Just Playin': Romantic Sports Comedy

by Shandi Boyes

  After scrubbing the stubble on his chin, Dalton murmurs, “It’s months, but only four—”

  My brows rocket up my face. “So I’ll be thirty-one for a few weeks while she’s only twenty-one? Fuck, Dalton. That’s wrong. So very very wrong.”

  Dalton screws up his face. “No, it’s not. Age doesn’t matter when sparks are flying.”

  “Says the guy married to a woman who’s only sixteen days younger than him.”

  “We’re not talking marriage, Elvis. Just a bit of fun. A little playtime to loosen the tight strings you’ve been controlled by the past twelve months.”

  I smack him in the chest before giving him a stern finger point. “If you ever use a word like ‘playtime’ around me ever again, I’ll rearrange your face.” I check that the coast is still clear before asking, “Besides, who says she wants me? You heard her. She thinks football players are dumb fucks who get paid to chase a ball around a field.”

  “We do get paid to chase a ball around a field,” Dalton’s reply reveals whose side he’s on. He’s not my wingman anymore; he’s Willow’s.

  Fucking traitor!

  I halfheartedly shrug, my attitude at an all-time high. There is a bro-code no man should ever cross—Dalton just crossed it.

  “You might get paid to fuck around, but I don’t. I earn every penny I get.”

  Dalton’s arched brow reveals he doesn’t believe a word I’m speaking, but he remains quiet on that matter, preferring to take up his first campaign. “Come on, Elvis, admit it. You like her as much as we do because she brings out a side of you no one has seen in years.”

  His comment shows he’s including Becca. Even though she’s not in the room, she’s still a part of our conversation.

  “Tonight was the first time in a long time I saw the man who stood at my side when I married the love of my life. There were points during the past decade I thought you’d never come back.”

  I won’t lie, his words get me a little choked up. I know what he’s saying—whole-fucking-heartedly—but there is more at stake here than just the resurrection of a personality.

  “Things are complicated.”

  Dalton nods in full agreement. “I know, brother, I know.” He slaps my shoulder before giving it a squeeze. “Just like I knew Lillian wasn’t good for you, and Willow quite possibly could be. But you’ll never make any sense out of it if you don’t take a leap of faith.”

  Those are the exact words I spoke to him when his feelings for Becca took him by surprise. He was scared. Rightfully so. They had the world against them, yet they still made it out of the storm without a drop of rain on them.

  “She’s ten years younger than me—”

  Dalton purses his lips. “Nine, but who’s counting?”

  I continue crossing off my objections as if he never spoke. “She’s nothing like Lillian—”

  He makes a duh face. “Like that’s a bad thing.”

  “And. . .”

  I flex my fists, lost on another objection. Dalton was right on the money when it came to Lillian. He called her a blood-sucking leech on many occasions—long before we became a couple. Did I listen to him? No, I didn’t. Did I pay for my error? Yeah, in more ways than you’ll ever understand. Have I learned from my mistake? Up until ten minutes ago, I would have said no. Now... now I’m just praying I get out of tonight alive.

  “Fine. I’ll drive her home.” Before Dalton can fist bump me, I warn, “But if things go south, I get naming rights for your kid.”

  Not giving him the chance to reply, I enter the kitchen. Stupid ass nerves grown men like me shouldn’t have settle when Willow watches me cross the room. She’s pretending to peruse a taxi pamphlet. Her acting skills are so top-shelf that if her syrupy smell didn’t intensify with every step I take, I would believe she hasn’t spotted me.

  It’s a pity for her I’m smarter than she thinks.

  It’s also a pity her good deed is about to be rewarded in the most controversial way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Willow

  “A re you sure you don’t mind? I’m happy to take a taxi home.”

  Although I’m giving Elvis an out, latching my seatbelt shows my eagerness to stay. It isn’t that I’m hopeful something magical is about to occur between us. I just want a chance to apologize for announcing his erection to his friends as if it were a gross deformity.

  It was far from gross—quite the opposite actually—I’ve just never handled so much. . . man-meat I was petrified I had badly injured him.

