I blush, even if the word perfect is meant for the dress and not me. "A gift, from a friend. Like you, her family has money, although she's more free and has a better relationship with her folks. She bought it for me just before we graduated together and she moved to Vancouver. We still email every once in a while. She'll be happy I finally wore this thing."
Tyler smirks, and takes my hand again. "Well, that 'thing' makes you look like a Hollywood A-lister."
I feel heat rush to my cheeks again, and as the check comes, Tyler takes out his credit card. He sees the look of concern on my face and shakes his head, smiling. "No worries, the card's good until I get my first paycheck from the Fighters.”
"I don't know . . . a walk maybe?" I say, and Tyler smiles. "Not too far though, my feet will die in these heels if I go far."
"Then we'll keep it short," Tyler says, offering his hand. I take his arm again, and we stop at the front register to sign the bill and then he leads me outside. It's a perfect night, too, with not a hint of clouds in the sky and just a light breeze kissing away the warmth of the day.
"That was a great dinner," I say thankfully as we turn the corner. "I haven't had such a good time in . . . well, I can't remember."
"I enjoyed it too. You know, your point about hockey caught me off guard, I didn't think about how those guys are going to be so much more popular than I will."
"You're taking it in stride though."
Tyler laughs and gives me a look that turns my knees to jelly, it's smoldering and sexy and just . . . damn! "I didn't say I like it, just that I accept it. Besides, I'm not looking for attention."
"What are you looking for?" I ask, and Tyler stops, his eyes telling me exactly what he's looking for. Magically, our bodies come closer, and I feel like I'm in a dream. I can feel the warmth of his body through his suit, and I put my hands on his chest, my heart racing as I look into his eyes. With my heels on, he's just the right height to . . . "I'm sorry Tyler, I can't."
Tyler, whose lips are only a finger's width away from mine, stops, his voice low and soft. "Stop what? That I want to kiss you? What's wrong with that?"
"We shouldn’t. We work together, and I need this job,” I protest, forcing my legs to take a step back even though every bit of me wants to keep going forward. "Please . . . just take me back to the hotel."
I realize what I just said, and swallow, my face already turning red. If I was just going to this, why’d I even come to begin with? “I mean, to my car. I just can't."
Tyler considers me for a moment, and I can feel his hands on my arm and waist, and I know that if he pulls, there's nothing I can do to stop him. He's so strong, and half of me wants him to pull closer, to kiss me and take me . . . to just take me. But instead, he relents, a little smile on his face. "I can see it in your eyes, April. You don't want to say no, but you think you should. Well, I can respect that. A good quarterback knows when to be patient, and when to force the action. Come on, let's go get the car."
When I get home, I'm trying not to cry in frustration, my body is so torn. For years, I've dreamed of having a date with a man like Tyler . . . no, wait, with Tyler himself, and when I have him right there, in his arms . . . I chicken out?
"What the hell am I doing?" I whisper as I look at the sad, pathetic girl in the mirror, playing dress up with her costume. The heels that scream fuck me… the dress . . .
My phone rings, and I see that it's from Tyler. “Hello, Tyler?"
"I know what you're thinking right now," he says, and even through the phone the warm tenor of his voice helps pick me up. "I'm telling you right now . . . you looked beautiful tonight. That's no lie . . . you looked beautiful. I'll see you at the stadium tomorrow."
Tyler hangs up, and I feel like I'm floating again. I lean against the wall, my eyes closing in delight.
"You are beautiful," Tyler says, so handsome and debonair in his suit. The fireplace crackles, and I feel the warmth on the bare skin of my back. He comes closer, he hands coming to rest on my hips. "How could I have forgotten such a beautiful girl?"
"It's been a long time," I whisper, my hands coming up around his neck. "There had to have been some in between."
"That doesn't make it right," Tyler says, pulling me closer. "But I'm going to make up for it now."
His lips find mine, and I'm lost in the warmth of his hands, his lips strong and seeking. His tongue touches my lips and I open up, our kiss deepening until we're sharing breath, his tongue reaching deep inside before he kisses down my throat, hot electric trails as he pulls the straps of my dress to the side, baring my body to him.
