Just Playin': Romantic Sports Comedy

by Shandi Boyes

  He smiles, loving my stumped state. “That was the point, wasn’t it? You wanted proof of how Becca arrived with a date but left with Dalton.” He waves his hand to the glass door I just barged him through. “Evidence submitted. Case closed. I won.”

  “Oh. My. God!” I pace closer to him, unsure whether to kiss the mirth off his face or smack it off. I settle on words instead of a physical response. “You’re an asshole. I seriously thought you were going to deck him.”

  His face does a weird twitchy thing. “It was close, especially when he handed me this.”

  My mouth falls open when he thrusts a Mickey’s Pizzeria napkin my way. It has a name and number scrawled across it.

  “Wow, he has bigger balls than I thought. He’s either very brave or extremely stupid to hand a man his number to forward to his date.”

  Elvis flops his head to the side in a seriously cute way. “Date?”

  “Oh, puh-leeze. You can’t go there, as you said ‘date’ first.” I begin pacing to my university by walking backward. “But if this isn’t a date, and we’re just friends sharing a slice, cough up the napkin, because this girl has needs that need to be taken care of.”

  Elvis looks seconds from having a coronary when I grind my hips in a way only a stripper should while running my hands up my body. Although he doesn’t react to my tease, the scrunching of the napkin and its plonk into a trash can on his right is answer enough.

  “Nice shot.” The balled napkin didn’t even hit the rim; it just glided between the silver circle, his shot a perfect three-pointer.

  Elvis’s wink is as flirty as the smile on my face. While bridging the gap between us, which takes him all of two seconds with how long his strides are, he digs a cap out of the back pocket of his jeans and sinks it down low on his head. I nearly gag when I see the emblem on the top. It’s a 69ers cap.

  “Do you often bring a hat to a date?” Yep—I’m going there. In this very instance, I’m in love with the word, and I don’t care if the world knows it.

  The moonlight glistens on his teeth when he smiles a sultry grin. “Not often, but I didn’t know this was a date until an hour ago.”

  “An hour. . .? Wow. You knew a good fifty-nine minutes before me.” I bump him with my hip before crossing the patch of weedy grass between Mickey’s Pizzeria and the border of my university. “But in all seriousness, what’s with the cap?”

  I end my sentence in just enough time, saving me the embarrassment of expressing what I really want to ask: why would you ever hide a face that sexy?

  “It’s been a few years since I’ve stepped foot on college grounds. Don’t want the dean thinking I’m an old geezer looking to bed some college girls.”

  His reply elevates my curiosity of the past three weeks. The difference in our maturity proves he’s older than me; I’m just lost on how many years separate us. I’m not bothered either way. Age is just a number, and with him tossing the napkin in the bin, his number is the only one I have in my phone right now.

  “If you’re worried about the dean getting upset, you clearly haven’t met him. He is a dirty old geezer wanting to bed college girls himself. He’ll only be angry about you mowing the lawn he’s been watering the past six months.”

  Elvis throws his head back and laughs. It barely lingers for ten seconds before the entirety of my statement smacks into him. His head returns front and center as his mouth snaps shut. “Watering with the hope of mowing? Or is he already mowing it?”

  Happy I have him on tenterhooks, I jog the last ten paces between us and the stairs at the front of my dorm. The fun we’ve had tonight is all over my face, and it doesn’t reflect half the excitement tingling in my stomach. . . and a region a few inches lower.

  Elvis stands in the middle of the footpath as his suspicious eyes dart between Mickey’s and me. “You live next door to a pizzeria?”

  I grimace. “Yep! And it’s as torturous as you’re picturing. My ass has never been more thankful for a lack of student funding.”

  My screwed up nose and furrowed brows jump onto Elvis’s face. “Ah, the good old college days. I’ve not touched a ramen noodle since the day I graduated.”

  “And how long ago was that?” Just because I said I don’t care how many digits are between us, doesn’t mean I’m not curious.

  Elvis’s head bobs side to side as a blinding smile stretches across his face. “A while. . .”

  I climb two stairs so we meet eye to eye before asking, “As in, more than a decade, or is it closer to two?”

