“When…?” His voice is gravelly with desire.
I can’t think about anything except the raging blaze within me. I’m consumed by his lips, the way they kiss and suck. His teeth, the way they nip and bite. His beard, the way it tickles and prickles. And the part of him that is hard and pressed against my stomach, reminding me what could be.
“When can I see you again…like that?” he asks again.
“I’ll try.” It’s all I can promise, but as my response hangs in the night air, my hand seems to develop a mind of its own, dropping to the front of his jeans and rubbing his erection with all my force. Below my fingers as I move up and down across the coarse denim, he hardens and grows. It’s such a primal response, yet as his eyes close and breath stutters, I’m reminded of something I’d forgotten. His reaction reminds me that even with a tall, handsome man like Malcolm, I am a woman with the ability to affect him. It’s empowering and makes me want more.
“Fuck.” Again, his growl is a whispered rumble.
Or is it a promise?
“I thought you said I was the one who cursed?” I ask.
“I want to hear that too.” He lifts my hand to his lips and gently kisses my knuckles. “Mandy, you deserve much better, but may I please have a little more of your time?”
I look around the parking lot. It’s true that it’s nearly empty, but I can’t fathom what he has in mind. “What do you want?”
“Oh, beautiful. I want you.”
Five minutes later, with Malcolm in my passenger seat, we park at the far back lot of a neighborhood park not too far from the restaurant. It’s rather secluded and probably supposed to be off-limits this time of night. With no streetlights and a ring of trees surrounding the parking area, it’s mostly dark; the only exception comes from the stars visible high above the canopy of trees.
I can’t believe we’re here on public property about to do what we’re about to do.
My heart is beating out of control, and my entire body is on alert.
This is dangerous.
This is sexy.
This is stupid.
This is erotic.
This is something that sex-crazed teenagers would do, not grown adults…and then it hits me...
This is something Mandy Wells would do.
Malcolm reaches for the button on his jeans, but before he undoes it, I lean over. “Let me.”
The sense of empowerment grows as I unfasten his button and lower his zipper. His mammoth length springs forward. Commando is how he is—nothing beneath his jeans but his giant erection. Embracing the inner vixen I never knew I had, I give Malcom my biggest smile as I lean forward and lick the musky dew from his tip. My actions elicit a deep, reverberating groan from somewhere in his chest. When I look up, his sparkling eyes are on me.
“Beautiful Mandy, there isn’t a lot of room in here. Shimmy out of those panties and come sit on my dick.”
I giggle as I sit up and reach under my dress for my underwear. “If that’s your best pickup line, I now understand why you aren’t seeing anyone.”
As he sheaths his massive erection, I pull my panties down my legs, shamelessly leaving them on the driver’s-side floorboard. With my panties gone, my core clenches in anticipation as I climb from my seat to his. My hands grab ahold of his shoulders as my knees straddle his lap.
“You’re wrong,” he says.
“I am?” I look around, wondering if he had something else in mind.
“Not about your position, beautiful. You’re right where I want you. You’re wrong about me.”
“About you?”
“I am seeing someone.” He scans me up and down. “I’m seeing you.” He reaches to the front of my dress and undoes the row of buttons. Like last time, he pushes my bra down until my beaded nipples are peeking over the cups. Palming one of my breasts, he praises me again. “Your tits are perfect. Made for my hands.”
My head falls back as I groan and writhe with his caresses, but it’s as he shifts and his fingers find my entrance that I let loose my first curse word. All at once, the walls of my pussy clench around his fingers.
“You’re always so wet.”
I shake my head. “No, not always. Only when I’m with you.”
Malcolm lines up the tip of his cock, purposely holding my hips away, teasing and building my anticipation. And then all at once he guides my body, yanking me down, hard and fast, surrounding his rod as my essence allows him to slide into place.
“Oh!” My mouth stays in an ‘O’ even after the word trails away.
So deep.
In this position his cock is a thick rod, a post, staking his claim. Buried inside me, he makes me squirm as he stretches and fills me. Though I have a sense of control, it’s his hands guiding my hips, moving them in time with his.
The friction is staggering as my knees flex, and I ride him up and down.
His lips continue to suck my nipples, pulling, biting, and marking them.
The night’s chill disappears as perspiration coats our skin and the windows fog.
“You’re so tight. So fucking good.” Malcolm’s admiration is stilled only when his lips are busy. The scruff of his beard abrades my sensitive skin in the most erotic way. Despite the heat inside the car, my nipples are rock-hard as he continues to move me, allowing me to ride him. Then he reaches for my clit. The newfound friction is cosmic as flashes of light explode behind my eyes. I’m no longer aware of what I’m saying or the sounds coming from my mouth.
Harder and harder one of his hands grips my hip while the other teases my clit. His hold is so tight that I wonder if I’ll have bruises of his fingerprints upon my skin, and then all at once, we both come, our bodies detonating together. We’re like fireworks connected to the same fuse, and the epic explosion is a grand finale.
My head falls to his shoulder as I catch my breath. Only the panting of our gasps is audible as we settle into the cloud of his masculine scent and our lovemaking. He holds me tight until our heartbeats begin to slow.
