Just Playin': Romantic Sports Comedy

by Shandi Boyes

  There I go again, and I don’t even have a stiffy this time around!

  As my skin grows clammy with panic, Willow offers up her own introduction. “I’m Willow, or Will as my friends call me.” She glances over my shoulder, her smile picking up when she spots Emerick sitting on the kitchen counter. “And who’s this handsome little guy?”

  “That’s Emerick, my son.” Syndi sounds as proud as I do anytime I introduce her and Emerick. “He’s making banana chocolate chip pancakes. Would you like some?”

  My panic recedes when Willow replies, “I’d love some.” It’s quick to return when she adds on, “But I have to go. I have dance class in an hour, and I really don’t want to turn up in this.” She points to the udders poking out from her midsection.

  Taking Syndi’s laugh as playful instead of scornful, Willow locks her eyes with mine and mouths, “I’ll see you later?”

  The worry on her face eases when I nod.

  After promising to test out Emerick’s “fantastic cooking” next time, she spins on her heels and heads for the front door. Her already slow steps taper when I call her name.

  I wait for her to glance my way before asking, “Are you forgetting something?”

  I mean a goodbye kiss, but with her brain still not firing on all cylinders, she doesn’t get what I’m asking. Emerick jumps off the kitchen counter when Willow breaks out the moves she used to fill the dance floor last night. They aren’t moves I learned when I was in school. The funky chicken dance was the only one I knew by heart, but this generation uses video games to get their funky dance moves.

  The unexpected feelings I had for Willow earlier hit me full force for the second time when she extends her usually thirty-second farewell dance by a minute and a half so she can teach Emerick how to floss. He had most of it down pat, but his hips were swinging out of sync with his arms.

  Once Willow is confident he’s got it, she and Emerick groove across the kitchen like they’ve known each other for years, their happiness uncontained.

  At the end of their performance, which is a good five or so minutes, Willow holds her hand out in front of herself. “High-five, Emerick! You did so well.”

  When he disses her high-five for a hug, Willow raises her eyes to mine. “Aww, can I keep him?”

  Not waiting for me to answer, she drags Emerick toward my front door. Once they’re out of sight, Syndi shifts on her feet to face me. “She’s so damn sweet. I’ve never seen Emerick instantly smitten with someone like that before. How quickly she got him to open up was phenomenal.”

  Her gushing ends when I say, “You know she’s not joking, right? If you don’t get out there fast, she’ll kidnap your son.”

  It takes Syndi two long heart beats to see the truth in my eyes before she sprints out of the kitchen. It doesn’t take me nearly as long to realize why I slept so well last night.

  I’m falling in love with Willow Underwood, a twenty-one-year-old college student who doesn’t have two dimes to rub together, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

  What the fuck?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Presley

  M y heart is still skipping to its own tune Wednesday afternoon, a whole four days after a revelation I thought would knock me on my ass. Don’t misconstrue. I’m shocked about how quickly I’m developing feelings for Willow, but for the first time in my life, I’m not scared about them. The past weekend was good. The team closest to us on the ladder was defeated, meaning even with our bye last week, we’re still in top position. I’m lighter on my feet—I’m sure you already know why—and after she wrapped up her dance class, Willow returned to my condo to spend the rest of her weekend with Syndi, Emerick, and me.

  I hardly saw her since Syndi and Emerick hogged her time, but the slices of peace we snuck between family obligations and work strengthened my belief that I’m falling in love. It feels so obvious now, I wouldn’t be shocked to be accused of walking around with love hearts in my eyes.

  Tonight will only make matters ten times worse. It’s my birthday. You know that celebration I wasn’t looking so forward to only a few months ago because it will put a ten-year gap between Willow and me? I’m not as worried about it now. Dalton was right: age doesn’t matter when you stop seeking its expiration date.

  Foster’s lips purse as he bobs his head. He’s impressed by how fast I scrub up when my game plan goes from on the field to off.

  “I clean up alright, eh?”

  He awards me a frisky wink. “Not bad at all. What’re your plans for tonight? I heard Berkley say something about—”

  I stuff his question into the back of his throat with a tap of my knuckles on his shirt. Willow may not be in my sight, but I can sense her presence.

  “Come on out, Will; your cover has been busted.”

  Foster chuckles when she emerges from the shadows with a sexy pout on her red-painted lips. “I tried. Your boy is too smart to fall for our tricks,” Foster explains when her narrowed eyes glare at him.

  I’m about to have a go at Foster for ganging up on me with Willow, but my scan of her body has me choking on my words. She’s wearing a dress. A fuckin’ smoking hot dress. Its flirty hem sits high on her scrumptious thighs, and the cropped jacket keeping her warm from the late hour is fitted to accent the generous swell of her tits.

  “Damn, Willow.”

  She swivels on the spot, fanning out the hem of her sexy all-red number. “Too much for cake?” Because she’s nervous, her Australian accent is on full display.

  Before I can answer her, Foster rejoins our conversation. “There’s no such thing as too much.” He leans in to press a kiss to her cheek before his eyes drift my way. “If you don’t snatch this girl up soon, you’re gonna need to move aside so a real man has a chance to seal the deal.”

