by Shandi Boyes
Smiling, she snags an untouched bottle of water from the picnic basket. She’s panting so hard, her expanding chest catches the little droplets of sweat rolling down her cheeks. “Damn, I didn’t realize how hot those lights are.” She takes a generous sip of water before screwing on the lid and dumping it next to her bare feet. “Alright.” She claps her hands together like Coach James does at the beginning of every quarter. “Your turn.”
My confusion grows when she bobs down to snag the football off the blanket. Stepping back, she flashes me a grin that has my cock getting friendly with my zipper before tossing the football into my chest. “You saw mine; now show me yours.”
She tucks the hem of her dress into her panties before huddling down low like she’s primed to tackle me. I realize I have the situation all wrong when she shouts, “Roger 73, Green 98, Red 62!”
I laugh at her attempt to impersonate the plays I use on field before shouting. “Hut-hut!”
Hearing my command, she pushes off her feet with a grunt, her sprint down the sideline remarkably fast for how hard she is panting. When she’s a good distance from me, I lean back and send the football sailing through the air. I don’t throw it with as much force as I usually use, but my accuracy is perfect.
The look on Willow’s face when she catches my throw is priceless. She stops frozen in the middle of the field with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide.
She snaps out of her trance when I cup my hands around my mouth to yell, “Run, Willow, run!”
Her lack of footballs skills can’t be missed when she races back my way. “Not this way. That way.” I point to the end zone behind her. “We’re on the same team.”
“Not anymore, we ain’t.” Holding her arm out like Foster does any time a linebacker is charging his way, she sidesteps me. “Oh, did you see the skill? Underwood outplayed Carlton. She’s making a break for it. Stand to your feet, ladies and gentleman. We’re in the midst of greatness tonight.” She sounds just like the commentators do when I’m charging down the sideline. . . until she picks up that I’m on her tail. “No, E, no!”
“Less talking and more running, rookie.” I catch her on the twenty-yard line. Her squeals come out with a giggle when I band my arm around her waist, hoist her from the ground, then charge for her end zone like she’s my football.
“Boo-yah! Touchdown!”
After slamming down the ball on the orange-painted ground, Willow wiggles out of my hold so she can imitate the moonwalk leg kicky chest whacky thing Foster does every time he crosses the line. Through a hearty bout of laughter, I mimic the noise of a boisterous crowd. I swear I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. My gut is cramping, and tears are leaking from my eyes.
Willow shakes her ass from one side of the field to the next before regathering the football in her hand and moving to stand in front of me. She is red-faced, but the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. “Alright, next?”
“Next?” I’m truly confused.
She angles her head to the side and spreads her free hand over her cocked hip. “That wasn’t championship play, Carlton. I want to see the magic. The intensity. The plays that will lead to you getting a championship ring on your finger.”
She stops when I interrupt, “I’d rather make out.”
“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll do that as well.” She awards me a frisky wink before tossing the ball into my chest. “After you’ve shown me every play I’ll miss next Sunday.”
The truth smacks into me like a freight train. She danced so I could see her performance without needing to attend the recital, and now she wants to watch me play ball so she won’t miss any of the action. It’s not the same as it will be in front of thousands of people, but more special since we get the exclusive, never-before-seen material before anyone else.
I jerk my chin up. “Step back; I’m gonna show you a few tricks.”
She tugs her dress back into her panties before bending down low and raising one hand into the air. She’s got the play all wrong, but before I can tell her that, she charges for me. Her body’s impact with mine is the equivalent of a drop of rain hitting my shoulder, but I pretend it’s more.
With my arms flailing, I fall backward, taking her with me. I angle my body to ensure she lands on top of me without injury. Willow comes out of our exchange okay, but my crotch isn’t as lucky. It didn’t endure a reckless knee or the ball lodged between us. It’s fighting to ignore how good it feels having Willow grind against it.
