by Shandi Boyes
I stand from my seat and set down my jacket and backpack like they’ll guard my seat better than the security personnel at the end of our row. “What do you want to drink?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll grab something later.”
Skylar stops shooing away my offer like a fly when I say, “You either tell me what you want to drink, or I’ll waterboard you with Cherry Coke.”
She gags loud enough that people three rows over hear her. “I’ll have a Diet Pepsi, two pretzels, and a hotdog.” She freezes, purses her lips, then starts again, “Actually make it two hotdogs, one pretzel and a bag of chips. I’m super hungry today.”
I act like it’s unusual for her to order for an army. “Alright. I’ll be back in a minute.”
When I exit our row, I’m tempted to climb the stairs to the pavilion I know serves cheaper food, but I veer to the right instead, deciding not having to climb stairs is worth a few dollars. There should be less queue as well since most people can’t access this part of the stadium without the bank balance to support personal assistants and bodyguards to fetch their grub.
Just as I’m about to gallop down the six stairs separating me and the delicious-smelling canteen, a roaring voice captures my attention. There are many shouted words surrounding me, so that isn’t what gained my notice; it is recognizing the deep timbre shuddering through my core. Elvis is pissed, and he’s more than happy for the person he is shouting at to know it.
Keeping my snoop on the downlow, I pad closer to the railing. I can’t see the person Elvis is shouting at, but I have no trouble figuring out it’s a woman. If his constant mention of the name “Lillian” isn’t enough of an indication, the low slant of his head is a surefire sign.
“I didn’t not answer your calls because I was playing hard to get. I didn’t want to talk to you! My silence isn’t an invitation for you to come and visit me, Lillian; it was a request for you to back the fuck off.”
I see the quickest flash of a blonde head, but I can’t hear a word she is whispering.
Whatever she is saying irritates the shit out of Elvis. “That’s not true! This wasn’t a temporary thing.” I would laugh at his air quote of the word “temporary” if his face wasn’t etched with so much pain. “You don’t get to fuck whoever you want then say you’re sorry and expect it to be done and dusted. That’s not the way things work.”
The blonde steps closer to Elvis. She’s clearly slim; she barely casts a shadow in the late-hanging sun, and she’s well put-together. Designer pants hug her tiny bottom; she’s wearing killer high heel shoes, and every strand of her dead-straight locks are in perfect placement on her head. I don’t need to see her face to know she is a knockout. The appreciative rake of her body by the men surrounding her reveals she is stunning. They’re so busy ogling her, they failed to hear Elvis’s accusation that her insides are nowhere near as sparkly as her outsides.
“For fuck’s sake, give me a break. You’re here for one thing and one thing only: money. A year ago, I would have fallen for your tricks, but not anymore. I’m smarter than I was back then.”
After giving her a final sneer, Elvis thrusts his helmet under his arm then jogs onto the field to join the players already warming up. The crowd spots him in an instant. They jump to their feet, their roars of excitement enticing him to spin around and thank them for their support with a wave. That’s when he notices me spying on him. He slants his head as his squinted eyes dart between me and the blonde frozen where he left her.
I try and play it cool with a wiggle of my fingers. He doesn’t buy my act. The anger barely receding from his face returns stronger than ever. It’s so blistering, I dash down the corridor, needing something more than an icy-cold drink to settle my skyrocketing temps.
MY ASSUMPTION on the queue being smaller at the pricier canteen was right. It also cost me less money. Not because Skylar went easier on me, but because the pass that grants me backstage access to the stadium every day also gives me a staff discount. It wasn’t mammoth, but enough to convince me I could fluff up Skylar’s order with the grilled sandwich she missed out on last time. It takes twenty-five minutes for them to fill my order, but plenty of time for me to put on my game face before returning to my seat. I don’t think Coach James will be pleased knowing he forked out premium seats only to have me piss off his star player minutes before the game.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
I hand Skylar her order, minus my hotdog and coke, before shifting my eyes to the field. The last time the crowd was this boisterous was when the opposing team recognized Elvis’s play before his receiver did. It’s just lucky his misread occurred at the same time the defense awarded the offense an automatic first down penalty or who knows how many yards they would have lost.