  I give up waving goodbye to Becca and Dalton when Elvis lies, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t far from your university.”

  I know he’s lying because Becca mentioned his apartment was only a few blocks over numerous times when our evening began. That’s the only snippet of information she disclosed on him in over eight hours. Apparently, my legendary interrogation skills aren’t as stellar as I had hoped. Bar his name and impressive crotch size, Elvis still remains a mystery.

  Aiming to ease my curiosity, I ask, “Investment banker?”

  His mysteriousness has me so twisted up in knots, even with it being past 4 AM, I’m a live-wire. My veins are thrumming with excitement, and sweat is beading on my top lip. It’s lucky the confines of his car are dark, or I’d look like one hot-ass mess.

  When Elvis smirks before shaking his head, I guess again, “Stock broker?”

  His smile picks up, as does his shaking head.

  “Insurance consultant?”

  His eyes stray from the nearly deserted road to me. “What about any of this. . .” When he drags his hand down his body, I pretend I wasn’t already ogling it by following his hands’ descent, “. . . screams soft cock with a stick shoved up his ass?”

  “Your hair.” I slap my hand over my mouth, mortified I said my comment out loud. I’m not really embarrassed. I just don’t want Elvis to think I’m a total bitch.

  “Oh, okay, now my hair is an issue?” His tone is more playful than grumpy. He’s got the uptight, brooding personality down pat, but I can see a glimmer in his eyes that reveals he’s got a mischievous side he’s yet to expose. “And exactly what is wrong with my hair?”

  “It has that messy look, like you just got out of bed.” Like a woman ran her fingers through it while you ate her out like you hadn’t eaten in a week.

  My inner thoughts annoy me more than they please me. Elvis’s hair is so thick and luxurious, I have no doubt I’m not the first woman to fantasize about gripping it while he goes down on me. Add his messy locks to his chiseled jaw, piercing brown eyes, and undeniably fit body, and you’ve got the perfect package to have women’s heads in a tizzy.

  I’m extra woozy just from sitting across from him the past five minutes. I thought my flighty response was because our shoulders touched when he entered his flashy yet compact car, but now I’m not so sure. The sweat beading on my lip isn’t the only sticky situation I’m handling right now, and no, I’m not referring to my undies. . . sorry, let me correct that, panties. I’m so hot, I wind down the window, hoping some fresh air will settle my erratic heart rate.

  “You alright?” Elvis drags his eyes over my sweat-beaded face before dropping them to my cleavage. He’s not checking me out—unfortunately—he’s taking in the drenched edge of my low neckline. “Bedhead gets you that upset?”

  “It’s not that. . .” I stop speaking as my stomach makes a noise it should never make, much less when I’m sitting in a very small car with a very handsome man. “Please hurry.”

  Elvis flattens his foot to the floor before my two short words leave my mouth. It could be the clamping of my hand over my mouth advising him to hurry, or the horrid smell vaporing between us. My stomach is churning so badly, pockets of gas were bound to be released at some stage. Unfortunately, they didn’t wait for me to give them permission.

  Elvis peers at me in disgust. “Jesus, Willow, is that you?”

  “No!” I doubt he can hear my denial over the loud grumble making its way f
rom my stomach to my back entrance. “That smell isn’t me! It’s coming from outside.”

  I’m such a liar. I didn’t mean to fart; I just had no choice. My stomach was cramping so intensely, it snuck out before I knew it was coming.

  Elvis slides down his window before angling his head so his flaring nostrils catch the night air streaming past. “Oh sweet lord. That’s not natural. You really should get that checked.”

  I punch him in the bicep, unappreciative of his humor. I’m five seconds from dying, and he’s laughing like he’s at the Comedy Club.

  When we brake at a red light, the couple in the car next to us glare at me with their brows pulled together. Elvis’s head is hanging out the window like a dog enjoying a late afternoon drive in summer. There’s just one difference: he has plugged his nose.

  Not the least bit embarrassed at the attention we’re gaining, Elvis waves at the couple with his spare hand. They don’t wave back.