  “Jesus H to the fucking Christ, how old do you think I am?” His playful roar gains us the attention of a handful of students milling around.

  “I don’t know? It’s hard to gauge without an in-depth investigation, so you either need to fess up and tell me. . .” I drag my eyes down his body in a long, dedicated sweep while murmuring, “. . . Or show me.”

  Damn, I’ve never been overly good at flirting, but I’ve got the moves tonight, and I’m not even drunk. Usually, that’s the only time I dust off the cobwebs and break out the one-liners that will either have the guys in a fit of laughter or purring at my feet.

  I really hope Elvis is a giant kitty under all those layers of muscles.

  After pulling his cap down even further on his head, Elvis places one foot onto the step separating us before tilting his torso close to mine. Pizza, garlic bread, and a smell that’s even yummier than them all combined smacks into me when he whispers, “I’m old enough to know I could get in trouble for this, but young enough not to care.”

  Any reply I am planning to give is swallowed by his mouth.

  Elvis. . . I don’t know his last name. . . is kissing me. It’s a blood-warming tingle from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, I’ll never eat pizza in the same light again kiss. He devours my mouth with slow licks and playful nibs while drawing me closer with his big hands gripping the generous swell of my hips.

  I spread my hands across his chest to make sure I don’t topple to the ground. The firmness under his shirt worsens the wooziness in my head. His pecs are amazing—and heaving. He’s as breathless by our kiss as I am shocked that we’re kissing. I daydreamed about this exact moment many times the past three weeks, but I never believed it would actually happen.

  When I pull back to catch my breath, Elvis tugs me closer. “No, not yet. Need more.”

  After nipping at my lower lip, he spears his tongue between my gaped, kiss-swollen mouth. He drags it along the roof of my mouth, tasting and sampling me before dueling with mine. I can feel him against me, as hot and heavy as the heat his kiss elicits from me. He’s not even rolling his hips, yet I feel every inch of him. Every. Perfect. Inch. When he threads his fingers through my hair, I melt into his embrace. I respond to the strokes of his tongue as if this isn’t the first time we’ve engaged in a tender embrace of tonsil hockey.

  I am right there with him, every step of the way. My tongue is as courageous as his, my hands just as wild, and he’s loving every minute of it. He smiles against my mouth, happy he’s getting as good as he’s giving. His kiss is greedy and hard, but tender and loving at the same time. He takes control, but only as much as I’m willing to give.

  Seconds from melting into a puddle of pleasure, he relinquishes my mouth from his. It isn’t that he’s had his fill. It’s the cat-calls and shouts for him to “give it to me” killing his mojo.

  “I was right. Your mouth is as sweet as your face but as naughty as the glint in your eyes.”

  I smile a blistering grin, adoring that I’m not the only one who’s fantasized the past three weeks about us kissing.

  “Now I better leave before things get difficult.” He looks pained, as if his words were as bitter for him as they were for me.

  He leans in to press a peck to my tingling mouth before spinning on his heels and walking down the cracked path. We must have put on a real show because not only does he get slapped on the back numerous times during his short commute past bystanders, he also has hi
s picture snapped.

  I wait until he’s gobbled up by the darkness before entering my dormitory. Since my room is on the first level, it doesn’t take me long to push my key into the lock. My heart rate is so high it takes several attempts to open the door, and don’t even get me started on my wobbly knees, but nothing—not a single friggin’ thing—can stop my little boogie when I enter my room.

  I’m so shocked and deliriously happy, I groove around my room like I’m in the middle of a night club. I shake my booty and pump out my chest to the imaginary song in my head. I may even do a few lassoes with an invisible rope. I wiggle and shake until all the food and drink in my belly becomes slop, my thighs ache, and my cell phone rings.

  My hip thrust suspends mid-air when I realize who is calling me. It’s Elvis. After wiping the sweat from my brow, I push my phone to my ear and play it cool. “Hey.”

  The frenetic quiver of my pulse triples when he replies, “Hey.” His short reply can’t hide that he is as breathless as me, and just as excited.