“That was fucking great,” he says.
I nod against his neck as a smile tugs at my lips. “It was.”
Malcolm
“Mr. Peppernick, I asked you here today to offer you the position of our middle-school boys’ head soccer coach. As you may know, Mr. Ellis, the current head coach, is undergoing medical treatment that makes it difficult, if not impossible, for him to maintain the coaching schedule.”
I stare at the school district’s athletic director, Mr. Keys, as I consider his offer. “You know I played hockey, right?”
His stoic expression melts. “Yes, we’re all aware of that. And since I’ve been a Blackhawks fan for all of my life, I have more than a few memories of you ruining our hopes at the Stanley Cup.”
Scenes from my past flood my thoughts. Like an old play reel, I remember the long days, the hard work, and the longer nights. The hotels and travel. The season, the playoffs, and the adrenaline.
Twice during my career, it was the Lightning Bolts versus the Blackhawks in the playoffs. The year we won the Stanley Cup, the Hawks had the home-ice advantage. We stole that from them in the second game—I stole it—with a last-second shot that sent us into overtime. You’d think after the first overtime our players would have been tired or theirs would have been. No, overtime is like a drug to athletes, the intense unrelenting need to keep playing overrules all else. Our bodies may hurt like hell the next day, but while it’s happening, we’re on overdrive.
Our goalie was standing on his head, saving us many times. That year, the Blackhawks had some of the top scorers in the league. It was the final seconds of the second overtime when Brian managed to get the puck away from one of the Hawks. It happened so fast that I recall the scene more from the highlight reels than from real life. As the buzzer was about to sound, Brian sent a Hail Mary sailing down the ice. That series never made it to the seventh game. It was the Lightning’s only Stanley Cup win.
I smile. “So is coaching middle-sch
ool soccer my penance?”
The truth is I went into teaching because of the work I did with kids and hockey. The team’s public relations people wanted us to do volunteer work. I’ll admit it all began that way. But after I started, I couldn’t stop. I loved getting to know the kids at the camps, so much so that I volunteered with the U12 hockey league in Clearwater. It wouldn’t seem that in a hot state like Florida there would be that many kids who were interested in hockey, but there are. Maybe it was the ice. Maybe it was the hard work and camaraderie of being part of a team. Maybe it was that watching the Lightning inspired them. Whatever it was, I looked forward to my volunteer work as much as my real work.
I didn’t only volunteer my time, but also money. Equipment isn’t inexpensive. It didn’t seem right to me that some child should be deprived of the chance to play based solely on financial inability. I helped create scholarships that are still in place. I still contribute financially, and with the way the scholarship trust was set up, the money should be available for a long time.
The other players who volunteered with me and I saw lives change. Kids who were lost and aimless became focused. Parents told us stories and the kids even brought their report cards in to us to show us their progress. It was as rewarding as winning the cup to see a kid turn his life around because of skates, a stick, and a puck.
Mr. Keys laughs at my question. “I don’t think coaching will be that bad, and hockey and soccer have their similarities.”
“They do, but it might take more than shin guards to protect against the blades on the skates and the field may need repair.”
“Yeah, you’ll have to talk to Julia, the secretary in the athletic department, if you plan on a uniform change.”
“Got it. No skates, only cleats?”
“Right. The thing is that the tryouts for this season are done. The team is set. Paul thought he could do it, but with each day it’s gotten too difficult for him to keep going. His doctor wants him to concentrate on getting well and so do we. Practices are at the middle-school field every school day at 3:15 unless there’s a game. Those are either Tuesday or Thursday after school, or some games are on Saturday mornings. As you know, the middle school is only a five-minute drive from your school. The assistant coach works at the middle school and can get the students started with warm-ups if you have a conflict and know you’ll be late.”
“And you don’t want to offer this position to the assistant coach?” I ask, not wanting to step on toes.
“The assistant coach doesn’t have a Stanley Cup ring.”
“But I bet the assistant coach knows the students and the game of soccer better than I do.”
“The assistant coach is Rita Sanchez, a PE teacher at the middle school. She knows the students. She knows the game. She loves soccer, played all through college. She is also seven months pregnant.” His smile grows. “For obvious reasons, she would like to continue as assistant for the time being.”
Like many other times during my days, my mind goes to Mandy.
We’ve only been seeing each other for a little over a month—since fate put us together at the same restaurant bar—but, nevertheless, as I’m contemplating my decision, I think of her. I’ve been single for so long that it surprises me that I wonder what she’d think of this opportunity.
I realize that as I face different decisions, I’d like to share them with someone—no, not someone, with her. I know my decision won’t affect us. Rarely do we see one another before eight-thirty or nine at night and never on Saturday mornings, unless it’s very early and a continuation of Friday night. I understand her desire to protect her son, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish for more.
However, apparently by the expression of anticipation on Mr. Keys’s face, I don’t have time to consult with anyone. He wants an answer, and if I want to do this, I need to move.
“I’ll be honest,” Mr. Keys says, “the additional money isn’t that much. It’s hardly an NHL position.”
