Ballbuster (A Playing Dirty Sports Romance Book 1)

by Lane Hart

  “Well, yeah, of course,” I answer.

  “Oh my God,” he grumbles. “The dishwasher uses its own detergent. You know, dishwasher detergent!”

  “Wait, there’s a special detergent for it?” I ask in confusion.

  Kohen’s growl of frustration is my answer.

  “I-I didn’t know! It’s not like I’ve ever used a dishwasher before,” I tell him.

  The anger slides off his face as his jaw drops. “How is that possible? Were you raised with the Amish?”

  “Ah, no, I was raised by a single father in Bumfuck, Tennessee,” I reply. “Now where’s your mop so I can start cleaning this mess up?” I ask, my face warming with a blush of embarrassment, both because of the stupid thing I’ve done and the fact that I was raised in a household that could barely afford the necessities, much less a freaking dishwasher. College was even worse since I lived in the dorm paid for by my scholarship with only a small microwave.

  “Mop and bucket are in the closet at the end of the hall,” he says tersely.

  “Go sit down and I’ll clean this up,” I tell him on the short walk. “Don’t want you falling and hurting your other leg!”

  When I get back, Kohen’s leaning his back against the counter between his propped up crutches. There’s a roll of paper towels in his hands, and he’s tearing a couple off like they’ll be enough to wipe up all the million suds, despite my order to let me handle it. I set the mop and bucket down and try to wrestle the roll of towels from his hands.

  “I’ve got this,” I tell him.

  “Clearly you don’t,” he replies, yanking the roll back.

  “Why are you being such a dick about this?” I mutter, giving up on the paper towels and turning around to grab the mop. That’s when I feel it, a cold, soggy towel slapping the skin of my lower back where my t-shirt was raised. At first, I think it must’ve been an accident since Kohen has such a stick up his ass that he wouldn’t have done such a thing. But then I hear it, his snorts of laughter, and it’s on.

  Grabbing the handle of the mop, I soak the long threads in the suds and then lift it to paint Kohen’s bare chest like the mop’s a giant paintbrush and he’s my canvas.

  He knocks the mop away, but not before I douse him good, leaving behind a shirt made of suds behind.

  “You little bitch,” he mutters while ripping off more towels. “Is this how you treat cripples?”

  “When the cripple’s an asshole,” I reply with a giggle before mopping up more suds and dumping them on top of Kohen’s head.

  He gasps at the coolness running down his face and neck before he reaches up and grabs the wooden handle of the mop, giving it a tug. I refuse to let go, so we play tug of war with it. When it becomes obvious that he’s gonna win despite having just one good leg, I stoop down and gather suds in both my hands. Since he doesn’t have anywhere to go without his crutches, he’s unable to stop me from rubbing more foam into his face, leaving behind a full Santa beard dripping from his chin. It’s the funniest shit I’ve ever seen, causing me to double over with laughter as he wipes his hands over his face trying to clear the bubbles away. It’s an impossible feat, though. While I’m cackling, Kohen launches more damp rags at my face. At this rate, we’re gonna be late for practice and never get the kitchen clean, but it’s too much fun to stop. I pick up the rags that rain down on me and launch them back at Kohen.

  “Good thing you’re a kicker because you can’t throw worth a shit,” he remarks with a grin when I miss my target – his head – several times in a row.

  “I know, right? How could anyone miss your big ole melon?” I tease, taking a step closer to throw my next sudsy ball.

  I’m caught off guard, not realizing that I’m close enough to Kohen for him to reach me. He grabs both of my arms and pulls me to him where his back’s still propped up against the counter. I slam against his bare, damp chest, the shock of which is short-lived when I get a face full of cold suds. Gasping, I wipe off what I can from my eyes so I can see. Without stopping to think about it, I keep hold of the handful of suds from my face and grab the elastic band of Kohen’s shorts, my next intended target, getting ready to fill them with bubbles when I stupidly make the mistake of glancing down.

  “Oh my God,” I mutter, freezing in surprise, my eyes locked on this unexpected discovery. “You’re not wearing any underwear.”

