by S. J. Bishop
“Wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t play for the rest of the season,” said his father, crossing his arms.
“It would surprise me,” I said before I could stop myself. Ted acted as if I hadn’t spoken, reaching to grab the bottle of white wine and pour his mother a glass, but I could see his mouth twitching.
Ted’s father looked at me as if I were a worm that had somehow ended up on his hook. He should have intimidated me, but I was too outraged at the way he’d spoken to his son. There was no joking humor, just plain accusation.
“And what would you know about it?” asked Ted’s father, just managing to stay this side of nasty.
“Not as much about the game as you,” I allowed. “But as a Patriots fan, I can tell you that Coach uses all of his weapons. If Ted had a bad game last week, you can bet he’ll see more playing time than the other receivers. That tends to be Coach’s method. Any other coach might have his QB throw the ball to anyone else. But I’ll put good money on Dash Barnes using Ted at least twice a drive for the first half. Until the Cowboys wise up and start covering him.”
Ted’s father stared at me, his face reddening, and I was saved by the waiter who came up to see if we knew what we wanted to eat.
Once we’d placed our orders, I felt Ted’s hand squeeze my knee under the table. “I don’t care what your little girlfriend says,” said Mr. Schneider, reaching into the bread basket and palming a roll, no longer addressing me. “If I were your coach, I’d be signing you to the first idiot who’d take your contract off my hands.”
What the hell was going on? Why was Ted’s dad being so antagonistic? I knew Ted wouldn’t appreciate me standing up for him further. He was a big boy; he could take care of himself, so I tried to focus on buttering my roll and not hurling it at Mr. Schneider’s balding head.
“Oh! Michelle Kelly’s mother was at the fundraiser,” said Mrs. Schneider, changing the subject. “She was saying that she and her husband watch your games every week. Did you know Michelle went to dental school…”
As the dinner wore on, I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing and hearing. I vaguely recalled the Schneiders being less than pleasant company, but I was not prepared for Mr. Schneider’s outright antagonism or his wife’s purposeful self-absorption. Each time Mr. Schneider went on the attack, Mrs. Schneider would start talking about how many healthy omega fats there were and how she wished there was salmon on the menu.
I was actually impressed that Ted didn’t holler at both of his parents. His father, he treated with casual attention that tread the line of disrespect. His mother, he pretended to listen to intently, but each time she began to speak, he would grab my hand as if it were his patience and he was hanging on for all he was worth.
I was appalled when his father ordered a two hundred dollar glass of scotch, knowing full well that Ted was picking up the bill.
By the time his parents left and we were standing out front waiting for our limo, I had a new understanding of Ted and an intense loathing for the Schneiders.
“They didn’t ask you a single question the entire night!” I railed.
“They usually don’t,” Ted said. “Do you know I actually managed to enjoy that dinner a bit, especially when you made my dad look like an idiot right at the beginning.”
“You dad is an idiot,” I fumed. “And so is your mother.”
“Her, I don’t blame,” said Ted. “She does her best.”
“No. She could say something to him,” I said.
“Ah,” said Ted, shaking his head. “You could say something to him, maybe. You have no problem facing down bullies. My mother doesn’t have the force of personality, much as I love her.”
“No wonder you seek validation wherever you can find it,” I huffed, throwing open the door of the limo as it came to a stop before the restaurant. “You clearly never got any growing up!”
Ted didn’t respond to that as he slid into the limo behind me. Silence descended as we headed back toward the hotel. “You know,” he said quietly, after a moment. “I thought a lot about what you said to me back at your place. About how maybe I’m not able to give you what you want.”
I waited.
Ted opened his mouth and then closed it. Shaking his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this in a limo. Erin: I love you.”
“No.” I shook my head.
“No?” Ted said, bewildered.
“You can’t just say it because you think that’s what I need to hear…”
“And you can’t reject it because you think I don’t mean it!” said Ted, aghast.