“If I say yes, it won’t be for the money.” And I never wanted a coaching position with the NHL. If I had, I’d have gone a different route with my future. I’m grateful for my years as a hockey player. I wouldn’t trade them for anything, but when I left the sport, I did that because I was done with it professionally. Of course, I’m still a fan. I even have season tickets though I’m now five states away.
If I’m willing to give up my afternoons and some Saturday mornings, it’s because of the memories I have of kids’ hockey camps and teams. Yes, now I see similar excited expressions on the students in my classroom, but to have that same enthusiasm I see there for a sport, that is the reason I’ll say yes. I want to help the boys on this team learn to love the hard work as much as the fun and excitement of a game.
I nod my head. “In that case, it seems like time is of the essence in making this decision.”
“I’m sorry that I can’t give you more time to think about it, but we’re between a rock and a hard place. The games begin soon and we need an official coach.”
“I’d be honored to be the coach.”
Mr. Keys’s smile blooms, filling his face as he extends his hand and we shake. “I couldn’t be happier, Malcolm, and for the record, I really did hate you when you played.” He shakes his head. “Not so much you, because if you’d played for the Blackhawks, I would have been your biggest fan. We’re honored to have you here teaching in our district.”
“The honor is mine.”
“Someday, I’d love to hear the story of your turn with the cup.”
I just laugh as I answer, “Another day. When do I start coaching?”
“Rita would like to introduce you to the kids now, this afternoon, if you can stop by the field. Then talk to her and she’ll fill you in on the rest of the schedule.”
As I drive toward the middle school, I can’t help but think that I wish I could tell Mandy about this tonight during our call. Despite the comment about penance, I am excited, and I want to share that with her. I know she doesn’t want to get too personal, but whether she admits it or not, from the first night we met it’s been personal.
Amanda
We all clap our approval. I’m not sure if it’s because my brother’s softball game is over or because he won. Jase bounces up and down as he screams his uncle’s name. Despite the din of the people, Alec turns toward us and waves. I like when my brother’s games are on non-school nights and earlier in the evening. I don’t know whose bright idea it was to schedule men’s softball at ten-thirty at night, but that is definitely not conducive to the attendance of three-foot-tall fans.
As the crowd begins to move from the bleachers and the next two teams take the field, I start to get up, but before I do, my dad stops me.
“How about Jase and I head over to the concession stand?”
Jase’s eyes widen in a silent plea as he waits for my answer.
I reach for my wallet. “You don’t have to buy—”
Dad interrupts me. “Give this old man a break. Your mom isn’t here, and I can buy my grandson ice cream.” He winks. “The kid is my cover story.”
My dad loves ice cream.
I can’t help but laugh. The truth is that he’d go to the concession stand even if Mom were here. “Sure. I’ll wait here.”
“Good plan. Plausible deniability.”
“What ice cream?” I ask.
Dad takes Jase by the hand, and together, they head down the bleachers.
Though it’s just past dusk, with the lights over the fields, the sky looks black. Taking this opportunity to enjoy a moment of peace, I peer up at the sky. As I do, my mind goes back to Malcolm’s and my visit to a different city park on the other side of town. My cheeks flush as I think about what would have happened if we’d been caught.
Bringing my gaze back to this ballfield, I see men of all ages. Many have been my parents’ friends, as well as parents and siblings of my and Alec’s friends. They are people I’ve known most of my life, and I know for certain that so
me of the guys on Alec’s team are part of the local police force.
I think of what could have happened if Malcolm and I had been caught. I would have officially died from embarrassment if one of these men or women would have found us parked back in that isolated lot. Despite what is supposed to happen when the police find someone in that situation, I’m certain that if that had happened, if one of my brother’s friends would have come upon my car, there would have been no confidentiality, no professional courtesy. Whoever found us probably would have called Alec while I was sitting right there. I can imagine one of them now: Hey Alec, I’m holding your sister and some man in my patrol car with a pending charge of indecent exposure. Do you want to come pick her up, or should I call your folks?
Honestly, it would be more embarrassing now than if it’d happened ten years ago.
“How’s kindergarten going?” Alec asks as he plops down next to me on the aluminum bleacher, his body weight and large equipment bag landing with a thud and making me jump.
“I’d rather not think about it. Jase is having fun tonight. Let’s let him be?”
“Okay. Then tell me about your date.”
“There was no blind date.” I’ve gotten good at sticking to that story.
“Yeah, I heard. Mom said that something came up with Brian and you never met up with his friend? Is Brian’s patient okay?”
“Yeah, I think everything worked out. Mostly Sally has apologized. Like I said, the blind date was a bust.”
He nudges my shoulder with his.
I flinch away from his moist touch. His shirt is saturated with an aromatic combination of perspiration, dirt, and grime from his recent game. “Bro!” I scrunch my nose. “You stink.”
Alec laughs. “Fine. I smell, but you stink at lying.”
He nudges me again as I make ‘ew’ sounds and dramatically scoot away. We may be adults, but there’s part of me that wants to yell to my father, “Dad, Alec’s touching me. Make him stop touching me.” Then I remember that I’m a parent and I can’t do that.
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