I freeze as a disturbance makes itself known in my gut. What the hell was that? I don’t do football talk.
Hoping it will remove the disdain on my tongue, I chug down half my bottle of Coca-Cola. It sits heavy in my stomach when Skylar launches to her feet and yells, “Come on, Carlton! Where’s the magic you had last week?”
I grimace. “Things not good?”
Huffing, Skylar plops back into her chair. “We’re barely into the first quarter, and he’s fumbled the ball twice. Coach is going to pull him.” She sounds more frustrated that he’ll be out of her sight than benched.
“Maybe he just needs some encouragement?” I curl my hands around my mouth to ensure my words extend further than the mumbled gripes around me. “Come on, Ref, let ‘em play!” I doubt the referee has done anything wrong, but tell me one football fanatic who doesn’t love complaining about poor refereeing. “It looks like swiss cheese out there. Tighten up the holes.”
“Yeah!” Skylar joins me in heckling both the referees and the players. “You have one job, Lee: protect your QB. If he stops getting slammed, maybe he’ll stop dropping the ball.”
I cringe. That’s not quite the encouragement I was hoping for, but thankfully, her comment inspires many others. They stand to their feet so their words can be accentuated with the stomp of their shoes. “Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut!”
I get in on the action too. Before I know it, I’m stomping my feet and clapping my hands in rhythm with the crowd. I’m not suddenly a fan of football; the energy is just too intense not to swallow me whole.
“Come on, Elvis, show them why you’re the King!”
“Oh my gawd!” Skylar’s scream sets my hearing back by a decade. “Did you see that? Presley, I’m so fucking hot I’ll get you pregnant just by looking at you Carlton, winked at me!” She dances on the spot, her bump and grind gaining her more than a few admirers. “I’m going home with him tonight. We’re going to make cute babies, buy a Porsche and a ginormous house with no picket fences. Oh yeah, I’m going home with him tonight.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her Elvis’s wink wasn’t for her. He was responding to the frisky one I gave him when my shout reached him halfway across the field. His smile, though. . . that’s for Skylar. He’s more amused by her invisible cowboy lasso routine than me. He can be. He can’t hear the naughty things she’s whispering while galloping around the seats generous enough to give her ample dance space.
I’m not so lucky.
“YEAH, baby! Did you see that? Our boy is on fire!”
I jump forward two steps when Foster slaps my backside. I want to blame the adrenaline pumping through his veins for the strength behind his frisky tease, but that would be a lie. Foster is either stronger than he realizes, or he thinks my generous curves can withstand rough-handling. They can, but I don’t think Elvis appreciates his knowledge of this.
His eyes squint when they lower to the area Foster spanked. They narrow even further when he realizes what I’m wearing. I could have dressed in the uniform I’ve donned every day for the past three weeks, but I thought that would look a little suspicious to Skylar, so I opted for a more casual look with a miniskirt and a fitted shirt that says, “I’m only here for the beer.”
“Do you like my shirt?” I ask him when he stands in front of me. My words are a little huskier, the smell of his heated skin too invigorating for my body not to respond. If you can take away the scent of fresh-cut grass, he smells like he did after a night of fucking. It’s a virile, manly scent that has my thighs squeezing together.
“Your shirt is okay. Your skirt. . .” He bites on the edge of his hand as he makes a groaning sound.
I bump him with my hip. “So it’s good then, yeah?”
He ignores my question, instead choosing to ask his own. “Where’s Skylar?”
I want to reply, most likely waiting for you in the parking lot, but instead, I opt with, “She’s gone to celebrate the win with your other super fans.” I swivel on the spot. Excitement is brimming out of me. “You killed it tonight, E. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you play so well.”
