by Claire Adams
“Leave them off,” I whispered as I raised myself up on my toes to softly kiss his lips.
“Payton…” he murmured as he kissed me then turned his head away. “Don’t…please.”
“Why not?” I asked pressing myself against him. “It’s been a while and I think we could both use some release, don’t you think?”
“I can’t…” he said, shaking his head as I leaned in and began lightly kissing my way down his neck. Dax groaned softly as I ran my lips across his skin. “Payton…stop.”
“You want me to stop this?” I whispered as I lowered my hand so I could lightly run it up his thigh, stopping just before I crossed the line. “Are you sure?”
“No…yes….oh God,” he groaned as I kissed the skin exposed by the V of his t-shirt. I could feel him trying to resist, but I knew his desire ran as hot as my own. I could feel it in the way he’d reached for my hand under the dinner table, and the way he’d cradled me on the porch swing. I could feel it in the way he’d reached for me on the ride home and rested his chin on the top of my head, gently stroking my hair as we’d driven back from Gram’s.
“You’re sure you want me to stop?” I asked one last time as I tipped my head up and offered him my lips. When he looked down at me, I could see the need burning in his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, and then groaned loudly as he raised his hand and sunk it deep into my long, blonde hair, pulling me to him for a hard, deep kiss.
My body felt like it was on fire as we stood in the foyer making out like two hormone-fueled teenagers. Our hands were everywhere; touching and stroking each other through the layers of clothing. I could feel Dax pushing my skirt up around my waist as he slid a hand between my thighs. I unzipped his pants and shoved my hand into them, surprised to find that he’d gone commando. I grinned as I wrapped my fingers around his throbbing shaft and began squeezing as I stroked up and down.
“Jesus H. Christ, lady,” he exhaled as I ran a finger around the sensitive edge and spread the sticky liquid that was leaking from the tip. Meanwhile, he slid his fingers under the thin layer of fabric between my legs and was running the tips up and down my swollen lips.
“Oh fuck,” I groaned as he slipped his fingers between the slick folds and began stroking from top to bottom. I tightened my grip and began stroking faster, listening to his breathing get louder with every stroke.
“I’m getting close,” he warned as he dipped his fingers lower and slid inside me. I cried out as he rubbed my hard clit with this thumb and felt a wave of pleasure wash over me. My brain fought to keep focused on what I was doing as he worked to stay focused on me. We kissed hard and deep as our hands moved faster and faster. I could feel my body heading toward the point of no return and then in an instant, I felt it shoot through me as his thumb hit the right spot and sent me over the edge.
Dax groaned as I fought to bring him with me, and moments later he climaxed as I pulsed around his fingers. His hand continued a slow, steady rhythm as I felt wave after wave of my orgasm washing over me, and I held onto his throbbing shaft as he moved his hips in tight little thrusts. Our lips were still pressed tightly together as we slowly moved against one another.
“Thank you; I needed that,” I whispered into his lips and felt him smile.
“I need much more than that,” he murmured as his hand continued its slow rhythm. I could feel the wave of my orgasm cresting and my desire beginning to build again.
“Mmm hmm,” I nodded as I kissed him again. Dax’s response was to quickly withdraw his hand, scoop me up in his arms and head for my bedroom where we spent a long, sleepless night learning much more about each other.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dax
The rest of the week went smoothly as Payton and I fell into a familiar rhythm of work followed by dinner out, and then long nights full of the task of learning each other’s bodies. It was exhilarating yet exhausting, and by Friday we were both worn out. Payton had spent the week scouting the up-and-coming players for the next draft, and I’d had several interviews with candidates for the GM position.
Over dinner on Friday night, I decided to broach the topic of the Storm’s new GM with Payton. I knew it would be a touchy topic, but I also knew, after watching her work and hearing her talk about her passion for the game, that she was the one person who would give me an honest answer about my choice — even if it wasn’t her.
“So, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the interviews,” I said, carefully lobbing my intent at her. She studied the menu in front of her for a little longer than she normally did, and then put it down and smiled.
“So shoot,” she said. I tried to gauge her emotional state but if she was upset, she hid it well so I continued.
“I’ve got a couple of guys who I think might be a good fit, but I’m not sure if my gut reaction is right or not,” I said as the server put two wine glasses down and poured a dark-red Cabernet in each of them. She took our orders and then silently moved away.
“Who are you considering?” Payton asked before she sipped from her glass. So far, so good.
“It’s down to Al Mendoza and Herb Carter,” I said.
“You’re shitting me,” she said with a shocked look. I smiled because I’d already anticipated her response to my final two choices. “You cannot be serious. You’re going to try and bring in one of the two guys who were in the running for the Bears’ job? That’s insane.”
“Why? I think it’s smart,” I said picking up my glass. “They were on the short list for the Bears, so that means they must have had something going for them.”