I’m not the only one noticing the shift in the air. Willow’s bouncy curls fan her face as she stares down at me with dilated, needy eyes. Her prolonged glance changes our exchange from playful to greedy in under a second. Hands slither over sweaty skin as lips collide. Our kiss is hungry and ravenous, an embrace that reveals how attracted we are to each other.
I could stay in this moment forever. . . if we weren’t interrupted by a stern cough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Presley
A s play-by-play of Willow’s response to Coach James busting us making out like teens flows through my brain, I stroll down the nearly isolated corridor of 69er Stadium. My strut is so cocky, my hips are swinging as much as the Elvis car air freshener Willow gifted me for my birthday. Usually, I’d scrunch up anything Elvis-related and toss it into the trash within a second of the gift-giver leaving my presence, but since this gift was from Willow, it’s hanging off my rearview mirror, rocking and rolling with every bump in the road.
I clutch at my chest to keep my heart in its rightful spot when Danny unexpectedly steps in my path. He nearly gave me a damn heart attack. I’m more surprised by his unexpected arrival than I was Coach James’s last night. He threatened to bench me, but I know he didn’t mean it. No coach in the history of coaches would bench his star player a week out from finals.
“Sorry.” Don’t let Danny’s apology fool you. He’s not the faintest bit sorry. “You looked spaced out, so I thought I’d give you a kickstart.”
He fiddles with the collar of my shirt before attempting to lick and spit my hair into submission. I say “attempt” as my glare freezes his spit-loaded hand an inch from my recently washed hair.
“We’re good?”
I nod. “We’re more than good.”
He hears something I didn’t want to relay in my tone. “You said you were keeping it PG!” He wiggles his finger in front of my face. “This is not PG. What is this?”
He leans in close and sniffs me, like he can smell indiscretion on my skin.
That’s exactly what he accuses me of when he takes a step back and drops his jaw. “Presley Wilson Carlton.”
“Don’t you Presley Wilson Carlton me. I didn’t do a single thing your eyes are accusing me of. We ate pizza and played ball. I kept my hands to myself.” More than you’ll ever know, but I keep that snippet of information to myself.
Danny cocks his hip, his dramatics not unusual. “You’re five minutes early. You’re never five minutes early.”
“I had to drop by Willow’s school. Traffic was good. Sue me.”
His jaw hangs even more profoundly. “Willow spent the night at your condo?!” He slaps my chest more times than acceptable for a man who relies on me for his income. “You have five days to go—”
“Four, but who’s counting?”
Me, I’m fucking counting.
“Then why screw this up now? It’s four days, Elvis. Four goddamn, why has it been eleven long months for me? days.” His change of topic isn’t uncommon either. Even if a conversation has nothing to do with him, it soon becomes about him.
Happy to keep the focus off me and what he assumes I did wrong, I ask, “Has it really been eleven months since you. . . you know?”
Danny leans his head on my shoulder like a dog wanting a scratch behind the ears. “Yes. I’m hurting, Elvis. I can barely squeeze my balls in my y-fronts anymore.”
“Well, there’s your issue. Who wants to date a man who wears Y-fronts?” I question through a bout of breathles
s laughter.
When he pouts, I rub his head like he’s a dog. “There, there, it’ll be okay. If things get too bad, take matters into your own hands.” Trust me, it’s a lot of fun when done with the right person.
His head pops off my shoulder, his eyes widening like he’s never considered the possibility of taking care of business himself. “You’re right! Who says I need a man? I’ve got everything I need right here.”
“He means himself,” I assure two of my teammates walking past us, eyeballing our exchange with a curious glance. “Not that there is anything wrong with being gay. I’m just not.”
Danny rolls his eyes as his shoulders slump. “Thanks for the reminder. I thought we were starting something beautiful.” He laughs when I shove him away from me. “What? You were raking your fingers through my hair, Elvis, what did you expect me to think?”
I give him a stern finger point. “You’re. . . You’re. . .” I’ve got nothing.