“Sure I can,” I argued.
Ted reached over and grabbed my hands. “Erin Duvall, of course I fucking love you. And yeah, okay, I didn’t get to hear it enough as a child, but that doesn’t mean I get to pretend I don’t know what it is. I do. It’s you.”
He reached down before I could gainsay him and pressed a hard, determined kiss on my lips. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted is to win a Super Bowl because that was the one accolade that my father and my brother never accomplished. My dad is right. You distract me. And you are the one thing that can distract me enough to take my eye off the prize. Do you know why? Because you’re the real prize, Erin. And I feel like such an ass saying all these ridiculous things, but if you need to hear them from me, then I’ll speak them. Because they’re true. I love you.”
I knew I should be crying, but I couldn’t find the strength to shed tears. So much had happened in such a short time.
“Stop shaking your head,” Ted growled.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re overloading me!” And then I started to laugh. I laughed so hard I cried, and then I was really crying. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not you…”
“I’m just a part of it,” said Ted, understanding and hauling me into his arms. He sat there until my tears turned to laughs again.
“Oh god,” I said. “I’m hysterical.” I reached up and cupped the side of Ted’s face. “Goddamn it. I love you, too. It’s why I’m still here…”
“I know.” Ted reached down and kissed me, getting my tears all over his cheeks. When he sat back, the limo had come to a stop in front of our hotel.
“God,” I said, staring up at him. “You are more of a mess than I ever realized.”
Ted grinned. “Does that make it easier on you?”
“To know that Prince Charming is just a broken little kid underneath that pretty façade? Sure helps.”
“Well, good,” said Ted. “I’m glad. Now, get off me so I can get out of this car, get you upstairs, and show you just what I mean when I say ‘I love you.’”
Epilogue
A Beezeness Exclusive
THE GIRL, THE PRINCE, THE HAPPILY EVER AFTER
By Erin Duvall
There was once a single Beezeness employee who lived in a lonely apartment in a big, lonely city. She was, in many ways, like you: a romantic who had, after a series of failed relationships, decided that there was no such thing as fairy tale love.
And yet, she was happy enough. She had good friends. She liked her job. And while she occasionally dreamed of how nice it would be to be loved, she remembered, too, the bitter bite of heartache.
One night, as she wandered the streets, thinking about all of the mistakes she’d made in love, she came upon a store-front window where a woman offered her a glimpse at her future.
“Your future is in your past,” the woman said.
But that can’t be, thought the girl. For there is nothing in my past to which I wish to return.
Leaving the premises, the young woman thought about all of the loves she’d lost. As she drove off to find her friends and tell them of the fortune teller’s strange prediction…
A drunk driver in a blue car ran a red light and smashed her car and her memories to pieces.
Alas, dear reader, there is no such thing as a real life fairy tale. There are no Prince Charmings and no Sleeping Beauties. There are comas, and lawsuits, and nine-to-f
ives. There are ex-boyfriends, policemen, and football players. No one is wholly good, and no one is wholly evil. There are jealousies, insecurities, and fears, of course. But there is also love, understanding, and forgiveness.
There’s me – Erin Duval – and a pretty great guy named Ted, and a strange story you’re going to have to read to believe…
Drop Kicked (Blitz Prequel)
1
Emma
The San Francisco Tomcats sure knew how to throw a party. I searched the room for my father and saw a cluster of players checking me out. I shot them a practiced smile, dazzling enough to acknowledge that I was the hottest woman in the room, but austere enough to emphasize that they had better keep their distance.
Growing up in my father's shadow, I had been surrounded by male athletes since I could walk. It wasn't until I was eighteen, when my boobs grew three sizes and my hair went from a greasy rat's nest to the silky yellow it was now, that any of them had started paying attention to me. And I had to admit–I liked it.