“Dax, neither one of them were under serious consideration,” she said shaking her head. “Everyone knew that Ryan Pace was going to get the job, but my mother wanted to make it look like she’d conducted a real search before making a decision, so she picked candidates that she knew wouldn’t stack up against Pace in the eyes of the team and staff.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said. “Mendoza and Carter both have excellent records as recruiters and executives for the teams they’ve worked for, and they’re both deeply involved in their communities.”
“Indeed they do,” she nodded. “I’m just saying that they don’t have the kind of inside knowledge that you need to ensure that the Storm get the players they need. They’re smart men, and they have a lot to offer, but…”
“But they’re not you,” I said, realizing where she was going with this.
“You said it, not me,” she shrugged. I started to say something, but our server interrupted and put our dinner plates on the table. Payton dug into her dinner without looking up as I wondered if I should continue the conversation. She answered my question when she quietly said, “You should go with your gut and pick the one you think will be the best fit for the Storm.”
I nodded knowing that the problem was I wasn’t invested in the team the way I should be, so I didn’t have a gut feeling to follow.
Chapter Forty
Payton
Sunday morning, I woke dreading the decision I knew I was going to have to make. The Storm was set to play the Bears at Soldier Field, and I knew my mother was going to be furious when she found out I was sitting in the visitor’s box with Dax. He and I had a tense conversation on Friday night, but we’d managed to find a middle ground that allowed us to continue doing what we seemed to do best.
I rolled over and found him lying on his back with his hands behind his head staring up at the ceiling. Waking up next to Dax was something I enjoyed. Whether he was sleeping or awake, I could tell there was something going on in his brain, and I was constantly trying to understand what he was thinking. He didn’t seem to mind my questioning, and that often led us into passionate discussions that ended only when one of us could no longer keep our hands off the other. I smiled as I reached out and rested my hand on his chest.
“What are you thinking?”
“Just wondering about how today’s game is going to turn out,” he said.
“I thou
ght you didn’t care about football,” I teased as I moved closer and rested my cheek against his chest.
“I don’t,” he said, lightly kissing the top of my head. “I’m just curious about how the Storm is going to perform in Chicago, but away from their home turf.”
“I imagine they’ll perform the same way they do anytime they are away,” I said as I traced a wavy line on his skin with the tip of my finger, and felt him shiver.
“If you start that, we’re going to be late, you know,” he said sternly, but with a smile.
“Mmm hmm,” I said as I tipped my face up and kissed my way up his jaw line so I could whisper, “It’s fashionable to be late.”
Dax closed his eyes for a moment, nodded, and then quickly flipped the covers aside and got out of bed.
“Hey, where are you going?” I cried.
“We’ve got a game to attend, lady,” he said heading for the shower. “Get your priorities straight, will ya?”
I laughed as I pulled myself out of bed and went to make us coffee and breakfast.
A few hours later, we were seated in the visitor’s skybox at Soldier Field watching the Storm take their place on the sidelines as the Bears waited in the home tunnel just out of sight. I felt torn between the underdogs I’d grown to love, and the victors I’d grown up adoring. Gram had begged off the game saying that she didn’t want to watch the two teams she loved compete. I completely understood.
The kickoff gave us a clear indication that this game was going to be a brutal battle for the hearts and minds of Chicago fans. The Bears, determined to assert themselves as the victors early on, began battering the Storm, knocking them hard and celebrating every play. The fans went wild as the Bears held the Storm back from the goal line through the first and second quarters. By the end of the first half, the Storm managed to score two touchdowns and was leading the Bears 14-10.
As the halftime show began, I noticed a small skirmish taking place down near the goal line. Several security guards bounded down the stadium steps as a fight broke out between fans from the opposing teams. This wasn’t unheard of, and in many ways, it was very Bears-like. The Bears represented the rough and tumble way of getting things done, and the Ditka-era had solidified the belief that the Bears were the league team that best represented the working-class values of dedication and hard work. And there was pride and tradition at stake in this game.
As I scanned the stadium, I realized fights were breaking out all over and the security personnel were having to do much more than usual as they rushed to try and break up the skirmishes. I looked over and saw Dax watching intently, too.
“This isn’t good,” I said quietly.
“Nah, it’s just folks blowing off steam and asserting their top dog status,” he assured me. “This kind of stuff goes on all the time where I grew up. I wouldn’t get too worried about it.”
I nodded, but I had the sneaking suspicion he didn’t quite believe what he said. Something else was going on, and as the game headed into the second half, the fans seemed to become more agitated. The teams took the field in a cacophony of sound that mixed cheers and boos, and as the third quarter progressed, the energy in the stands increased. At the beginning of the fourth quarter, the Bears drove hard for the goal line and crossed it, sparking a deafening roar from the fans. The score was now 14-17 with the Bears in the lead.
The Storm offense took the field, and Johnny Riggs gathered the guys in a huddle as he tried to give the play over the noise from the crowd. They hustled into formation and Riggs swung his head from right to left as he shouted the countdown then grabbed the ball from the center and dropped back, looking for an opening. The Bears defense, fortified by the crowd’s noise, ran toward Riggs as a solid line and sacked him. I winced as I saw his head hit the ground as the enormous defensive line piled on top of him. It took a while to remove the bodies, but once they were off, Riggs slowly raised himself up to a sitting position and shook his head. Jamal Williams offered him a hand and pulled him up off the ground, and stood facing the quarterback.