  “Please stop. They’re looking at me funny.”

  My words arrive with a barrage of giggles, making the tightness in my stomach even more noticeable. I can’t do this. Just like it isn’t possible to have both a big bust and a tiny waist, it’s impossible not to giggle and fart at the same time.

  I clutch my stomach with all my might, praying that whatever is in there stays put until I make it back to my dorm. “Just go, please!”

  “It’s a red light.” Elvis’s deep timbre is muffled since he’s still protecting his nose from the horrid stench lingering between us. “I can’t run a red light.”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll pay the fine if you get one. . .” My words taper off when the most unladylike noise rumbles from my stomach to my throat. It may be only a burp, but it’s as unpleasant as the sneaky fart I released two minutes ago. “Please, Elvis. Please, please, please, please, please.”

  I stop begging when his dark car slips through the intersection at a rate fast enough we don’t collide with any cars that have the right of way, but not fast enough to miss the flash of a red camera light. I’m as broke as a pregnant hooker, but I’ll find the money to pay his fine. I’ll work extra shifts, or force Skylar into a rant that will have our swear jar brimming with one dollar bills. I’ll do anything. . . once I’ve brought myself out of the trench I plan on hiding in for eternity.

  Elvis’s eyes stray from a row of buildings on our right to me. “Which one is yours?”

  “Any. The closest. Just pull over!”

  Not waiting for him to heed my demand, I fling open his door, toss off my seatbelt with so much force I nearly whack him in the head, then hightail it to the closest dormitory. All the buildings in my university are configured the same way. They have a lobby with two guest toilets. One of them better be free, or I’m about to gain a new nickname.

  “Shall I call you?”

  I’m clutching my butt cheeks together as forcefully as vomit is racing up my esophagus, but nothing will stop me flipping Elvis the bird. He didn’t ask his question with genuine interest. It was brimming with hilarity, like my embarrassment is the most entertaining thing he’s ever encountered.

  Wanker.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Presley

  I wait for Willow to enter the dorm she’s charging toward before slipping into my car. My body is shuddering so hard, my chuckles have coated my skin with a dense layer of sweat, and my stomach is aching.

  I’m an ass for laughing, but my god, when Karma comes to play, she leaves no survivors. Willow is a hoot; she speaks it as she sees it and doesn’t hesitate to put people in their place, but even she was left speechless by the smell her body was excreting. The stench was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. It reminded me of when the guys and I went on a spinach diet to shed the chub before our championship weekend. Seventy eighteen-year-old males doing a cleanse with only eight toilets. The odds were stacked against us from the start.

  After dragging my hand across my nape to remove the sweat sitting there, I latch my belt. Its click sounds familiar, but the noise coming from my stomach is brand new. I’ve never heard my gut make such a disturbing noise. It’s usually as solid as iron—nothing affects it.

  “Oh sweet Jesus,” I murmur to myself when pain shreds through my midsection so hard and fast, I nearly fold in two. “Oh, no, motherfucker, you’re not doing that here.”

  Burning rubber lingers in my nostrils when I slam into reverse and tear out of the parking spot I barely made it into before Willow evacuated my car as quickly as my stomach’s contents are attempting to exit my body.

  Guilt for laughing at Willow slams into me as I race through the isolated streets at a speed too fast to be safe. The pain is intense, almost as extreme as when she rammed her cue stick into my nuts.

  I make the usual twenty-minute trip to my apartment in under eight. The light traffic aided in my race, but so did my foot’s love of the gas pedal. A plume of gas follows my track up the stairs to my front door. Every step is the equivalent of having a knife stabbed into my rectum.

  What the fuck is this, and why is Karma biting my ass? I behaved tonight. . . for the most part.

  “No!”

  I hold my finger in the air, suspending Danny from breaking into a conversation when I enter my home. He’s camping on my sofa while his place is being fumigated. Little does he know he’s about to face a brand new type of fumigation. My charge across the living room should advise him of my urgency, much less the tight grip of my jaw.