He clasps his hands together, rests them on his chest, then swivels on the spot like he’s just been crowned Mr. Gay 2020. “Beautiful? Perfect? The man of your dreams—?”
“Have two seconds to point me in the direction of the shoot before I donate your portion of our negotiation to the charity bringing Love Boat back on air.”
He pauses for a moment to consider my terms before reluctantly dragging his hand across his body. “This way, Mood Killer.”
Like he can talk. I was walking on clouds before I bumped into him. Now I feel like I’m walking into a storm head on, and I don’t just mean figuratively. Lillian is standing in the middle of a conference room that has been transformed into a studio. She’s wearing a microscopic tank top and running shorts. Her outfit—if you can call it that—leaves nothing to the imagination. She may as well be wearing nothing.
“What is she doing here?”
“I don’t know.” Danny’s shock is as high as mine. “Let me find out?”
He waits for me to nod before making his way to the lady who headed up our negotiations months ago. I can’t recall her name. It starts with a D. Danielle. Daphne. Delilah. That’s it—Delilah! How could I forget? I always thought Delilah sounded sweet until I discovered a face behind the name. Don’t get me wrong, Delilah is attractive, but her personality could certainly use some polish.
When Danny makes his way back to me, I meet him halfway. “What’s the deal?”
He swivels his tongue around his mouth like his words are hard for him to deliver. I understand why when he mumbles, “Lillian’s doing the shoot with you.”
“What?! That wasn’t part of our arrangement.”
“I know.” His eyes beg me to calm down. “But this is separate from our deal. Lillian forged her own negotiations with Delilah after bumping into her last month.”
“Then we’ll shoot them separately. Easy.”
Danny drags his hand down his face, his expression pained. “Delilah wants this to be a joint collaboration. She thinks consumers will respond better to a couple than they will you as an individual.”
“No!” I hit him with the same stern finger point I gave him earlier. “It’s not happening.” I shift my finger to Lillian, who’s pretending not to watch our exchange as she completes a handful of reps under a set of bright lights. Who warms up to shoot a commercial? “She was not a part of our deal. If they want to add her name into my contract, they’ll have to remove my name first.”
Danny shadows my brisk exit from the conference room. “We can’t do that. You signed an agreement to endorse their product.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Me.” I bang my fist on my chest. “I would endorse their product. Not her.” I once again point to Lillian, who has abandoned her deception. She stares straight at me, stunned as fuck that I’d rather lose a ten-million dollar endorsement deal than work alongside her. “Tell them the deal’s off.”
“I can’t.”
I jackknife back, certain I heard Danny wrong. I didn’t. The truth is all over his face.
“What aren’t you telling me?” My words are minced by the tight grinds of my jaw.
“When we began negotiations—”
“Don’t pussyfoot around, Danny. Get straight to the point.”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down before he forces out, “If you walk away from this deal, you’ll be liable for any loss in revenue the pharmaceutical company sustains from your failure to uphold your contract.”
“Are you fucking kidding me!” My roar bellows down the corridor. “That’s not the way these things work. I’ve never signed a contract with a clause like that before.”
“That’s because this is the first contract you’ve negotiated since your DUI.”
“What?” I heard what he said; I just want to see if he’s game enough to repeat it.
He is, but not in the manner I expect. “When you went on your bender, you cost a lot of companies a lot of money. No one wanted to touch you with a ten-foot pole.”
“I’ve been sober for two years, Danny.”
He steps closer to me, his eyes watering. “Yes, you have, and I’m very proud of that, but you were a drunk for years longer than that.”
His words hurt to hear, but they’re true, so there’s no point denying them.
“How much are we talking?” I hate that I’m even considering the possibility of doing this, but my contract isn’t due for renewal with the 69ers for another two years, and I’m not getting any younger, so there’s no guarantee they’ll even re-sign me.