  “I’m…not wearing any underwear,” Kohen confirms, our faces inches apart, both of us still panting, gazes lowered.

  Deep in the back of my mind I know that I need to let go, to allow the elastic to pop back into place, concealing his private parts, yet I don’t, out of curiosity or fascination. I’m not sure which. Feeling his hardness through layers of clothing weeks ago was one thing, but seeing it…wow.

  He’s so very neatly manscaped that there’s absolutely nothing obstructing the clear view of his long, thick brick of a cock that’s proudly pointing to the right like a directional arrow indicating the way to the bedrooms. For the past six years, I’ve had only a minimum of experience with this particular male appendage, never having been very impressed or really interested in sex. But at the moment, my mouth waters and core clenches with an unfamiliar hunger as my breathing becomes ragged and heavy. I realize my body’s craving what lies beneath, wanting to touch it, taste it, and feel it moving inside of me...

  “Ah!” I squeal like a little girl and jump backward, letting go of Kohen’s waistband when his cock suddenly twitches upward as if sensing my wayward thoughts.

  Kohen chuckles at my response, making me feel even more pathetic. “It’s not a snake; it won’t bite you,” he says while I grab the mop and get to work so that I don’t have to look at him. “Although, your boyfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate you ogling another man’s dick long enough to memorize every vein.”

  “Boyfriend?” I repeat in confusion. And then I realize that Kohen must think Paxton and I are together. Like a couple. The thought has me snorting as I start mopping up suds as far away from Kohen as I can get. “You’re right. Sorry for looking at your…package,” I say without correcting his wrong assumption. This is good. Let him think I have a boyfriend, and then there are even more reasons why I shouldn’t touch him or vice versa.

  I’m not emotionally equipped to deal with a sexual relationship with a teammate, and it wouldn’t be fair to start something with Kohen or any other man and not be able to, well, finish it. My holdups are my own, but I can’t expect a guy like him to understand that while I want more, like holding hands and waking up in each other’s arms, I’m not sure it really exists. And I…I just can’t see me being able to overcome the experiences of my past anytime soon, to actually be able to trust a man, especially a teammate.

  Jeez, but now my living arrangement with Kohen is gonna be even more strained because every time I look at him here or on the field, anywhere really, I’m gonna be thinking about his impressive cock, trying to figure out what makes it so unique that at the sight of it I was hypnotized. For the first time in my life, I wanted to drop to my knees and taste him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kohen

  Roxanne remains radio silent after she got a good, lonnng look at the Captain. That’s right; I named my dick since he is, in fact, the Captain of the Wet Dream. He’s giving a full salute too now thanks to her intense scrutiny and obvious appreciation. If I didn’t know any better, I would say it’s the first cock she’s ever seen, but that’s ridiculous. She’s a gorgeous girl with a boyfriend. Sure, the boyfriend looks like a tool, but I’m sure she’s seen his instrument more times than she can count. And, yeah, that’s not the topic I want to be thinking about right now. Instead, I would rather go back to the alternate universe I was just thrown into where instead of just looking, Roxanne reached down and used the wet suds in her hand to jerk me off. Or even better, told me how huge I am. Or, in the best scenario ever, kneeled before me and wrapped her lips around the Captain, sucking him until I choked out “There she blows, matey!”

&
nbsp; My dick jerks in agreement inside the thin nylon of my shorts with that pirate fantasy, and I know there’s only one thing left to do.

  Reaching for the stupid crutches, I shove them underneath my armpits and maneuver through the sea of foam down the hall to my bedroom. I barely shut the door before my hand dives into the front of my shorts and my fist starts pumping my hard shaft. Leaning my back against the door with all my weight on my uninjured right leg, I let go of the crutches, sending them tumbling in a clatter to the floor. I don’t care, I’ll find them later. Right now, the need to get off is almost overwhelming. Sure, I’ve been horny before, but never this desperate. I’ve got to release the Kraken, or I’m pretty sure I’m gonna die.

