Just Playin': Romantic Sports Comedy

by Shandi Boyes

  I can tell the exact moment the truth smacks into her. Her pupils widen as the angry sneer coloring her cheeks drains.

  “It was before we fucked, wasn’t it?”

  She refolds her arms in front of her chest, hoisting up her fantastic tits until they sit an inch under her chin. She’s hoping her bountiful bosoms will distract me. They do, but not enough to end our conversation. They just make me want to take a slight pause, to slip into the void where all married couples go when they can’t be fucked to bicker about the same old shit for another day.

  Thankfully, I’ve learned from the mistakes I made with Lillian, and I refuse to make the same ones with Willow. “It was before, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she finally relents. “But that’s not the point.”

  “Then what is the point? I get I lied to you. I get I fucked up, but this seems more than that.” She didn’t smile at my vacuum comment, so I know it’s something more than a lie that has her panties in a twist.

  “It’s just. . . It’s. . . Argh!”

  I save her bottom teeth from menacing her lip, fight with all my might not to replace her teeth with my own, before dropping my hand to my side. “Say it, Willow. Express whatever is on your mind. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

  I feel like she punches me in the nuts when she mutters, “Coach James made me sign a non-fraternization policy.”

  “Huh?”

  That’s it. I have no more words.

  Except, “When? Was it notarized? Did you sign it?” I yank on my hair like I’ve just been told I’m being pulled from the team when I read the confirmation in her eyes. “You signed it. Why would you do that, Will? Fuck me. . .” I glare at her. “Oh, that’s right, you can’t!”

  “Don’t blame me. This is your fault.” She socks me in the stomach, making my pain real instead of imaginary. “I didn’t know at the time that you. . .worked here.” She chokes on the “work” part of her statement, like she’s unsure my job is work. “I wouldn’t have signed it if I had known—” She suddenly stops, swallows, then starts again. “Actually, I probably would have to teach you what happens when you’re a lying piece of shit!” She yells her last four words in my face.

  “Okay, I deserve that, but you’re not seeing the entire picture here. If I’m missing out, so the fuck are you.”

  The earlier anger I mentioned works up from my gut to my throat when she does a weird shruggy thing as if to say, why am I missing out?

  When she steps past me, I’m too shocked to stop her.

  “You chose to lie, E, so you’re the one left to suffer the consequences of your actions.” She waves her fingers to the first man in the line outside her cubicle. “Who’s ready for a rubdown?”

  I swear to God, the line doubles in under a second when they realize Amara has been replaced with a much younger and much more attractive masseuse.

  I point to a now empty bench at the side of the locker room. “Sit the fuck down, Foster.”

  He licks his puffy black lips that get all the cheerleaders’ heads in a tizzy while rubbing his hands together. “It’s all good, man. I’ll wait right here. I don’t want to miss my place in line.” Not once do his eyes leave Willow’s tits during his entire sentence.

  They finally lift to mine when I snarl, “Sit. The fuck. Down. Or find your ass on the bench for the rest of the season.”

  “Hey, brother, calm down. I’m not saying you can’t go first. I’m more than happy to wait my turn.”

  When I growl, Foster holds his hands up in defeat while moving back to reclaim his spot in the line that grows longer the more Willow stands at my side smiling a shit-eating grin. She’s not the only one smiling, though. Dalton has his shoulder propped against the wall separating the massage chamber from the locker room. He’s only just returned to the field after taking a few weeks off to introduce Jayla to his family, but his smile tells me everything I need to know. He’s not only forcing me to confess my line of work to Willow. He’s forcing me to confess my feelings for her as well.

  Fuck face.

  I lock my furious eyes with Dalton. My snarled words are for Foster, but Dalton can have the wrath of my vicious glare. “Amara will be back any second to serve you.” The way I sneer “serve” leaves no doubt to what I am referring. “For the rest of you, if I hear so much of a murmur that you’re thinking about Willow massaging your schlong while you’re in the shower, my cleats will be so firmly planted up your ass, you won’t sit for a week. Do you understand me?”