  I’VE BEEN in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes before Danny risks death to knock on the door. “Are you alright? Do you want me to light a match?”

  I groan, hating the mirth in his tone but understanding it. I thought it was hilarious when this was happening to Willow. Now I feel like a dipshit.

  “I’m never eating Chinese again.”

  “Oh. . .” I can’t see Danny, but I can imagine his face screwed up in thought. “There’s an all-night pharmacy around the corner; want me to go grab you something?”

  My lips perk. When Danny asked if he could sleep on my couch, all I saw were negatives. I never thought it could benefit me.

  “That would be great.”

  Danny’s shadow stops moving away from the door when I shout his name. “While you’re there, can you do me a favor?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Willow

  M y bare feet shuffle along the floorboards as I make the eight steps between my bed and my door. I feel like death warmed up. Last night was. . . I don’t have words. Horrendous. Disgusting. I’m never ever eating Chinese food again. If it isn’t bad enough I passed wind in front of a stranger, my dormitory only has communal bathrooms. It’s been a horrible five hours, and I’d give anything to restart—minus the gobbling of uncooked chicken.

  After gripping the doorknob with a sweat-coated hand, I swing open my door. “It’s 9 AM on a Sunday; what the hell do you want?”

  A man I’d guess to be early to late-twenties balks when he sees me. It’s not his fault. I’m braless, shoeless, and pants-less. I can barely see through the bags swelling under my eyes, and the minute bit of mascara I had on yesterday is smeared on my cheek. I can’t see it, but I can feel it.

  “Yep. That’s vomit,” I murmur through a gag when his eyes zoom in on a blob of brown I was too woozy to handle at 6 AM.

  I rest my head on the doorframe before raising my bloodshot eyes to his. “What do you want?” I think that’s what I say. I can’t be certain, though. My pulse is thumping into my ears too loudly to be confident of anything.

  “Ah. . .” His wide eyes drop to a clipboard in his hand. “I have a delivery for a Willow.” He returns his eyes to me. “Is that you?”

  “Yep.” I do a one-handed clap, demanding he cough up the goods.

  When he fails to immediately jump to my command, I attempt to snatch the bag out of his hand. He yanks it back with barely a second to spare, his dramatics too much for my thumping head.

  I take back my hate of his theatrics when his high-pitched ton
e drills through my eardrums, “You’re the third Willow I’ve approached this morning, so I’ve got to be certain it’s you before I can hand over the goods.”

  I shove him backward by his fancy-schmancy satin shirt. “Look, mate, just keep it. I don’t care what it is. It’s yours. I’ve got dying to do, so I don’t have time for this shit.”

  He’s saved from having my door slammed in his face when he asks, “Do your. . . farts smell like a potato chip sandwich you forgot to take out of a gym bag at the end of the semester?”

  His question resurrects me from the dead. “Excuse me?!” My girly voice is as high as his perfectly manicured brow.

  “I’m just reading what it says here.” He spins his clipboard around to face me then taps on a handwritten sheet attached to it. After turning it back to himself, he continues reading, “It’s not a fresh chip sandwich smell. It’s the acidic scent you get when you open the moldy packaging to inspect the watery contents at the bottom, because you’re stunned something that was once a solid mass has turned to mush.”

  He raises his eyes to mine, his expression deadpan. “Is that you?”

  I have no clue how he’s keeping such a straight face. Mine is flaming with embarrassment, because no matter how much I wish what he’s saying is inaccurate, it’s spot on. That’s exactly what the horrible stench expelling from me last night and most of this morning smelt like.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  Hearing the threat in my tone, the sassy-faced man takes a step back. “I can’t tell you that without proof you’re the intended receiver.”

  “Oh. . . you want proof?”

  Finally, his gills green. It isn’t my attitude that reeks of pompousness causing his whitening cheeks. It’s me turning my bloodshot, I’m minutes from barfing on your hideous shirt eyes to the vomit bucket leaning against my single bed. My room is dark, but not dark enough to hide the tragedy that occurred here last night.