Naked, I feel soft and vulnerable, but Tyler reassures me. I turn back around, and I realize that Tyler's naked now too, his suit having disappeared. I don't care, the feeling of his skin under my fingertips wiping away any worries. Instead, Tyler pushes me back, until I'm pressed against the wall next to the fireplace, the warmth seeping through as he lifts my leg.
"This is a fantasy," I whisper, even as I feel the head of Tyler's cock nestle between my thighs. "This can't be real."
"Fantasies can sometimes become real," he whispers in my ear, and suddenly he thrusts, filling me perfectly, his body pinning me against the wall.
Maybe it is a fantasy, but the feeling of him sliding in and out of me is more than I can imagine, and I lift my other leg, wrapping my feet around to hold him tight as he drives himself over and over into me, each thrust perfect and amazing.
"Tyler . . . so many years . . ."
"There's never been anyone to fully replace you," Tyler grunts as he fucks me, hard and strong, my body crying out in waves of pleasure. "Nobody has ever been in that secret place in my heart."
"You . . . you either," I groan as my body builds. Words fall aside, and we're caught up, jolt after jolt of ecstasy shooting through my body. Tyler's lips are on my neck, his kisses adding to the amazing sensation, the two of us going higher and higher, toward what I've needed for too long.
Tyler clenches, his breath catching, and with a final thrust he explodes, triggering my orgasm along with him. "Oh Tyler . . ."
"Fantasies can come true . . ."
I blink, realizing that my words were my own whisper, and that the warm fireplace wall that I'd been leaning against was actually the wall of my apartment, where the sun and water heater combine to make the plasterboard great in winter, and hot in summer.
"Fantasies . . ." I whisper again, sighing. "Fantasies don't come true for a girl like me."
I peel my dress the rest of the way off and kick it toward my closet. There's enough time that I can take a shower, and maybe not feel so damn pathetic when I go to bed tonight.
Chapter 7
Tyler
I feel weird, that's the only way to describe it. Part of it is the uniform. After wearing the green and white of the Western Bulldogs for five years, the black and gold of the Fighters seems different. Twice now I've had to recheck throws as I first look for a green helmet, and see nothing but gold instead.
Then there's the ball. It's supposedly the same as an American ball, but the stripes going all the way around are different, and to be honest, the ball just feels a bit . . . different.
There's no center in this drill, just me and the receivers, so I drop back, taking my five steps before looking. I look down field, where I see DeAndre Ballard, the top wideout on the team, running a fifteen yard out pattern. There's no defenders, this is just the first day of practice for me and I'm just getting my feet underneath me again, which is good as my throw falls far too short, DeAndre having to stop and actually go back a step to grab the pass.
"Shit!"
"What was that?" Coach Blanchard asks. He's been watching the drill this whole time, and so far he hasn't had too many good things to say. "That's a high school level throw!"
"I know," I say, upset. Coach is being nice, I haven't fucked up a simple no defense throw like that since my flag football days in elementary school. "My bad."
"Yeah, well, take a minute
and get your head right, Tyler. I need to check on how the linemen are coming along."
Coach Blanchard walks over to the other end of the stadium, where the big men are starting to work on some light pad drills. I'm in shorts and shoulder pads myself, the big red 'no touch' tank top over my white practice jersey. The receivers come over, less concerned than I thought they'd be.
"Sorry about that last one," I say, trying to be casual. Still, I'm frustrated, this has not been the start to my pro career that I was looking for. If I want to earn a shot down in the States again, I'm going to have to look a lot better than I have been.
"Don't sweat it," DeAndre says. Another American, he's been with the team for nearly ten years, and was with Calgary before that. He's coming to the end of his pro career, and from what I read quickly about him, he might stay in Canada. He met his wife while he played in Calgary, and is eligible for Canadian citizenship if he wants it. "It took me a while to adjust too."
"How long? I mean, I threw it just like I did before."