  Leaning my head against the wooden door, my eyes shut; and then I imagine the alternative universe again in great detail. In this field goal fantasy, Roxanne’s naked on my bed that’s just a few feet away, her long, sexy legs raised like uprights resting on my shoulders, my dick buried deep inside her tight heat while she chants, “It’s good! It’s good! It’s so fucking good!” as my balls slap her ass.

  With a twist of my wrist, I brush my thumb over my sensitive cockhead that’s already damp from pre-cum, causing all the muscles in my body to seize at once. Then, I’m coming so hard in my hand that I nearly topple over. I grab the dresser for balance with my left hand while my right squeezes every drop of cum it can out of my shaft.

  Wow.

  What the hell’s wrong with me? I ask my bedroom ceiling.

  It’s got to be that, with the injury and training camp, I was too backed up and needed to get off. Now that I’ve taken care of the problem, I’m sure it won’t happen again. Roxanne’s not only my teammate now but also my roommate. Coach asked me to look out for her after that fucker Dane made a move on her, and I refuse to stoop so low. Besides, she has a boyfriend, so she’s completely off limits anyway.

  Now, if I can just stop replaying the way her grassy green eyes widened and jaw fell open looking at my cock, everything will be under control. But, see, there’s just one little problem.

  I don’t want to forget how she looked.

  Even if I’m only lying to myself, I’m gonna hold on tight to the notion that boyfriend or not, Roxanne liked what she saw, and for one small moment, the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen wanted me too.

  Early Thursday morning, Roxanne and I are all packed up for the trip to New Orleans to play the Knights in our first preseason game. She’s nervous, as evidenced by her inability to sit still for more than two seconds and the way she tugs on her ladybug bracelet. Last night I heard her vacuuming the floors at midnight, which didn’t bother me except for the fact that only the bedrooms have carpet, and the rest are hardwoods. She avoided my room, which was disappointing, but probably for the best. Seeing her in the shorts and tight-fitting tank she sleeps in so close to my bed would’ve only added fuel to the fire simmering in my boxer briefs. Today, I am wearing underwear. I usually do when I leave the house. It was also a necessity since my current outfit is so minuscule I would be flashing the world without them.

  Roxanne and I decide to ride to the airport together since I still can’t drive and all. Of course, I was a little terrified to be in the same Jeep with the woman who ran into me, but Roxy is driving like a granny, even on the highway, probably because of the recent accident. Or because she’s laughing so hard at me she’s afraid she’ll run us off the road.

  Today, I’m unfortunately dressed in the outfit she picked out for me to wear on the plane as part of the hands-on-the-steering-wheel bet I lost. Although, seeing Roxanne come apart still goes down as a win in my book.

  “Well, I’ve gotta say that you have hands down picked the most embarrassing outfit ever,” I tell her, gesturing down to the red and black polka dot leotard. The tight material is only covered with a tiny matching tutu followed up by red garters attached to black fishnet stockings on my good leg and the top of the brace on my bad one. Oh, and how could I possibly forget about the antenna headband that keeps hitting the top of the SUV and the wings. “This is gonna be a hard one for the guys to top.”

  Roxy snickers before holding her palm up between our faces. “Stop talking to me before I wreck,” she says. “I should’ve made you ride in the back. It’s too fuckin’ funny…”

  I roll my eyes when she starts into another fit of laughter.

  “So what’s with you and ladybugs?” I ask her while she drives, holding the wheel at ten and two, noticing a ladybug charm hanging from her rearview mirror. “And where the fuck were you planning to wear this to? A strip club?”

  “It’s a Halloween costume, jackass! And as far as the ladybugs go, well, it’s just what my dad started buying me after my mom left,” she says sobering up. “He didn’t know what to buy me for my birthday or Christmas. Girly stuff was all foreign to him. All he knew was that I liked ladybugs, so that’s what he always bought.”

  Fuck, that’s sad.

  “He didn’t buy that costume, though. That was all me,” she adds.

  “So you still like them?” I ask. “The ladybugs?”

  “Yeah, sure. I mean they’re cute and are supposed to be lucky. My dad is superstitious and gives them as lucky charms. Maybe they worked, because I’m the first woman to play professional football.”