He saves my lower lip from my teeth before murmuring, “I can think of one time I brought out all my best tricks. It wasn’t on a playing field though; it was on a much more appetizing playground.”
Someone pull the fire alarm because I’m burning up like a witch on a stake. His hot breath on my ear is too much for me to bear. It reminds me of when he was kneeling between my legs, preparing to devour my pussy. His eyes are holding the same spark they did that night as well. He looks like he’s about to ravish me at any moment, like the rules no longer matter.
I wish that were true.
“We can’t.” Pulling away from his lips is pure torture—torture I’m not sure I’m strong enough to endure. “Coach James is watching.”
“Coach James thanks you for our win tonight, so I doubt he’ll care about a little grind-up in the hallway.” Elvis drags his crotch against me to emphasize certain parts of his comment.
I pull back for the second time. It’s even more torturous than the first since I can feel how erect he is. “Coach James might not care, but fifty percent of my grade is relying on this internship. I can’t give that up for anything or anyone.” I lock my eyes with his. They’re brimming with lust. “Not even The Hulk.”
The truth in my statement settles some of the spark in Elvis’s eyes. Not entirely, just a smidge. “So no ass smashing for The Hulk, so what about a rubdown?”
“You want a rubdown?” I swear half the continent hears my question. After lowering my voice to a more acceptable level, I ask more calmly, “You want a rubdown?”
“Yeah, my back is killing me.” He arches his back while pulling a face that has every man around us paying careful attention to him. Their concern isn’t needed when he adds on, “I think a large kink in my crotch has thrown off my balance, so if you work on that first, my back will feel much better as well.”
I punch him in the stomach before pushing off my feet. “I’m a sports therapist, not a Chinese masseuse.”
He overtakes me, his wish to get to my cubicle at the back of the locker room the reason for his lengthened steps. “I’ll call you anything you want to be called if you fix my issue.” I don’t care if you’re as old as dirt or as new as Dalton and Becca’s daughter, you couldn’t have missed the innuendo in his tone when he said “issue.”
The vibe in the locker room is the most intense it’s been since I started at 69ers camp. I wasn’t lying earlier when I said Elvis played the game of his life tonight. I was in such awe, it was the fight of my life not to yell out, “That’s my man!” every time he did something spectacular. I shouldn’t have held back. There were at least a dozen women yelling precisely that. It’s lucky I don’t get jealous. . .much.
Worries I’m one of many women in Elvis’s life fly out the window when I enter my little domain. He’s sitting on my massage table, eating the bag of Cheetos Coach James confiscated from me last week. He tugged off his jersey somewhere between the locker rooms and here, and he has a twinkle in his eyes that reveals under all those layers of muscle is a teen boy drunk on the high of a win.
His impish glint turns lethargic when I nudge my head to the carpeted floor beneath his feet. “On your feet, old man.”
I snatch the bag of chips out of his hand, dump them next to his thigh, before moving to stand in front of him. He doesn’t appreciate me calling him old man, but with adrenaline still thick in his veins, he lets it slide.
“Spread your feet to the width of your shoulders, then raise one knee to your midsection.”
Elvis’s brow pops up. “Why?”
“Just do it.” I kick his cleats with my shoes to widen his stance. “I want to check your balance.”
“I was joking about my balance being off. I just wanted you to rub my schlong—”
He swallows his words when I glare at him. “Just do it. Please.”
“Fine.” He does his right leg first, and it’s a nice, straight movement. His left raise is nowhere near as balanced.
I grab his file off my desk to take notes before asking, “How is the pain in your lower back?”
He waits for me to pivot around to face him before answering, “I broke discs in the thoracic area of my spine. That’s nowhere near my lower back.”