  He moves aside when I shove him out of the locker room. Grabbing his crotch, he laughs. His old gangster lifestyle is never forgotten when it comes to brawling over a fine-looking lady.

  I hear his throaty laugh for another thirty seconds before it’s swallowed by the freeway that roars along one side of the 69ers home stadium. His lengthy departure gives me time to settle my erratic heart rate, but it does nothing to ease my sticky palms. Sweat is practically dribbling off my hands.

  After dragging them down my pants, I curl one of them around Willow’s. Because the heat roaring through her body is as boiling as mine, she only slightly grimaces when she feels the wetness of my hands.

  “It’s weird being here after hours. It’s a little spooky.” She pauses, seeking a ghoul in every dark corner we pass.

  “This is my favorite time to walk the halls. There’s something euphoric about being in a space which is usually such a hive of activity. I swear when I just stop and listen for a few seconds, I can hear the crowd chanting my name.”

  She smiles before raking her teeth over her lower lip. “You should probably get that checked. I don’t think that’s normal.”

  “I had my hearing checked last week, thank you very much. It’s perfectly okay,” I tilt down close so my lips brush her ear, “for an old guy.”

  Her giggles overtake the thump of my heart from her sugary scent. “Who is now another step closer to the grave.”

  When her hand digs into her bag, no doubt seeking the present she tried to give me before practice today, I place my hand over hers. “Not yet.”

  “I’ve been waiting to give this to you all day, E. How much longer do I have to wait?”

  I tweak her protruding lip. “Whose birthday is it?”

  “Yours. It’s your birthday.” She huffs as her shoulders sag. “Doesn’t mean you get to be a party pooper, though.”

  The low hang of her shoulders barely lingers for a minute. They inch up high when we walk through the corridor the players charge through a minimum four times a week.

  “E. . .” I can tell she wants to say more, but the picnic blanket, a basket loaded with wine, cheese and grapes, and two boxes of Mickey’s pizza steal her words
.

  I give myself a mental pat on the back when she raises her welling eyes to mine. “It’s not my birthday.”

  “No, it’s not. But it is mine, and I couldn’t think of a better way to spend it than with you.”

  Her brows become tighter the longer her confused gaze bounces between mine. “I thought you had plans. . .without me?”

  I try not to smile at the uncomfortable delivery of her last two words. I fail. “I said I had plans in the works, but I didn’t say who they were with. You wanted to go out; I wanted to stay in. This is my compromise. ”

  Taking her hand in mine, I guide her onto the spongy green field. She giggles when her heels are swallowed by the thick grass. It turns into full-blown laughter when I scoop down low to gather her in my arms.

  “So strong and manly,” she drawls in a fake American accent while running her fingertips over my bicep. “Do you work out?”

  “Only on Tuesdays.”

  Her husky laugh has my dick becoming super friendly with my zipper. “You need to add a time and a location to your answer. Hook a girl up!”

  She stops waiting for the high-five I’m never going to give her when I place her back onto her feet on the picnic blanket. “Wow, E. How do you not get scared every time you step out here?” She spins in a circle, taking in the thousands upon thousands of empty seats. “I feel like a worm being eyed by a million kookaburras.”

  Her eyes drift my way, preparing to explain to me what a kookaburra is. I beat her to the punch by making the kookaburra mating call.

  Well, I thought that was what I was doing before she bursts out laughing.

  “Not quite right?”

  She holds her thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Close. You kinda sound like a kookaburra being strangled, but I appreciate the effort.”

  Smiling, I gesture for her to sit. She does, cross-legged. Her eyes float to mine when I ask if she’d like a glass of wine.

  “Please.”

  After filling her glass and handing it to her, I crack open a can of soda. She freezes with her wineglass pressed against her lips to watch me take a mouthful of soda.

  “What?” I ask, wondering why she’s peering at me funny.

  She lowers her eyes to my can of soft drink. “Is it hard?”

  “Not drinking?” When she nods, I add on, “Shockingly, no. I just get my highs in non-alcoholic ways now.”

  She bats her long lashes. “Such as?”

  I wave my hand over the pizza boxes; the cheesy scent is wafting up more than fond memories. When she does her cute eyeroll, I rake the back of my index finger down her cheek. “Neither are good for my heart, but what doesn’t kill me will only make me stronger.”

  Assuming I’m playing, she nudges me hard enough some of her wine sloshes out of her glass. It only takes her peering into my unamused gaze for three seconds to realize I’m being forthright. With the vein in her neck thrumming, the remainder of her wine is upended onto the grass before she returns the plastic flute to the picnic basket. “I’m feeling daring today. Hand me a lemonade.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “No, I don’t,” she agrees, peering straight at me, “But I want to.”

  WE SPEND the next two hours eating, talking, and depleting half a dozen soft drink cans. We discussed everything you can imagine: my surprise when I scored the number one draft pick, how she used ballet to get over her grief, Emerick’s unexpected arrival into my family, and how she wants to drag her roommate around the Australian outback with nothing but a backpack of clothes.