  Dalton smirks like a smug fuck, impressed by my arrogant macho-headed warning. Willow looks shocked, and I’m still harboring so much jealousy, my clutch on her arm is a little firmer than I’m comfortable with. I don’t mean to hurt her; I just want to get her into Coach James’s office before I switch from offense to defense.

  It’s the fight of my life not to tighten my grip on Willow’s arm when she murmurs, “Do you really think they’ll play slippery sausage while thinking about me? If your answer is yes, can you add a location and a time to your answer? You need to hook a girl up!” She raises the arm I’m not clutching in the air like she’s waiting for a high-five.

  “I’ll give you five; it just won’t be your hand I’m smacking.”

  Her smile doesn’t slacken in the slightest. She’s loving the douchebag routine I’m working even more than I fucking love the way her tight white dress clings to her curves. I hated when Coach James requested that Amara wear a uniform. Now I’m loving it.

  Coach James swivels his big leather chair around to face us when we enter his office unannounced.

  “You know how you’ve been recommending I get my own physical therapist?” When he nods, I nudge my head to Willow. “I’ve got one. Mine exclusively. She’s not to touch the other players. Do you understand?”

  I swallow some of my attitude when Coach James raises a brow. He can squash my dreams as quickly as he made them come true. He’s not a man I should be bossing around, but I just can’t help it. I’m pissed, hackled with jealousy, and five seconds from gouging out Foster’s eyes for how long they lingered on Willow’s tits. My career is the last thing on my mind right now.

  “Now it makes sense.” Coach James’s dark eyes dance between Willow and me as he stands from his seat to pace around his messy desk. “I knew something was off when Dalton requested we take on an intern. He has a wife and a new kid, so he shouldn’t be messing with one. But this. . .” he gestures his hand between Willow and me, “this makes sense.”

  I don’t know what pisses me off more: the mirth in his tone, confirmation that Dalton set me up, or him calling Willow a kid. I’m confident it’s the latter when I snarl, “She’s twenty-two.” I curse a thousand times in my head. “In a couple of months.”

  Willow glares at me in shock. Her jaw is hanging open, and her eyes are bugged, but her stunned expression doesn’t detract from her murderous glare.

  “Hey, don’t be pissed at me. Dalton snooped in your purse, not me, so if anyone deserves your anger, it’s him.”

  Her eyes narrow into thin slits. “Oh, don’t worry, he’ll get his.”

  I smile, loving that I have an ally on my side to take down Dalton. I may have pulled a similar stunt on him and Becca, but that was years ago, pre millions of dollars at stake days.

  My smile is wiped right off my face when Coach James says, “Willow signed a non-fraternization policy. It applies to all members of our team—players included.”

  “Yeah, but that was only because you thought she was going to break up your golden couple. Now you know she isn’t, there’s no need for the policy.”

  Coach James pulls a face. “The policy wasn’t just implemented for this instance. It’s something the directors have been looking at implementing for a while now. Willow’s placement here just presented the perfect opportunity to bring it into play. You know what the media is like; if they catch wind of anything fishy, they run with it—no matter if it’s true or not.”

  I know what he is sayin
g; I understand what he is saying, but I still fucking hate what he is saying.

  My tongue swivels around my mouth so I can ease out my next set of words. “It’s too late. We’ve already. . .”

  Willow bumps me with her hip at the same time Coach James coughs, wordlessly advising me he gets the gist of my confession.

  “The policy was only signed today, so anything that happened before it was signed is invalid.” Coach James’s amused gaze locks with mine as his lips tug into a smirk. “But. . .” He delays the inevitable, loving the way he’s making me squirm. “It is very much valid now, and it will be upheld by all staff members.”

  “I didn’t sign anything, so it’s only Willow left dateless for the next six weeks—” I chuckle under my breath when Willow’s fist whacking into my gut steals my words. It’s nice to see I’m not the only one handling jealousy issues today.

  “We’re very sorry to have interrupted you, and I assure you we’ll have no issues adhering to your rules.”