“What’s going on?” Dax asked.
“I’m guessing he’s trying to figure out if Riggs is okay,” I said. Hits like those were hard on a quarterback and with all of the new information about traumatic brain injuries flooding the game, I knew that even the guys who were willing to risk it all were worried about the after-effects of such hits.
“Should they be pulling him?” Dax asked as he stood looking out over the field with a worried expression. “I mean, should I go down and tell Nick to pull him?”
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” I warned.
“Why not? It’s my investment, and I’m responsible for protecting it,” he argued.
“Yeah, but they’re Nick’s players and he will not appreciate you interfering,” I said, knowing that there was no way I could stop Dax if he chose to intervene. “Just wait and see what happens.”
“This game is so fucked up,” he said, turning away from the window.
“No more so than any other,” I said. “Besides, they know what they’re getting into, and they’ve got a right to make the choice for themselves.”
“You think brain injuries are a choice that players should have to make?” he asked with a shocked look on his face.
“No, I’m just saying it’s part of the game, and players accept the risks,” I replied.
A sudden increase in the noise coming from the crowd drew our attention and we watched as Riggs walked off the field accompanied by the team trainers and two players. Dax turned toward me, and I said, “You’re getting your wish.”
“Whose going in for him?” he asked.
“Jesus, you really don’t care about this team, do you?” I spat.
“Don’t get mad at me,” he growled. “I told you this team was just an investment, not some kind of childhood fantasy.”
“But you’re worried about the players’ health,” I protested.
“Only because it affects my bottom line,” he replied coolly.
“You’re an asshole,” I shot back.
“And you’re overly emotional about a game,” he said as I stopped talking and seethed quietly. Whatever connection there had been between us was perilously close to being cut as I listened to his cold assessment of the men who played the game I loved.
We spent the rest of the fourth quarter silently watching the Bears take control of the field and drive to the goal again. When they couldn’t quite reach the end zone, they aimed for a field goal and upped their lead to 14-20. Nick sent the offense led by Martin Gaddis, the second-string quarterback, and the Bears fans booed loudly as they were denied the chance to watch Riggs be vanquished once and for all. Gaddis did his best to connect passes with the receivers, but the Bears defensive line was in control and the Storm had to punt the ball away. The Bears ran down the clock on their final possession and as time ran out, Bears fans erupted in a celebration while the Storm fans headed for the exits.
I looked over at Dax who was on the phone with the head of security, arranging an escort to get us to our car.
“Do you really think that’s necessary?” I asked rolling my eyes.
“Actually, yes, I do,” he said. “Geo texted and said the crowds are out of control down there and he was wondering whether he should come back later and pick us up.”
“It can’t be any worse than any other game,” I protested. I’d seen some rowdy fans do some wild things in my life, but I’d never seen the Bears fans get out of control — at least not in a way that the security teams couldn’t quickly control. “Turn on the news; I’m sure if there’s something really bad going on, they’ll say something about it.”
Dax grabbed the remote used to the control the various amenities in the skybox and flipped on the widescreen television. A reporter for WLS stood just outside of the stadium giving an account of the situation as fans streamed by shouting obscenities at one another. Behind the reporter, a fight broke out and two police officers quickly moved in
to break it up as the crowd cheered the combatants. I watched in horror as a group of young men wearing Bears colors clashed with a group in Storm gear and the reporter was shoved to the ground as the men began punching one another, but the cameraperson managed to stay upright and continue recording.
“Dax, we have to stop this,” I said as the fight grew bigger and spilled out into the parking lot.
“Wouldn’t that be your mother’s job?” he asked dryly.
“Someone has to do something!” I shouted as a bystander was hit with a flying bottle and crumpled to the ground.
“I’m not sure what it is you expect me to do,” he said as the camera swung around to catch a group of obviously drunk men rocking a security vehicle as it tried to moved out of the crowd.
“Stop them!”
“Payton, I’m not sure that’s possible at this point,” he said as we both stood staring at the screen, watching the violence unfold.
We weren’t able to leave the stadium until the Chicago Police Department got the crowd under control several hours later. The damage had been widespread as fans of the Bears and the Storm clashed and then took their beefs out into the city as they looked for ways to show their opponents who was boss. A handful of people had been transported to emergency rooms across the city to be bandaged and stitched up, and several cars had been burned after fans had found beatings unsatisfying, but the rioting had been contained by the police and security.
Geo told us he’d driven away from the fray when he saw the fans come streaming out of the stadium and had parked a few miles down Lake Shore Drive and waited for the pandemonium to subside. I’d wanted to go down to the training room and check on Gus, but Dax had said security guards sealed off all access to the team locker rooms and wouldn’t open them up until the parking lot had been cleared.