"That's your problem," Paul Manson, another one of the wide receivers, says. Paul's Canadian, and has been playing for about three years. I was surprised to learn that one of the rules of the Canadian League is that half of the players must be Canadian citizens or permanent residents, which creates some friction between the different groups. The Canadians feel upset that the guys like me are brought in, when there's a lot of guys who grew up under what they call "Canadian Code," playing the game.
Meanwhile, of course, there are the guys like me, who played college games in stadiums bigger than anything in the Canadian League and had television audiences that were almost the size of the entire population of Canada. We've played on a bigger stage, and against some better athletes as well… no offense to DeAndre, Paul, or Robbie Storm, the other wideout that I've been working with, but Duncan Hart would kick all their asses.
Still, I'm the one fucking up right now, not them. So Paul has a right to bitch. "What do you mean?"
"You're throwing based on outside visual cues," Robbie says when Paul stalks off without answering. Guess Paul doesn't want to help the new guy until I earn his respect. All right, I can play that game. "Like the sideline. You're throwing to an American sideline, expecting that width. This field is twelve yards wider than what you're used to. Just try to throw to the man, not the field until you get used to it."
"What's his problem?" I ask Robbie quietly while Paul grabs some water. "I'm just asking."
"Rumor has it that the only reason he kept his spot on the team this year is because of the fifty-fifty rule," Robbie says. "The team brought in some new free agent American talent on the line, and so he was kept around so that they could cut Henri Batard, the old right tackle. Henri got traded to Montreal, which I guess is better for him, anyway. Closer to home."
"But by bringing in Dave Hawk, your new center, that threw off the fifty-fifty balance," DeAndre says. "Don't worry about it, one of the weird parts of the rule is that quarterbacks don't figure into the equation. You're equally Canadian and American in the League's eyes."
"Great . . ." I mutter, and take a deep breath. "All right, well, I'll keep that in mind. Let's run it again."
Practice continues, and I start to get the hang of things. It's actually fun as I look around, mainly because of the bigger number of players on both sides. The number of linemen is the same, but because Canadian rules has twelve players per side, it means I can have five and even six targets on each passing down. It's a lot like a video game, and as I relax, I start to have some fun with it.
We head to the line, where I get into shotgun behind Dave Hawk, a massive guy from Minnesota who played third string and scout team in the League for two years before coming to Canada for the past three. He's a consummate pro, and I take his snap without any problems, scanning my receivers. Robbie is my primary option this play, and I see him with half a step on his defender, so I let it fly, hoping my grip is stable.
The pass isn't perfect, I'm still adjusting to the new type of ball, but I've thrown a lot worse, and Robbie catches it without breaking stride too much before he's slapped, signifying the end of the play. That's another thing Coach Blanchard likes to do, limit contact. I'm used to it as a quarterback, but on the Fighters, most of the other players also have limited contact, except the linemen who have no choice quite often. Some coaches might say that it makes the Fighters 'soft,' but it should keep us from being injured.
"That's better," Coach Blanchard says from his position behind the play.
I step back while he gives the second unit quarterback, a Canadian veteran named Vince Cunningham a few snaps. Vince has been with the team for ten years, and been playing in the Canadian League for twenty-one years, and I've been told he's going to go straight into an offensive coordinator's role after this season is done.
"That's another thing you're going to have to learn," Robbie, who also is getting a few plays off, says as he unsnaps his helmet. "The pace. You don't have forty seconds of play clock to work with, you've got twenty. Lots of guys can't handle the pace at first, even QBs. They get tired, and it starts to affect them at the end of drives. Just a hint . . . you're going to run a lot."
"Thank you Coach Taylor and Carrie," I mutter, and Robbie gives me a strange look. "My old S&C coach, and his main intern. Those two can make an Olympian toss their cookies if they wanted to. I'll hang."
I go to say more, but a flash of black hair on the sidelines catches my attention, and I turn my head to see April watching practice. She looks cute in her team polo and khakis, not as hot as last night, but still cute. Her dress was the right mix of classy and sexy, and the way her hair flowed down her back, I've never seen hair quite like it before, totally natural while still looking nearly salon perfect.