Now, at twenty-one, I'd grown so used to the attention that I would have been disappointed not to get it. One of the guys who'd been checking me out sauntered over, choosing not to heed my warning. Clearly, he didn't understand the terms of my smile. I recognized him as one of the new rookies, Carter Stone. He was gorgeous, with perfect golden hair and chiseled abs, just like all the other guys in this room. Nice, but nothing special.
"Hey there," he said. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Thanks," I replied, keeping my cool, "but it's hard to get my panties wet with my father in the room. Keith Grace. Know him?"
Carter shot a nervous look toward the bar. Keith Grace's six-foot-four stature and heavy frame could intimidate anyone. If not for a bad knee, he would have played ball himself. He looked up just then and scowled when he saw Carter talking to me.
"Oh, you’re Keith's daughter? Uh, nice to meet you," Carter said, then turned tail and ran.
My father would have preferred that I'd been born a boy. I think that working as a talent scout for the NFL, he wished he had an all-star athlete son that he could sign to one of the big leagues. Unfortunately for him, he had a daughter born with a body to kill for and an eye for talent but no talent of her own.
If only I could nail down Jackson Vega's contract renegotiations fast and easy, I knew my dad would be impressed. Free agents meant trouble for any team, especially if it meant losing a quarterback as talented as Jackson was. Florida was itching to grab him up, and I had to stop that from happening.
My phone buzzed, and I looked down to read Sara's text.
You promised me pictures of hot men. Where are they?
I sighed and looked around. If only Sara's cold hadn't turned into the flu, she'd be here with me now and could snap her own pictures. I looked around the room and saw Jackson standing in the corner with some girl draped all over him. Why not? I thought. He was certainly the hottest guy here. I casually held my phone up and snapped a picture of him for Sara. I sent it off to her, and when I looked back up, Jackson was smiling at me.
Shit.
He set aside the B-cup girl he'd been talking to, deciding my Ds were his new priority. With the dress I was wearing, I didn't blame him. Turquoise blue hugged my frame in all the right places, matching my eyes and drawing attention to my tits, just the way I liked it.
"Hey, beautiful," Jackson said.
His voice was like a smooth Cabernet, strong and a little bit sweet. I could see the look of an expert womanizer in his eyes as leaned into me, trying to make me feel special. He stood close enough that I could almost taste his scent on my tongue as he spoke. I smiled back, not at all intimidated despite his stunningly good looks. Sure, at twenty-three, he had the bronze hair of a beachcomber and the body of a Greek statue, but so what? He was just another jock, even if he was the hottest guy I'd ever laid eyes on.
"Hey, Jackson," I replied smoothly. "Looking for another notch in your belt?"
His smile faltered slightly before picking back up. "Just thought I'd say hi to the prettiest girl in the room."
I knew it was a line, but God, he looked good saying it. His perfect pink lips looked as though they could play both equally soft and hard against my skin, depending on his mood or mine. I wished he didn't smell so good. What the hell was it? Like ocean air and eucalyptus.
"I think we had better just keep things professional," I told him, not moving my steely gaze from his lustful one. "Considering we start contract renegotiations tomorrow."
"Oh, what's the harm in one drink, Emma?" My name rolled off his tongue like dew. My panties were getting hot, and I suddenly realized how close he was standing. I stuck one red fingernail out at him and pushed him back.
"Down, boy," I said, flashing him my smile. "I don't fuck football players. Ever. Last time I checked, that included you."
Jackson's smile dropped away, and his caramel eyes turned stormy. As good as he looked when he was trying to score, he looked even better when he was angry. My heart thumped hard against my chest, but I refused to let him see it.
"Bye now," I said, slowly turning away from him and walking toward the bar. I couldn't help smiling as he watched me go. I liked to leave them wanting more. I passed a group of Tomcats who were drunk and talking way too loudly. They must not have noticed me standing so close.
"The only way she's gonna get Jackson to sign with the Tomcats instead of Florida is if she fucks him so hard he forgets how much Florida's offering."
