Just Playin': Romantic Sports Comedy

by Shandi Boyes

  I take a mental note to kiss the shit out of my physical therapist for her once unwanted advice when a staunch glint forms in Willow’s eyes. She’s not entirely with my proposal, but she’s not shutting it down either. That’s good enough for me—for now.

  “Okay. I’ll give it a go. There’s no harm in trying, right?”

  My heart tap-dances on my ribs as excitement roars through me. I never realized how good it feels to help someone. It’s nearly as rewarding as achieving the seemingly impossible yourself.

  “Until then. . . what’s occupying your time?”

  Her first reply is unvoiced. Her glance at me through lowered lashes adds an extra beat to my already thumping heart. Her second reply shocks me, “If I play my cards right, by the end of this academic year, I’ll graduate with a bachelor in sports medicine.”

  “Sports medicine?!”

  I apologize to anyone within a ten-mile radius of the parking lot of Willow’s school. I just damaged your hearing, didn’t I?

  “Yes!” Willow leans over to whack me in the arm. “Why are you so surprised by that? Sports and dancing are one and the same.”

  Spit gargles in my throat when I fake a gag. “That’s not true, because you hate sports.”

  “I don’t hate them! I just don’t love them. Those are two entirely different things.” After smacking me for a second time, she sinks into her chair before folding her arms over her chest. “I didn’t have the means to throw two years of study down the drain. It was either pick a major that worked with the credits I already had or quit altogether.” I chuckle under my breath when she murmurs, “It was a close call.”

  The playfulness fueling our conversation does a complete one-eighty when she discloses, “I’m unlikely to graduate anyway. If I don’t find a placement next month, I’ll lose fifty percent of my grade this term.”

  “You need an internship to graduate?”

  She jerks her chin up. “Yeah, and no one is eager to let a novice get within an inch of their ‘superstar client.’” She air quotes her last two words. “I’m weeks from setting up a massage table outside my local gym and requesting volunteers on their way out.”

  I’d laugh if she didn’t sound so serious.

  “Do you want me to have a word with some contacts I have in the industry?”

  She peers at me in shock. “You know people in the sports industry?”

  “I can if you need me to.”

  Asking favors in my field is the equivalent of signing a verbal contract to be their ass-kisser for the remainder of the season, but I like Willow, and I really like the flavor of her mouth, so I’m more than willing to put in a word for her if it brings back her smile and increases my chance of kissing her a little more.

  Like she can hear my private thoughts, she leans over to press her mouth to mine. Her kiss is as innocent as I wish her face wasn’t, but it’s full of tenderness. After drawing back, her grateful eyes dance between mine. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll find a placement. You can only be knocked back so many times before you eventually get what you want, right?”

  “Right.”

  Not willing to part with her mouth just yet, I pull her lips back to mine by the back of her head. We kiss until my windows are foggy, and I’m struggling to figure out why I didn’t participate in backseat make-out sessions more frequently during my college days.

  Oh, that’s right. Lillian didn’t like me messing up her hair when we were in public. Come to think of it, she didn’t like me messing with it at all. Unless there were sharks circling the carcass she was planning to milk for all it was worth, she didn’t hand over a simple peck without whining.

  Talk about giving a guy a complex. I was so convinced I sucked at sex, I used the six months following our breakup to do in-depth studies of the female anatomy. I’m not proud to admit I fucked my way through half the population of my hometown when I returned there after our separation, and even with having numerous verbal affirmations, much less a handful of publicized ones the media had a field day with, I still let Lillian’s lack of interest play with my thoughts.

  Such as now, when I’m withdrawing from Willow way sooner than I’d like. “Not yet. Need more,” Willow speaks over my lips before reattaching them to hers. “Got to get enough to last me three weeks.”

  Like my mood could sour any more, she reminds me of my three-week away game schedule this month.

  I still as shock stuns me. What the fuck is this woman doing to me? I love football. I eat, breathe, and sleep football, but now I’m whining like a bitch because it’s taking me away from a woman I met only weeks ago.

