by the news because I dare to exist!”

  Well, fuck, I don’t even know what to say. I try and reach for her, but she swats my hand away. Before I think of anything to say, she gets up, tears welling up in her eyes and walks upstairs to the bedroom. I go after her, but by the time I’m walking up the stairs, she’s already coming down, her purse against her chest.

  “Fiona, I--” Without allowing me to say a fucking thing, she walks past me and goes straight for the door. She bolts out, slamming the door on her way out and leaving me alone in the apartment.

  I stand there, looking around completely dumbfounded. I just got home, for fuck’s sake. I drove here as fast as I could, anxious to be with her, to feel her naked body against mine… And now this! I feel angry, but I don’t even know to whom I should direct that anger—if to her, to me, or to the media. Forget about money, fame, or even the Super Bowl. I just want things to work out with Fiona.

  Is that too much to ask?

  66

  Fiona

  THE END IS COMING.

  Four words, and they are written with such confidence that they sound like the truth. I’m standing outside a newsstand, holding the latest New York Daily Journal in my hands, and that’s the headline over a picture of me running out of Trump Tower. That was yesterday, right after my fight with Danny. Somehow, there must've been some paparazzi waiting around for something to happen, and I guess they got what they wanted.

  I left the house for a walk, thinking that it’d help me clear my head, but now I wish I had just stayed home. I read the article, my fingers trembling with each sentence.

  Twenty-two-year-old Fiona Barnett was seen yesterday leaving Trump Tower in a hurried state. Judging by the way she left, completely alone, it seems that her fiery romance with the Nailers’ quarterback star is coming to an end.

  An intern at Price Coopers, Fiona saw her chance to climb the social ladder when Daniel Manning asked for her number on live TV, minutes after accidentally crashing into her. What started as an invitation made out of pity for a young girl, turned into a nightmare for Daniel Manning. After somehow dazzling the Nailers’ quarterback over dinner, Fiona Barnett soon started taking credit for his success, and even moved to his high-rise condo at Trump Tower.

  Still, there’s hope for Nailers’ fans. It seems that Daniel Manning finally came to his senses, and a separation seems to be imminent.

  The article goes on and on, blaming Danny’s faltering performance and, somehow, putting me as the main culprit behind the rise of a vain society. Like, seriously? I don’t even know if they’re really talking about me, because this is total garbage. They went as far as digging into my personal life, and a few passages are particularly vicious.

  Friends with some of New York’s crème de lá crème such as the wife of the notorious St. Alban’s prince, Connor d’Avington, and the wife of billionaire Apollo Kane, it seems that Miss Fiona will stop at nothing to achieve the same thing her friends have: a high-status marriage.

  I feel like killing someone right now. Or crying. I’m not sure which. Feeling lightheaded, I place the newspaper back on the rack and start walking back home. People are staring at me in the same way they used to do when I started dating Danny, but now… Now it’s different. New York feels hostile. Maybe it’s all in my head, but it seems that when people look at me, they’re not smiling.

  There she goes, that gold digger, I can almost hear them think. And maybe it’s true. Maybe I let myself be swooned by the media because I wanted to be something I’m not. I mean, look at all my friends… They've all found their Prince Charming, and they’re living in mansions and palaces. And I’m just fighting trying to survive my internship while trying to scrape enough money to pay the rent of the apartment I share with Becca.

  Maybe my romance with Danny was just an illusion. And maybe the newspapers are right too; maybe I’m hindering him, distracting him while he should be focusing on the playoffs. God, I feel so worthless right now.

  I start walking faster, desperate to get home as soon as I can. I think I’ll just sit down in front of the TV, put on some Grey’s Anatomy and forget about the whole world while drowning in ice cream. Sure, go right ahead and add walking cliché to the horrible list of things people are calling me. See if I care.

  I’m so distracted that I don’t even notice there’s someone blocking the way to my building, so I just bump against him.

  “Sorry,” I cry out, taking a step back and realizing that the person I bumped against is Danny himself. My heart sinks inside my chest; after yesterday’s fight, what other reason is there for him to drive here? He’s breaking up with me, oh God. This day is quickly going downhill.

  “Fiona,” he says, his eyes locked on mine, and a sad smile on his lips. “I had to see you.”

  Before I can let him break up with me, I just take one step forward and wrap my arms around him. I press my face against his chest, closing my eyes as I feel the tears making their way to my eyes.

  “I should've listened to you,” I whisper, making one tremendous effort to choke down a violent sob. “I’m so sorry… I really am. I let the press come between us and now… I’m sorry, Danny.”

  He just holds me without saying a word, placing one hand on the back of my neck and holding me against his chest. I try not to cry, but it’s getting harder; just thinking that this might be the last time he holds me against him hurts too much.

  “I let myself be seduced by the fame… I know. I should've listened to you,” I say, almost desperate. Now that he’s here, I know the truth; I was a fool, yes, but I love him. And not because he’s rich or famous, but just because of the kind of man he is.

  I don’t want to lose him.