"Tyler? Tyler! Head's up!"
I turn my head back in surprise just as a ball comes arcing back from the players out practicing, with the bad luck to be aimed directly at my nuts. The ball blasts me between the legs and I drop, holding my injured testicles in agony while my knees fold and I collapse onto the grass. I hear startled reactions then laughter from everyone on the field, but my eyes are squeezed tightly it hurts so damn bad.
"You okay?" Robbie asks, kneeling down next to me.
“Not really… the crown jewels,” I gasp out, slowly opening my eyes. "What the fuck happened?"
"Coach called for you to take over, so Vince tossed the ball toward you," Robbie says, trying to not laugh. "I can see why you don't play wideout."
"F . . . fuck you," I reply with a shaky laugh. "Holy shit that hurt."
I get to my knees and Robbie gives me a hand up, which I accept gratefully. "Well, next time pay better attention. You've been staring at Fumbles for two minutes now."
"Who?"
"Fumbles. It's what a lot of the guys call April Gray, since she seems to keep fumbling every assignment she's handed. I'm surprised you got to practice in one piece."
I'm hot suddenly, and I shove Robbie away. “Well she seems fine to me.”
“All right. Think your nuts can take over now?"
I can, and I do, running the offense through the rest of the plays until it's time for the defense to get their reps in. As I watch, catching a breath before I go back to working some more with my throwing grip, I think about what happened between me and Robbie, and how it angered me that he called April “fumbles”. I guess I finally understand why Duncan nearly beat the shit outta me for calling Carrie Mittel 'PAT' during the game against Farmington.
Does that mean that I'm starting to have feelings for April? I think about what I said to her, about searching for my One. I've used it as a line, an angle for getting into a girl's bed, but for some reason . . . last night it didn't sound like as much bullshit as normal.
Maybe I’m just in a dry spell, that’s all. I'll hook up with April, we can have some fun. I’ll show her what she’s been missing, that she needs to get out there and find a man.
Practice ends, and after I shower
I find April waiting for me outside the locker room. "Hi. How was apartment setup?"
"Your stuff is mostly set up,” she answers plainly.
I smile and pat her on the shoulder. "Thanks. What's still left?"
"I didn't get your dresser put together," she says, "I can do it tomorrow."
"Forget it, I'll do it on the weekend," I say with a laugh. "Actually, I had another question for you. What are you doing Wednesday night?"
"Wednesday?" she asks, surprised. "Uh . . . nothing. I was going to visit my parents on Saturday."
"Great," I say with a smile, taking her left hand and squeezing it. "So how about you and I go out on another date? I'll let you pick everything, it can be casual, dressy, whatever you want. Hell, open to just chilling on the side of the lake, or whatever else you want."
"I don't know Tyler," April says, her voice faulty. "I meant what I said. We work together, I work for you even. If it goes bad…”
“April, even if that did happen, I’m not one to hold grudges. Just . . . last night was a lot of fun, and I'd like to do it again, that's all."
I'm playing up my own nervousness, but it's not all an act. I really do want her to say yes, and not just to get my rocks off. What the hell's wrong with me? “Come on, April, I know you had fun too.”
"Okay," she finally says, blushing again. "I'll think of something, can I tell you tomorrow?"
"That's fine," I reply. "Thanks. So why are you waiting outside the locker room?"
"The front office wanted me to get your signature on some forms here for the insurance company. It's for your car."
"Sure, that's fine," I say, scribbling where she’s put the little Post-It flags. "I saw you at practice."
"I saw you too," April says, blushing before starting to giggle. "Sorry, but it looked painful."
I laugh, the ghost of the pain hitting me again, but not too badly. I'll still want to be freeballin' for the rest of the night, which I fully intend to do when I get back to my apartment, but I'm able to grin and bear it for now. "Yeah, I should have been paying more attention. Not the smoothest thing in the world, was it?"
Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance Page 6