"That's probably why Keith chose her. I bet those tan legs of hers spread so wide Jackson will sign anything just to get in there."
I rounded on them, my temper flaring. "Athletes who fuck around on and off the field usually have a difficult time renewing their contracts. You assholes aren't that far away from ruining your reputations and your jobs. If I were you, I'd watch yourselves around me or I'll bury you when your contracts are up."
I left them with their jaws hanging open, feeling pretty damned good about myself. Suddenly, my father was beside me, pushing me into a side office. He closed the door behind us and turned on me.
"What the hell is the matter with you?" he snapped. His face contorted, and the little girl inside me wanted to run and hide.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You don't talk to the team like that, especially not athletes that the Tomcats want to keep under contract."
"But they were—"
"I know what they were saying, Emma. But you're a woman in a man's job. You're gonna hear a lot of shit. Either toughen up and learn to take it or get out now before you embarrass me."
He left the room, leaving me with tears rising in the back of my throat. I stood there a full five minutes before pulling myself together enough to go back out. Whatever joy had been here for me this evening was gone. I went straight to the bar and poured myself a vodka shot. And another. And another. The feeling that I wanted to cry was replaced with anger. At my father and at myself. What the fuck was wrong with me? I was a grown woman, not a little girl. I shouldn't feel so intimidated by my daddy.
"Hey there," a voice said. "You look like you could use a friend." I turned and saw Bryant Osbourne staring down at me. His six-foot frame screamed "delicious," and my mouth watered as the muscles in his arms flexed, pouring me another drink. His dark, tousled hair ran into his crystal blue eyes, and he brushed it out of the way.
"Thanks," I said, taking the drink. The only thing my dad hated more than me being a girl was the idea of me fucking a football player. Bryant was working hard to turn on the charm. I'd thought I was past the rebellious phase of my youth, but maybe, for tonight, I should just give in to it a little.
2
Jackson
I tossed back another beer and crushed the can against my head. "Boom!" I shouted, throwing it across the room where it landed in the trash. The group of girls who had gathered round me cheered. Patti, a blonde with curly hair and big tits, shoved her way in front of the other girls and pressed her tits against me
. My prick jumped to attention. She looked damned fine in that dress she was wearing, which was little more than a sequined bandage.
"You can do anything, can't you?" Patti purred.
"Hell yeah," I said, itching to touch her soft, golden skin.
"Does that include doing me?" she asked, batting her lashes.
I laughed and let my fingers run through her hair. It felt sticky, and I pulled them back out, wiping my fingers on my pants. Another woman whose name I didn't even know came up behind me and began to run her hands up and down my arms. She had red hair and alluring green eyes. This was every guy's wet dream. Since I was a teenager, sharing my uncle's tiny shack with my parents and cousins, I'd dreamed of having women throw themselves at my feet. Of money that never stopped rolling in so that I didn't have to live in a broken-out hut of a home. But something was nagging at me, stopping me from enjoying the moment right now when I should have been in a bedroom somewhere getting one of these girls wet.
I looked across the room at Emma, who was standing by the bar downing shots like they were water. She was by far the hottest chick in the room. She had sun-streaked hair that didn't look like it came out of a box, and her tits, though slightly smaller than Patti's, were clearly real. I'd given her my million-watt smile and everything. "Why the fuck did she say no to me?" I mumbled.
"What?" Patti asked, looking in Emma's direction.
"Nothing," I said. What the hell was wrong with me? Who cares if Emma wants to be a prude? Fuck her if I'm not good enough for her. Fuck her and her high horse.
"Tell us again how much money Florida's paying you," the redhead cooed. Her eyes were lit up like green stoplights. If I looked hard enough, I could see black dollar signs where her pupils ought to be.
"Three years, seventy million. Fifty guaranteed." The women oohed and ahhed. "They're not paying me yet," I reminded them. “I haven't signed the contract."