  Someone pass me a bag of concrete because I need to harden the fuck up.

  The little whimper Willow makes when I pry her back by her shoulders has me regretting every decision I’ve ever made. Who needs a career that lines your pocket with millions of dollars when you can make a woman whimper like that?

  I’d reattach our mouths and see how many times I could make her moan if we weren’t being eyeballed like freaks. My Aston stands out in the parking lot of Willow’s college, but only because she lives in a dorm instead of one of those fancy sororities Lillian begrudgingly lived in.

  Pissed at my third thought of Lillian in one day, I soothe the volatile waters. “Do you have any plans the Saturday night I return?”

  “The twenty-third?”

  When I nod, the disappointment spreading across Willow’s face grows. “I have the kids’ recital. I can’t skip it; they’d be devastated—”

  I muffle her excuse with my finger. “I wouldn’t expect you to give that up, much less ask you to.” Only a douchebag wouldn’t understand she loves the children in her class as much as she loves dancing. “Can I swing by and pick you up after the recital?”

  “Will you be that desperate you can’t wait until Sunday?” Her ear-to-ear smile kills the mirth in her tone. Before I can make a fool out of myself, she adds on, “Pick me up at ten. I’ll text you the address.”

  After a final peck to my lips, she slumps back into her side of my car, throws open my door, then slides out. She completes three long strides down the sidewalk before I call her name. When she spins around to face me, I ask, “Can I get the show now? I’m not sure I’ll make the Mickey’s parking lot in enough time.”

  With a smile that reveals she knows exactly what I’m referring to, she sexily saunters to within an inch of my car. I expect her to give me some sass, or at the very least, flip me the bird. She does neither of those things. She proves why she is as playful as the glint in her eyes and as wild as the kinks in her hair.

  To the beat in her head, she balls her hands into tiny fists, raises them to her chest, sticks out her delectable ass, then bump and grinds down the pavement like she’s in the middle of a nightclub. She shimmies and shakes until she reaches the front of her dorm, and she’s gained an audience of admirers.

  She’s not the least bit embarrassed. She’s loving the attention as much as I’m loving the confidence beaming out of her. She is in her element, beautiful smile and all.

  After a curtsy to her wolf-whistling fans, and an air kiss blown my way, Willow slips into the safety of her dorm, leaving me breathless and with the biggest hard-on I’ve ever had.

  That, what you just witnessed right there, is why I asked Dalton to keep her away from me the night we met. I could see the wild spark in her eyes, the one that warned she’d drag me away from my dreams kicking and screaming. Not because I was giving in, but because she’d move the goal posts to a place I swore I’d never strive for again.

  She has me seeking the unattainable.

  She makes me want to open up my heart to the possibility of loving again.

  I can only hope she doesn’t crush me when I do.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Willow

  C helsea’s big blue eyes peer at me in awe when I pull back the tissue paper on the box I placed in front of her. They’re welling with as much moisture as mine, equally sad and excited. />
  “These were your shoes?”

  “Uh-huh. They were the last pair of ballet slippers my mom purchased for me before she passed.”

  Chelsea blinks excessively during my last sentence, fighting to keep her tears at bay. I understand her plight. My mom passed away years ago, yet I still struggle every day to remember she is gone.

  “Why did you bring them? I thought you taught hip hop?”

  After removing my ballet shoes from the box and placing it to the side, I drag over a second box. “I teach hip hop, but my first love has always been ballet.”

  Chelsea’s face lights up as she nods. She wants to dance no matter the cost, but her first love is ballet too.

  “I was talking to a friend recently, and he got me thinking that just because we’re told we can’t do something doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true.”

  “He sounds smart.”

  I laugh. “He is smart. Very much so.”