  Willow waits for Coach James to dip his chin before dragging me out of the office as forcefully as I dragged her into it. Once we’re halfway down the hallway, free from prying eyes, she relinquishes my arm from her grip. She looks like she wants to smack the living shit out of me, so the last thing I expect her to do is give me an out.

  “You’re right. You didn’t sign anything, so you don’t have to follow Coach James’s policy. You’re free to do whatever or whomever you want.” The anger in her eyes hides her devastation, but it does nothing to lessen the tremble of her lips.

  “You’re giving me a free pass?”

  “It’s six weeks, Elvis. To a guy, that’s nearly a lifetime.” She does her trademark half-eyeroll-twitchy-spasm thing. She’s so fucking cute when she’s riled with jealousy. “So if you can’t wait that long, yes, I’m giving you a free pass.”

  Her eyes snap to mine when I murmur, “What if I don’t want one?” I move closer to her, crowding her between the wall and me. “What if I want to contest Coach James’s ruling on the terms that non-fraternization policies are supposed to minimize the impact of things going wrong in the workplace while maximizing positive employee relationships? I’ve been playing the best ball in my life since you entered it, so if anything, your introduction into the 69ers family should be a positive, not a negative.” When surprise crosses her features, I murmur, “Not as stupid as you thought, hey?”

  “I never said you were stupid.”

  “No, you just thought I was a dumb fuck who chases a football around a field for money.”

  Having no defense, she groans. “I’m a cow.”

  “A really pretty cow.”

  The grimace on Willow’s face jumps to mine. That was not the best compliment I’ve ever given, but thankfully, she doesn’t seem too upset by it.

  Well, not enough she needs to deliver her scorn via her fists. “Things could be worse.” She bobs under my arm and moseys down the corridor backward. Her swinging hips and blistering smile make it appear as if she has the world at her feet. I realize it isn’t the world she’s stomping on when she mumbles, “I could be rubbing out the Marshall players’ kinks instead of the men you class as family.” She air quotes her last word before spinning on her heels and racing down the hallway.

  I stand frozen, unsure of my next move. Do I go back to Coach James and force him to not only rip up the stupid policy he had Willow sign, but to make Willow my private masseuse? Or do I re-establish my stance at the front of Willow’s cubicle so any man who dares to enter it knows what the repercussions will be?

  I know, I’ll do both.

  “Coach?”

  Coach pops his head into the hallway too quickly for a man not in the process of spying. “Yeah?”

  “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Willow

  “N o way. No. Fucking. Way.” Skylar’s big cornflower blue eyes shift from the front row, plush leather seats to me. “You got front row seats? How?!”

  Although she’s highly doubtful I can afford such pricy seats, she shimmies past the handful of players’ wives and girlfriends who prefer to be up close with the action than have access to unlimited mini hotdogs, spring rolls, and beverages the skybox seats offer that come comped with their relationship. Two Barbie doll-looking, designer-clad, Botoxed within an inch of their lives wives eye us with suspicion when we saunter by, but the rest flash friendly smiles. They’ve seen me around 69ers’ bunkers the past three weeks, and know I’m no danger to their positions in the 69er family. As far as they are concerned, I’m only Presley Carlton’s private sports therapist. What danger could I be?

  Although Elvis got his way with his demand I not touch any players bar him, nothing he said would convince Coach James to remove the non-fraternization policy from the table. He was adamant it needed to be implemented, and from what I’ve witnessed my first three weeks of my internship, I’m inclined to agree with him. There’s a very slippery slope between flirting with a team member and acting on it. Many of the players and a handful of the entertainment staff have yet to work out the difference.

  The first week was pure torture. Elvis drove me home every day, kissed me as if he was dropping his daughter off to school before rocketing out of the parking lot like his ass was on fire. I thought we’d keep our distance on the weekends to save temptation, but Danny’s closeness has kept us on the straight and narrow. When the second week began, things got a little easier. Elvis’s exemplary stats on game night, and above-par training sessions made Coach James relax, meaning we got in lots of sneaky kisses and a handful of heavy-petting sessions.