  “I’m sure hard work and dedication also helped,” I offer.

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to have a little luck on your side either,” she says, her smile returning.

  I’ve never been one of those superstitious guys who wears the same socks or doesn’t shave while on a winning streak. Those things are what people who want to feel in control of something do, but I know that without training and effort, none of those lucky charms will work, and fuck if it’s worth stinking to high hell like some of my teammates.

  A few minutes later we’re at the airport and loading up. Some of my teammates double over laughing at my getup before someone starts blasting Aerosmith’s “Dude Looks Like a Lady” on their cell phone. I look ridiculous, I know, but I have to remind myself that it was totally worth it.

  By the time I hop on one foot up the steps of the team’s private plane, I’m annoyed to see Roxanne sitting next to Quinton.

  “Yo, Kohen, man?” Quinton says with a smirk. “Your pantyhose are showing.”

  “Fuck you,” I tell him.

  “So what bet did you lose this time?” he asks.

  Now it’s my turn to grin when Roxanne’s face turns the shade of red on my tutu.

  “I’ll let you do the honors, Roxanne,” I say, taking the empty seat across the aisle from them. I tell myself that it’s to do the job Coach gave me, keep an eye out for Roxy. Quinton and I have been cordial at practice since the ride back from training camp, but that’s about it. Not that we were good friends before that.

  “Oh, um, on the way to camp, Kohen just bet me I couldn’t keep my hands on the wheel the entire trip.”

  “Sounds easy,” Quinton says with a shrug. “Kohen’s losing his touch.”

  “Obviously,” I mutter sarcastically. The truth is, I would lose that bet over and over again every single time.

  Lathan comes aboard the plane a little later, looking like complete shit. His blond Mohawk is disheveled like he’s been tugging on his hair in frustration, and the bags under his eyes are heavier than my luggage.

  Shit.

  I’m a selfish bastard because I completely forgot that his mom had an appointment yesterday.

  “Hey, bro, you okay?” I ask him when he slips into my row and takes the window seat next to me without even a hint of a smile at seeing my embarrassing ladybug costume.

  He shakes his head, slumping further into the leather cushions. “I need alcohol and lots of it.”

  “The news that bad?” I ask since it’s not like him to drink on game day, even if it is just preseason and he’ll only be on the field for a few plays.

  “Yep,” he mutters, taking a deep breath. “Cancer’s back.”

  �
�Fuck, I’m sorry. How bad this time?” I ask.

  “Bad. It’s in her pancreas now.”

  “Shit. That means more chemo?”

  “Uh-huh and radiation. Without it…without it the doctor said she’s only got a few months, but there are no guarantees with all that torture either...”

  “God, I’m sorry,” I tell him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Is she up for all that again?”

  “Yeah, said she was. I just hope it works,” he replies while looking out the window of the unmoving plane. “It has to.”

  I can’t imagine what my best friend is going through. Sure, my mother is still around, but it’s not like we’ve ever been close. Chase and I were nothing more than living, breathing ornaments to her and our father. Pawns to further his political career since our state still elects sheriffs. Mom and Dad put on a front that we were the typical American family. Chase and I were really nothing more than a fake front. Our parents were wax figures who were either unable or unwilling to show emotion toward us, unless it was disappointment. If Chase or I stepped a toe out of the strict line that could cost a dip in the polls that election year, we received frowns and sharp words to straighten up and stop embarrassing them.

  So, no, I can’t even contemplate what Lathan’s going through, caring about someone who’s always been there for you and loving them so much that it hurts to imagine losing them. He stays quiet even after we take off, but my neighbors on the other side of me are anything but soft spoken.

  Roxanne and Quinton joke and laugh with each other like old buddies, and it irks me. The sound of her laughter coerced by him is like nails on a fucking chalkboard. Not only are they being inconsiderate to Lathan, who Quinton hasn’t bothered to speak to, but how dare Roxanne flirt with a teammate when she already has a man? I didn’t take her for the slutty type, but maybe I was wrong.