  With my clothes clinging to my body, I pace to the window, needing some air. I’ve worked up such a sweat, I’m seconds away from entering a wet t-shirt competition.

  I’ve yanked the window up halfway when Elvis asks, “Are you hot?”

  Suspicion runs rife through my veins. I sprayed fish oil on the tracks of my window only last week, ensuring its creaking wouldn’t wake Skylar any time I sat on the windowsill to take in a starry night.

  “A little.” I keep my reply short, hoping Elvis will fill in the gaps.

  He follows along nicely. “Was it our kiss that made you sweaty, or that bump and grind routine you just performed?”

  Spinning, I take in my room, from the dowdy, paint-peeled walls covered with posters, to the near-inch gap at the bottom of my door from the RA shaving off too much wood when the door warped after the homecoming party last spring.

  I only stop twirling when the flash of headlights beam into my room. With my hand clutching my throat, I angle my body to peer out my window. I die a thousand deaths when my eyes lock in on a flashy sportscar in the parking lot of Mickey’s. The hood of Elvis’s parked car is pointed right at my bedroom window—the same bedroom window I just shook my tuchus in front of.

  “Willow. . .”

  I swallow down the uneasiness creeping up my throat. “Yeah?”

  He waits long enough I think our call has been disconnected. “Don’t ever change. You’re fucking perfect just the way you are.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Willow

  I ’m still reveling in the high of Elvis’s comment as I make my way to the studio to set up my space for this morning’s dance lesson. It’s a beautiful day. The clouds of the past week have lifted; I slept well, and my workout last night under Elvis’s unknown watch meant I didn’t have to drag my ass out of bed at 5 AM to go boxing with Skylar. I’m feeling great!

  It must be evident on my face because many eyes turn my way as I stroll down the campus footpath. I haven’t been gawked at this closely since the morning the “Beauty Pummels the Beast” video was uploaded to YouTube.

  “Hello.”

  I return a blond stranger’s greeting with the wiggle of my fingers and a smile before continuing my trip.

  “Nice day.”

  “It is,” I agree to another handsome, yet unfamiliar man only a few paces away from admirer number one.

  I pivot on my heels and walk backward when another gent decked out in a football jersey and muddy running shorts adds, “Looking good, Willow.”

  “Thank you. . .?”

  “Ted,” he fills in.

  “Thank you, Ted.”

  Eager to get away from the freaks suddenly hoping to be my new best friend, I spin back around then increase my pace. I have over forty minutes before my lesson starts, but I’d rather watch the lesson before mine than continue my odd morning. It was a good day; now it’s whacked.

  By the time I make it to the building my dance studio is in, my skin is clammy from my brisk walk, and I’ve been approached nearly a dozen times. I’ve heard sex gives your eyes a sparkle you can’t get anywhere else, but Elvis and I only kissed, so this type of response is ridiculous.

  Just as I fumble through the double glass doors, a little sob whimpers through my ears.

  “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong?”

  There is a girl I’d guess to be nine or ten huddled in the corner of the foyer. She’s wearing a pale pink leotard and a matching tutu. Her straight blonde hair is shielding most of her face, but I can tell she is crying.

  “It’s okay.” I crouch down in front of her before lifting her tear-stained face to me. “Are you lost? Do you need me to help you find your mommy?”

  “No.” She clutches my arm so firmly, I’m certain she’ll leave a bruise. “Don’t tell her; she’ll be mad.”

  Her big blue eyes look up at me in a plea, praying I won’t dob.

  “Okay, I won’t say anything.” She exhales, relieved. “But you need to tell me why you’re crying.” When fresh tears roll down her cheeks, I wipe them away as gently as possible. I hate seeing anyone cry, let alone a little girl with a face as adorable as hers. “It can’t be that bad, can it? You’ve got a pretty leotard and a brand new tutu; what more do you need?”

  Her lips quiver when she replies, “I want to dance.”

  A giggle leaves my lips as they part into a smile. “That’s good. That’s why you’re here. This is a dance studio.” I wave my hand at the big “dance studio” sign spread across the front windows. “You can dance here until your heart is content.”