  The smile on Chelsea’s face doubles when I crack open the lid on the second box to reveal an identical pair of ballet slippers as hers, just a few sizes bigger. “I couldn’t sleep the night he left for a trip—”

  “Because you were sad you were going to miss him?” Chelsea interrupts.

  I run my hand down her sweet face. “Yes, that, and. . .” I stop, wordlessly building the suspense. Only once she looks seconds from peeing her pants in anticipation do I say, “I was thinking about you, and how you really wanted to do ballet.”

  She tries to rebut, but her words fall short.

  “It’s okay. I understand hip hop isn’t your first choice.” I lean in close to make sure no little ears hear my next set of words. “It’s not my first choice either, but that doesn’t mean we can’t love it as well, right?”

  She nods her head, a little eagerly.

  “So what I was thinking was. . .” I carefully pull off her glitter-coated shoes and replace them with my old ballet slippers. “. . . if you really want to do ballet, maybe I could show you some moves?”

  She stares at me with her lips quivering and her eyes watering. “You’ll do that for me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Who knew two little words could be so hard to get out without choking? You can’t hear how she expressed her question. She’s truly stunned someone would go to bat for her. That’s sad and shows how far society has stepped away from the “it takes a village to raise a child” logic most of our parents were raised with.

  I drag my hand across my cheeks to ensure they’re dry. “We don’t have much time, but if you’re willing to put in the effort, I have a ballet routine you could perform at the recital.”

  Chelsea’s spine straightens as her breathing lengthens. “Really?”

  When I nod, she leaps into my arms. The hug she gives me. . .oh! You can’t explain perfection. Warm enough to melt the coldest heart and jam-packed with emotions.

  “Thank you, Will.”

  I draw back far enough to look down at her tear-stained face. “You’re very welcome. Now how about you go and tell everyone your exciting news, then we’ll sneak in some moves before your mom arrives to collect you?”

  Nodding, she stands before charging for the children still packing up after our lesson. While she updates them on her news, I send a quick text to Elvis.

  Me: Thanks for the tip; she’s on board and ready to learn.

  A smile stretches across my face when he replies.

  Elvis: And you? Are you ready to trust your body to tell you when it’s reached its limit?

  After waving goodbye to Brock, my fingers fly across the screen of my phone just as swiftly as he races into his father’s arms.

  Me: If you don’t hear from me by eight, send a medic to this location.

  I fake coordinates at the end of my sentence.

  Elvis: LOL. Just remember to brace your knee and take it easy.

  I’m smiling like a cat staring at a bowl of tuna. . . until his next message arrives.

  Elvis: Don’t forget I have a meeting tonight, so I’ll be out of reach for a couple of hours.

  Several curious eyes pop up to me when I stomp my feet like a child. My schedule has been extremely wonky the past few weeks. With school requiring I be alert and awake during daylight hours, my phone calls with Elvis every night have me burning the candle at both ends, but I’ve loved every single moment of it. We talk about anything and everything: Dalton and Becca’s daughter, Danny’s failed attempt at finding love on an online dating site; even Chelsea has come up a handful of times. It’s been a wonderful flirty few weeks, but I am a damn wreck.

  Me: I remember. I’m using your absence as an excuse to have an early night. I’ll call you before your meeting xx

  I stare at the double x’s at the end of my message for several minutes, wondering whether I should delete them before hitting send. If it weren’t for Chelsea racing back my way with a smile a mile long I would have; I just don’t have time to dawdle. . . yeah, right.

  I’m glad I couldn’t hold back when I see Elvis’s reply flash up on my screen just as Chelsea leaps into my arms.

  Elvis: I look forward to it xx

  “MY KNEE HELD up better than I thought it would.”

  Elvis’s scrumptious chuckle barrels down the line. “I told you it would. It just needs retraining.”

  His knowledge on injury management has me extra curious about his job title, but before I can ask, a much higher-pitched voice comes down the line, “Did you kick it, girl? You did, didn’t you? You totally worked that stage.”