I give him my duh face. His entire medical history is set out in front of me, but even if it weren’t, I’m aware the spinal cord he nearly severed is in the top half of his spine. “Your balance is unsteady, meaning when you’re lifting weights or doing squats, you may not be evenly distributing the weight. That, over time, will cause lower back pain.” I step closer to him, ensuring he knows our discussion right now is between a sports therapist and her client. “So, truthfully, how’s the lower back pain?”
His cheeky smirk reveals things will always be personal between us, but he plays along with my endeavor to keep things professional. “It niggles occasionally, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
I place my file on the massage table before taking two big steps back. “What starts as a niggle can flare into something much worse. With that in mind, hit the deck, old man.”
He growls at my age reference again before doing as instructed.
“Lie on your side. I’ll show you a trick that will instantly eradicate the pain in your lower back, then I’ll pass on some notes to your weight trainer to make sure he checks you’re evenly distributing your weights during sessions.” I position him how I need him before moving his hand to sit just above his ass. “Place your thumb on the gluteus medius muscle; it’s on the surface of the pelvis. Can you feel it?”
“Uh-huh.” The grunt that comes with his reply reveals his pain is more than just a niggle.
“While placing pressure on the muscle, bring your knee forward until it touches the carpet.” I smile when he does as asked without hesitation. “Okay, good. Now extend your leg back until it is level with your thumb.”
We do ten repetitions before adding an abduct to the move. He grunts even more, showing how much pain there is in his hip region. For a man known for his fitness, his wobbling thighs as he struggles to hold his leg in the air is hilarious. From how red his face is, anyone would swear he was doing the splits.
“Willow. . .”
I stuff my laughter into the back of my throat with a deep swallow. “What? I wasn’t laughing. It’s just. . .”
My words trail off when Elvis sweeps my hands out from underneath me, causing me to topple onto him. I’m not strong enough for this. I’m lying on top of him. My hands are splayed across his mouthwatering pecs, and he’s sweaty and panting. No woman would be strong enough for this.
He runs his finger down my cheek before tucking one of my wild locks behind my ear. I assume he is feeling the sentiment in the air the same as me. . . until he says, “I’m sorry about what you witnessed today.”
“Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He angles his head to the side and arches a brow. He appears utterly confused.
It clears when I murmur, “If I had walked in on something like this, then I’d have a problem, but words mean nothing without actions to back them up. I’m sorry you busted me spying.
I shouldn’t have; I was just worried about what had gotten you so worked up.”
Nothing but honesty rings in his tone when he grumbles, “She frustrates the shit out of me.”
“And I don’t?”
I hope my question will ease the tension radiating out of him. It does exactly that when he murmurs, “Only on Tuesdays.” He rolls over until the lower half of my body is pinned to the carpet by his hips.
“Thank god today is Saturday.”
With a smile that proves he appreciates my sass, he rocks his hips three times. He’s pretending he’s testing out how well my exercises reduced the pain in his lower back, but in reality, he’s teasing me as only he can. “Oh, you’re right, that does feel better. There are barely any spasms. Can you notice the difference, Will? Am I more evenly balanced now?”
I’d answer him if I could. It’s a pity the roll of his hips didn’t just steal my words. It pinched my morals as well. “I doubt you can tell it’s truly effective with only three pumps. Maybe you should add a few more to the mix.”
I throw my head back and grunt when he does as requested not even two seconds later. He grinds against me, the movements of his hips anything but innocent. He knows he has me at his mercy, and if my needy moans don’t shut the hell up, so will the rest of his team.
“E, we shouldn’t,” I mutter in a breathless moan when his lips arrow toward mine. “I don’t want to break the rules.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have called me ‘E.’”
He’s right. I’d lie on a bed of nails if it guaranteed our kiss would occur. Thankfully, Elvis doesn’t require that level of commitment for his mouth to continue its expedition to mine. He lowers them slowly, his pace as tempting and as devilish as the half-smirk he’s wearing. I’m so caught up in memorizing how delicious his mouth tastes, I don’t realize we have company until it is too late.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. I was looking for the washroom.”