  This week, Coach James is turning a complete blind eye to our antics. He believes Elvis’s claims that I’m his lucky charm so it’s bought me a near empty front row with two tickets that cost the equivalent of a semester’s worth of schooling. Coach James is testing a theory—a highly stupid, he has no clue how much I despise football theory. For the past two games, I’ve camped my backside on the massage table Elvis refuses to use, turned on one of the many TVs around the locker room, eaten cheese and bacon ball Cheetos by the bagful, and pretended I wasn’t smiling every time Elvis’s mug flashed up on the screen. It was a routine that worked well for me. I was still mad at Elvis for not telling the truth, so I couldn’t let him think I enjoyed watching him play.

  It all came tumbling down when Coach James entered the locker room second-quarter last week. He never leaves the sideline, so for him to abort his mission while the game was in progress didn’t just surprise me, it scared the shit out of me. I thought my college dorm makeover of his domain was going to get me fired. It had the opposite effect.

  “You, with me, now.”

  I jumped to his command, unladylike fumble and all.

  “Ohhhh, no, no, no,” I stammered when he directed me to the corridor that leads to the field. “You don’t want me to go out there.” The last time I went anywhere near where he was directing me to, I knocked a man out cold, but considering I couldn’t tell him that, I made up a pathetic excuse. “I’m scared of crowds. Like poop-my-pants scared.”

  I’m a terrible liar, but my acting skills aren’t too bad. Coach James didn’t force me onto the field, but he did make me stand just outside the bleachers. My view of Elvis was worse than what I got inside, but the atmosphere was electric. The crowd was eating up his performance. They loved his return to the game as much as Elvis did. It was a beautiful thing to witness; so much so, I wasn’t as quick to shoot down Coach James’s suggestion for me to sit closer to the action this week. He blocked out the two seats beside me and three behind to help with my supposed phobia, so how could I say no?

  “No.” I grab Skylar’s arm when she waves it at the drink attendant. “You were right; you don’t want to touch anything he’s serving.”

  She pulls a face like she’s seconds from vomiting before it’s replaced with suspicion. “How do you know that? I thought our game was the one and only game you’ve attended.”

  “It
is.”

  I hate lying to her, but her level of craziness has grown tenfold the past six weeks. She’s not just obsessed with all things 69ers; she’s crushing hard on one of their star players—the star player I get driven home by every day. I want to tell her what’s going on with Elvis and me, but I feel like I’d crush her dreams even more than a knee reconstruction squashed mine. Furthermore, my internship came with a confidentiality clause. I can’t discuss the players, coaches or staff in any way without prior consent. I’m confident Elvis would give me consent, but who wants to have that conversation?

  “Hey, Elvis, I know things are new between us, and I don’t even know if we are an ‘us,’ but would you mind me telling my roommate all about our escapades—monster dick and all? She only falls asleep after kissing your picture every night, and she’s pledged to name her firstborn son after you. That’s cool though, isn’t it?”

  Ugh! No thanks.

  It’s better this way. Elvis kept quiet about what he did for a living because he wanted me to see the real him, and I’m keeping quiet because, away from the hoopla, that’s precisely who I see. Off the field, he’s goofy, a little jealous, and as sweet as the pie he scarfed down last night. On the field. . . he’s cocky, arrogant, and so fucking sexy I can’t get annoyed at the number of women flashing their tits at him.

  Well, I can, I just fake that I’m not annoyed.

  When Skylar ribs me with her elbow, prompting me to fess up on the lie she sees in my eyes, I murmur, “The lady I aided in the YouTube video is a wife of one of the players. He was so grateful for my help, he threw some perks my way.” Because my reply isn’t a total lie, Skylar buys it. “I could have sold the tickets, but I figured this would make up for the way I ran out on you that day.”

  “Oh, it does.” She waggles her platinum blond brows. “But it doesn’t explain how you know Mr. Magoo has been cooling his balls in the drinks cooler.” Like a perfectly planned skit, the drink vendor pivots around to face us. Skylar’s nose screws up when she spots the sleazy look on his face. It answers all her questions and then some.