  My girly laugh gains me a handful of spectators. They abandon whatever the hell they do while hanging around the quad to stare at me. “You know I did. Heard your date wasn’t as spectacular though. What happened?”

  I hear Elvis grumble a moan about it being “my fucking cell phone” before Danny’s voice clears his gripe. “He was a full-blown closet case. Like not a little, I could pretend it was a phase. He wasn’t coming out of the dark any time in the next century.”

  I gag, loving the eccentrics in his reply. I also love how comfortable he is in his own skin. The only time Danny has ever been in the closet is when he was seeking his next haute couture outfit. That boy has style that puts the pages of Vogue to shame.

  “But I hear things aren’t so dire for you? Do I need to schedule Elvis in for a Danny’s special? Could check his over for warts or just make sure he’s measuring up to expectations?”

  The last half of his sentence comes out in a flurry. He’s either being chased or he just discovered the Back Street Boys are doing a revival concert, and he’s racing to get tickets.

  I realize it’s the former when Elvis’s deep timbre sounds down the line. “You know the more you encourage him, the more he’ll hang around. He’s worse than the annoying cat I tossed a chunk of fish at four months ago. He’s at my doorstep every night at precisely six.”

  “You love it.”

  I twirl on the spot, my happiness at being included in their unique duo too intense not to respond. I’ve been friends with girls who have had gay male friends before, but this is the first instance where two men have such a profound relationship when they’re not chasing the same interests: women.

  “I do, but that doesn’t mean he needs to know it. He might ask for a pay raise if he thinks I like him.” He suddenly stops talking, worried he’s said too much.

  He has, and I’m not going to let him off lightly.

  “Danny works for you?”

  From what I witnessed in person last weekend, it’s clear Elvis is slightly higher on the totem pole than Danny, but I thought that was their dynamic. It’s the same as Skylar and me. The attractive, more popular one always ranks first, then the second more subdued one is a few steps behind them. Not by much, but enough for society to take notice.

  I hear Elvis scrub the stubble on his chin before he murmurs, “He doesn’t really work for me; he works with me on mutual goals.”

  “Like a partner?”

  “Ah. . . I guess
you could call it that, although I’d prefer you didn’t. Danny has separation issues as it is, let alone you calling him my partner.”

  My laugh is cut short when someone calls Elvis’s name from across the room. He muffles his phone, advising he’ll only be a minute before focusing his attention back to me. “I have to go. My. . .meeting is about to start.”

  “Okay. Go get ‘em, old man.” I roar like a tiger.

  I thought he’d laugh at my playfulness, but his gargled reply is more pained than joyous. I’m not surprised. Whatever we’ve got going on is extremely new, but I’m already well aware how much he hates me mentioning our age gap, which is still a mystery to me.

  After slinging open the front door at Mickey’s, I enter the foyer. Parmesan cheese, garlic bread, and the imaginary scent of Elvis’s aftershave smacks into me when I pace to the counter to order a much-needed calorie replacer. With Chelsea’s eagerness to learn fueling my eagerness for a comeback to ballet, I put in a few hours longer at the dance studio than usual today. My muscles are aching, but my heart is the biggest it’s been in two years.

  “I’m about to gorge on a slice at Mickey’s, so I’ll be out cold in a food coma in around thirty minutes. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Alright, and Willow?” Elvis waits long enough for me to prompt him to continue before saying, “I’m proud of what you accomplished today. Just getting your mind to focus on anything but the pain it expects is the equivalent of climbing Mount Everest. But you did it. You took the first step. Now the world is your oyster.”

  Wow. I didn’t expect his words to knock me so fiercely, but they have. I’m truly speechless.

  I’m snapped from my trance by a loud grumble. Elvis is either walking into a lion cage with a thousand hungry investors waiting to eat him alive, or a subway train just roared past him. Whatever it is, it is near deafening, and I have a hard time hearing him when he asks, “Will? You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here, but will you be by the end of tonight? Sounds like you’re walking into a gladiators’ ring.”