Danny shrugs. “I don’t know. Rumors around the water cooler are that they’re looking at tripling their investment, so you’d be close to the figure cited on your contract, if not more.”
“Ten million dollars?! I could possibly have to pay them ten million if I don’t follow through with our arrangement?”
It kills him to do, but Danny nods.
“Fuck!”
I drag my fingers through my hair, adding a few tugs to the pain already rocketing through my head. This is literally my worst nightmare coming true. I can’t do this, but I can’t afford ten million dollars either, so I have no choice. I have to side with the devil.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Willow
Slinging my head back, I peer over my shoulder when a deep voice rumbles down the nearly isolated corridor I’m walking. “Willow, can I see you for a minute?”
I swallow numerous times in a row to relieve my parched throat when I realize who’s requesting to see me. It’s Coach James. This is the first time I’ve seen him since he caught me getting frisky with his star quarterback three nights ago.
“Sure. Just give me a sec to put down my things, then I’ll be right in.”
I don’t even get half an inch down the hall when he grumbles, “Now, Ms. Underwood.”
Pouting like I’m being sent to the principal’s office, I spin on my heels and stomp toward his office, my steps sluggish and slow. Including today, I have only two days left on my internship, but I swear to god, it feels like a thousand. You’d think seeing the light at the end of the tunnel would fill me with eagerness. It did until Thursday. Something is off with Elvis. He’s moody and withdrawn; even our kiss goodbye when he asked Danny to drive me home Thursday afternoon was cold. I know it’s playoff week, which stresses out even the cockiest men in the country, but he seemed to be handling it well.
Wednesday night was magical. We laughed, and danced, and I gave my best performance pretending I’m a fan of football. Well, I can’t really call it a “performance” when it’s true. I’ll eat glass before I ever don the getup Skylar does, but the game is growing on me. . . as is one of its stars.
I stop hunting for clues on what happened between the grinning Elvis who dropped off the textbooks I left at his house to the one who kissed me goodbye two nights ago without a single spark igniting between us when Coach James gestures for me to take a seat in the chair opposite him. I’m truly lost in Elvis’s swift change in composure. It’s like turning thirty-one flipped his
personality switch to grumpy. I’ve heard of a midlife crisis, but this is ridiculous. He truly is a grumpy old man.
My worry for Elvis switches to myself when Coach James closes his office door. He only ever closes it during a crisis, and considering most of those calamities are about his players, I’m shitting bricks as to why I’m being given the royal treatment.
My delusions of believing I’m one of the team clear when Coach James props his backside on his desk before lowering his worldly eyes to mine. “Have you spoken to Carlton today?”
I shake my head. That’s why I’m filled with so much confusion. Elvis and I communicate multiple times a day. . . until yesterday. I was so convinced my cell had crapped itself, I made Skylar call it to check it was in working order. It appears to be functioning fine, but I’ve yet to receive a single returned call or text from Elvis in nearly forty hours.
Coach James scrubs the stubble on his chin. “I know I was a little hard on you two Wednesday night. If that’s the cause for his mood of late, I’m sorry about that.”
I’m grateful I’m not the only one noticing Elvis’s switch in personalities, but I hate it as well.
“He mentioned his accident was around this time of the year; do you think that could be affecting his thoughts?”
Coach takes a few seconds to deliberate on my question before shaking his head. “He’s close with Mr. Beckett and his family. He even paid to fly them out here for the playoffs.”
The sludge my heart has been sitting in the past forty hours clears a little from his confession, but my confusion remains. “Then I am at a loss. He was fine Thursday morning, then poof, he turned into a bigger, grumpier version of you.” My pupils dilate to the size of saucers. I was meant to say my last comment in my head.
I start breathing again when Coach James laughs. “I wouldn’t have minded him being a mini-me if we weren’t heading into the playoffs, but I don’t have time for theatrics this week.” He gathers my hands in his. His are much warmer than mine. “Can you talk to him, see if you can find out what’s going on?”