  “Fiona,” he whispers my name, and I grit my teeth as I imagine what his next words are going to be: it’s all over. I can already hear them echoing inside of my head. “It’ll be alright. I promise you.” He pulls back from me and I just blink my eyes, not sure if I heard right.

  “What… do you mean?”

  “Make sure you’re up tomorrow morning. And turn on your TV,” he tells me, leaning into me and kissing the corner of my mouth. I just stand there like an idiot, and he smiles and walks to his car. I watch him get in without a word and, as he drives away, his words make my heart flutter with hope.

  It’ll be alright. I promise.

  67

  Danny

  I stroll inside the Nailers’ conference room with my head held high, and the whole room falls silent as I walk up to the microphone. All eyes are on me right now, and every single person inside the room is expecting me to drop a bomb. They’re right, I’m about to do that, but it’s not the kind of bomb they’re expecting.

  I look around, completely in silence, and it doesn’t take long for the room to erupt with questions.

  “Is it all over between you and Fiona?”

  “Are you retiring?”

  I don’t know what kind of drugs these people are taking, but it must be the good stuff. Retiring—what the actual fuck?

  “Everyone, shut the fuck up,” I say into the mic, and they all fall silent at once, as if I’ve suddenly turned into Satan himself. Good, I want them to be afraid, because right now I’m fucking pissed.

  “As you all know,
I’m in a relationship with a woman by the name of Fiona Barnett,” I start, and they all seem to lean forward in expectation as I drop her name. “I don’t know the reason why—nor do I care—but it seems that all of you decided to gang up on her. She’s the best person I know, and you’ve decided to ruin her life just because you might get a spike in audiences and a raise. Well, that stops this moment. As of now, Fiona is off limits.” I let the words hang heavily in the air, allowing them to sink in before I continue. “If you've got a problem, you can take it up with me. If you insist on going after Fiona, I can promise you this: you’re going to have a problem. A serious one.”

  They all stare at me with wide eyes, afraid to even make a question. So much for their bravery and smugness; now that they’re standing right in front of me, they don’t dare defy me.

  “One more thing, since you’ve all turned into football experts overnight and decided that my career was going downhill, I have one more promise to make: I’m going to win this year’s Super Bowl. That trophy is mine already; the game is only going to be a formality. Now, excuse me, I have to go and meet the woman I love.”

  With that, I just walk past the dumbfounded press and make my way out of the conference room. My shoes click across the floor, and the silence is so deep you could hear a pin drop. Yeah, I think these assholes learned their place, once and for all.

  I go straight to the parking lot, a smile on my face. Getting inside my Aston, I rev up the engine and pull out from my spot, the engine roaring as loudly as my heart seems to be thumping. I pull into New York’s traffic one minute later, making my way downtown.

  When I get to Fiona’s building, she’s already standing at the entrance, tears in her eyes. She runs up to me the moment she sees me, and as soon as I get out of the car, she falls into my arms.

  “You asshole,” she cries, “couldn’t you've told me what you were going to do? I barely slept last night.”

  “Oh, a little suspense never hurt anyone,” I grin, and then pull her into me and kiss her. “I love you, Fiona. I waited too long to say it, but I love you. And no way in hell am I allowing anything or anyone to step between us.”

  “I love you too,” she whispers, looking in my eyes. Her face is a perfect portrait of happiness, and she looks just as beautiful as when I first saw her. I close my eyes just for a second, seeing it happen in my mind’s eye all over again: that touchdown pass, her voice in the crowd, her beautiful face… She was just a stranger among thousands but, in that moment, I knew I couldn’t just let her walk away.

  And I didn’t.

  “I’m sorry… about everything,” she tells me, but I just place my index finger over her lips.

  “That’s over, babe. It’s in the past,” I say, and then pick her up from the floor. With a grin on my face, I kiss her again.

  “Now, where to, m’lady?” I tease her. Wherever she tells me to go, I’ll go. I don’t care if it’s my place, The Ritz, Paris, China, or the North fucking Pole. I’ll go to the ends of the world for her.

  “Just take me upstairs,” she whispers, lacing her arms around my neck.

  “Upstairs sounds perfect,” I say, walking across the sidewalk and carrying her inside the building just in time; at least a dozen news vans are pulling up in front of the building, cameramen jumping out of them as if they’re part of a SWAT squat.

  Without Fiona noticing, I look back over my shoulder, throwing a menacing glance at the guys mounting their cameras. They sure as hell are free to do their jobs, as annoying as they may be, but if they step out of line again… Well, let’s just say that I will stop at nothing. Nobody messes with my woman.

  I put her down the moment we’re inside the elevator, and the doors are still closing when she jumps on me, crushing her mouth against mine and taking her hands to my chest.

  “I could fuck you right here,” she tells me, tugging at my shirt in such a way that the fabric might just rip.

  “I could fuck you anywhere,” I shoot back, pushing her back against the mirror in the elevator. I pin her arms over her head, kissing her in abandonment.