  My hand falls to my side when she whimpers, “But Ms. Francesca won’t let me. She said I can’t be in her class.”

  “Why would she say that?”

  When she burrows her tear-stained face into her knees, I peer through the cracked-open door she’s huddled outside of. My heart rate breaks into an unnatural rhythm when I spot the class inside—a ballet class full of perfectly slender children and an even more svelte instructor.

  My heart cracks when my eyes return to the little girl. She is beautiful. Flawless hair, a milky-white face without a single blemish, and the cutest little dimples in her rounded cheeks, she’s just wearing a leotard a size or two bigger than her dance partners.

  I kneel down closer to her. “Do you know what? I used to be a ballerina.”

  “Used to be?” She wipes the tears from her cheeks when I nod. “You’re not anymore?”

  “No, I’m not.” Disappointment blisters in her eyes. “But I’m still a dancer. I have a class every Saturday morning just like yours. There’s just one difference: we don’t wear tutus and leotards. We wear leather jackets, bright pink pants, and sneakers painted with glitter.”

  “Sneakers?”

  “There kinda like running shoes, just flashier and more Australian.”

  My heart soars when she giggles.

  “Do you think you’d like to dance in clothes like that?”

  Nodding, she removes the last of the tears on her cheeks before sitting up straighter. Just as quickly as her excitement arrives, it’s swiped out from beneath her. “I can’t. My mom said I have to do ballet. She was a ballerina, and so was my sister, so I have to be one as well.”

  “Is that what you want? If it is, I’ll march straight into that lesson and rip Ms. Francesca a new butthole.” She giggles again. “But if you just want to dance, I have a dance class that would love to have you.”

  “What about my mom?”

  You can tell I’m years away from being a parent when I say, “What about her? You arrive here every Saturday at eight, right?” When she nods, I add on, “Then I’ll meet you here every Saturday at eight.”

  “You’ll do that for me?” She seems genuinely shocked, like no one’s ever had her back before.

  I nod. “Of course I will. It will be my privilege.”

  “And you won’t tell my mom?” she double-checks.

  “No. She pays the dance studio good money f
or you to dance; we’re just making sure she gets her money’s worth.”

  Excitement beams out of her.

  “Good?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She throws her arms around my neck so quickly, she nearly bowls me over.

  “You’re welcome. Now how about you head into the studio and warm up? Then I’ll update you on some routines before the rest arrive.”

  Eager to get started, she springs to her feet and charges into my unlocked studio. I wait until she is out of earshot before entering the room next to mine. Francesca eyes me beneath lowered lashes when I cross the room, pretending she hasn’t heard my furious stomps.

  “How dare you treat her like that. She’s a goddamn child!” My hiss is violent but not loud enough for any of the children in Francesca’s lesson to hear over the music they’re practicing arabesques to.

  “Child or not, you know the rules, Willow.” She instructs the children to switch to pliés before turning to face me. “Diet and nutrition are directly linked to agility. The lighter the dancers are, the easier they’ll float across the stage. You know this, Willow, because it is a regime we’ve abided by our entire lives. . .” She rakes her eyes down my body before correcting, “You once abided by.”

  I would smack her if there weren’t twenty-four little pairs of eyes watching us. Instead, I use words. “Someone’s weight has nothing to do with their passion. You can have skills in abundance, drive by the bucket load, and more knowledge than you know what to do with, but without passion, you’ll never reach the pinnacle of success.”

  With my dad’s words ringing in my ears, I leave the studio with my head held high and my heart weighed down.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Presley

  “What the fuck was that, Elvis? You were on fire tonight.” Foster walks away from me with his hands shaking like they’re on fire.

  “He’s not joking, great game tonight.” Another teammate, Mitch, slaps my shoulder before making his way to the showers.

  I’m awarded the congratulations of another three players before their celebrations switch from the locker room to a VIP box only a select few have access to after every win. Even with my team playing without our captain, tonight’s game was good. Coach James was hesitant about me stepping into Dalton’s role while he is on daddy-to-be duty, but his hesitation eased after my first three throws. I’m not bragging when I agree with Foster. I was on fire tonight.