  The only time our conversation veers into uncomfortable territory is when my mention of the upcoming playoff schedule unveils a disastrous conflict. Her dance recital is scheduled for the same night I’ll helm my teams’ campaign to play in the grand finale.

  “I’ll cancel my recital. My score won’t reflect on the national title tally, so it’s not important.”

  “Maybe not on a competition level, but it is for you personally.” When Willow fails to rebut, I know I’m right. This is her first competition since she busted her knee, meaning it is as important to her as the day I strapped on my cleats for the first time after breaking my back. “You don’t have to cancel; we’ll just work around it. What time are you down to perform?”

  “7:30.”

  “AM?” I ask, hopeful.

  Guilt taints her eyes before she shakes her head. “PM. But that’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just cancel.”

  I impede her haste to pack our now empty picnic basket by snatching an empty pizza box from her grasp and Frisbeeing it across the field. “You’re not cancelling. You’ve worked too hard for this, and I’d never ask you to give up a part of who you are for me. I might be arrogant at times, but I’m not a complete fucking asshole.”

  She swipes her hand across her cheeks to ensure none of her tears have fallen. When she’s confident her face is dry, she locks her moisture-filled eyes with mine. “Then what’s your solution? I don’t want to miss watching you play.”

  “Says a lady who hates football with every fiber of her being.”

  My gibe has the effect I was aiming for. It brings our exchange back onto playful territory by easing some of the tension strangling it.

  “I don’t hate football.” She catches her eyeroll halfway before her eyes twitch back to their original position. “I just don’t understand it.”

  “I wouldn’t say that too loud. If Coach James hears you’re seeking knowledge, he’ll include you in every team strategy meeting for the remainder of your internship.”

  A chuckle breaks through my lips when she glances over her shoulder with wide, panicked eyes. Only once she’s confident we’re alone does she return her devotion to me. “Sheesh, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  I ease her erratically beating chest by lying down on the blanket, taking her with me. With the sky free of clouds, a million stars twinkle above our heads. Our star-gazing pushes us into our first bout of silence for the night. It’s not awkward. It’s more necessary than anything. It also strengthens what I thought last week. This whole abstinence thing has as many good points as it does bad. Although, I may not have been saying that if our weekend didn’t end the way it did.

  Willow breaks the silence first. “I really wish I could watch you play.” She rolls over to balance her chin on my chest. “I may not understand anything happening, but I still like supporting you.”

  “Just as I do you, but it’s rare to get everything you want.” I’m still learning that the hard way.

  I grow worried I said my last comment out loud when Willow’s head pops off my chest. Her brows furrow as she scans our location. The worry darkening her light eyes makes me follow the direction of her gaze. We’re alone, for the most part. The stadium is rarely empty. Excluding the players and management staff, over half a dozen janitors work during closing hours to keep its world-class facilities looking new even though they’re nearly as old as me.

  I prop myself on my elbows when Willow suddenly leaps to her feet. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  She races three steps away from me before spinning around and coming straight back. “Sorry, I forgot.” With her hands slapped on my cheeks and a grin a mile wide, she lowers her mouth to mine. Her kiss is innocent, but the excitement blistering out of her. . . dyna-fucking-mite. “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  She charges across the field like Foster outrunning a defensive linebacker before she is swallowed by the darkness of the stadium bleachers.

  I’m still staring in shock at the direction she bolted when she reemerges approximately ten minutes later. She’s still wearing her knockout dress, but her jacket and shoes have been removed, and she’s carrying a football.

  What the fuck?

  “What are you up to?”

  She presses her finger to her lips before dumping the football onto the blanket next to me. After taking four steps back, she raises her arm into the air. My heart beats at an unna
tural rhythm when the stadium lights switch on two seconds later. The brightness is closely followed by the soulful voice of Ed Sheeran. I can’t remember the name of his song, but he performs it with Beyoncé.

  Equally excited and filled with anticipation, I scoot to the very edge of the blanket. The hope blazing through my veins is answered in the most brilliant light when Willow starts dancing to the song blaring out of the stadium speakers. She floats through the air, her movements similar to the ones she made the first time she danced for me, but more refined and graceful. Her variety makes her performance so riveting, I can’t take my eyes off her. I just stare in awe, smug as fuck about my private show.

  With her wish to keep her routine under wraps from her competitors, she hasn’t shared any aspects of it with anyone—not even me. She wouldn’t even say what style of dance she was performing. I’m going to call her dance the “Willow Effect” because I’ve never seen this style of dance before. She has the elegance of a ballerina but with an edge of fierceness that can’t conceal the years she’s spent teaching hip hop to rowdy children.

  She’s in her element, and I’m loving every fucking minute of it.

  As the song fades, I stand to my feet, clapping and hollering like a loon. I’m not lying when I say my grin is brighter than the stadium lights. “That was fucking awesome! My god, Willow, I’m so hard right now. That was hot, sensual, and way better than any of the shitty shows Lillian dragged me to in New York.”

  I didn’t mean to bring up my ex while flattering my current squeeze; it just slipped out during my excitement. Mercifully, Willow doesn’t seem to mind. “Was it okay? I’m trying something different by merging traditional with new age. I think it gives it more depth.”

  “It was perfect. You’re going to kill it.”