  Even though I’m sure that I’m going to make my way toward the Super Bowl (and win the fucking thing), I doubt that it’s going to be better than this moment right now.

  I’m the happiest man in the whole fucking planet. And that… Well, that calls for a celebration. The naked kind.

  68

  Fiona

  My apartment seems like a different place.

  Before Danny’s surprise press conference, the walls seemed like they were closing in on me, and the colors were dimmed and lifeless. But now that I’ve stepped inside again with Danny by my side, it’s almost as if I’ve entered a completely different apartment. Sunlight streams through the drawn curtains, and everything seems bright and shiny. In a way, everything’s exactly the same, but at the same time, everything’s different now. It seems that happiness—and love—really have the power to change the way you see the world around you.

  “That was the sweetest thing anyone ever did for me,” I tell him the moment we’re behind closed doors, my eyes locked on his. He smiles at that, closing the distance between us and placing both of his hands on my hips.

  “I can do more sweet things, you know?” he says, and I’m pretty sure he isn’t talking about breakfast in bed, or flowers on Valentine’s Day.

  “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot,” I purr, my hands on his chest. I feel his heartbeat under the palm of my hand, the outline of his rugged muscles turning my brain into mush. I was terrified that I was going to lose him, and now here he is, back in my arms. This is my lucky day, that’s for sure.

  “I love you, Fiona,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving mine, and I feel my knees growing weak.

  “I love you too,” I whisper back at him, these words leaving a sweet taste in my mouth as they roll over my tongue. Smiling, he leans into me, and my eyelids droop as I feel his lips on mine. I open my mouth slowly, his tongue finding its way toward mine, and we kiss in complete abandonment.

  Right now, it’s almost as if we are in a world of our own; forget about the games, forget about the media. We’re here, together, and that’s the extent of our whole universe.

  “Come here,” he says, pulling back from my kiss and picking me up. Carrying me in his arms, he makes a beeline toward my bedroom and then lays me down on the bed. I lie back as he climbs on top of me, his mouth once again fitted against my own. I start unbuttoning his crisp white shirt as we kiss, my fingers working in a hurry. When the last button comes undone, I untuck the fabric out of his pants and then push the shirt down his arms, feeling the ropes of muscles in his arms on the way down.

  I throw the shirt off the bed and then my hands dart toward his crotch. I flatten the palm of one hand there, and a shiver of anticipation crawls up my spine as I feel the thick shape of his hard cock tenting his pants and threatening to rip the fabric on its way out.

  “I missed you,” I tell him, wrapping my fingers around the hard shape in his pants and squeezing it. “And I missed this.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” he responds, looking at me with a soft smile. “And I’m not going anywhere…” He goes to his knees, still between my legs, and grabs the hem of my button-up blouse; pulling on it, he forces the buttons to pop out and then he pushes it down my arms, his hungry eyes going straight to the curve of breasts.

  He leans into me, his mouth right between my tits, and I let out a soft moan as I arch my back, feeling his lips on my skin. My hands dart to his head and, running my fingers through his hair and disheveling it, I force him to keep his mouth pressed against my body. Sliding one hand between my back and the mattress, he finds the clasp on my bra and pulls it free. With one yank, he takes the bra off my body, the straps sliding fast down my arms, and throws it to the side.

  He looks at me in silence, his eyes taking in the sight of my naked chest, and I do the thinking for him. I grab both his hands and, slowly, place them over my naked tits. I close my eyes
as I feel the palm of his hands pressing on my hard nipples, and another moan finds its way out of me when he squeezes my breasts.

  Easing up the pressure, he uses his thumb and index finger to pinch my right nipple, and then he does the same to the left one. I look into his eyes as he does it, biting down on my lower lip as I feel the (oh so sweet) pain travelling from my tits to brain.

  “I want to devour you,” he says, his voice heavy with anticipation.

  “Do it,” I breathe out.

  “I want to fuck you,” he continues, and I’m not sure if he's even listening to me. His eyes are wide and glazed, as if he’s hypnotized by my body. “I want to taste you. I want to make you mine, and then never let go.”

  “Do it… Do it,” I repeat, closing my eyes as he pinches my nipples harder than before. My words spread their wings and turn into a moan, and that’s when he finally lets go of my nipples. Sliding his hands down the side of my body, he takes them to the hem of my tight fitting skirt and pulls the side zipper down.

  Looking up at me, that wild hunger dancing in his eyes, he pulls my skirt down my legs. He lays on top of me again, kissing me, and I lace my legs on his lower back; holding onto him like that, I press my crotch against his, swaying my hips just so that I can feel his thick cock.

  “I want you, I want you so much,” I whisper into his ear, my hands going down from his shoulder blades to the hem of his pants. I move them around his waist and, finally finding his belt buckle, I open it up. Anxiety making my heart beat faster, I slide the belt out from its loops and let it fall from my fingers. I go back to his pants and undo the top button, my trembling fingers then taking care of his zipper; the moment I start pulling it down, his cock pushes back against my fingers from under his boxer briefs, making my heart beat even faster.