Balls: The Complete Players Collection (Sports Romance Box Set)

by Teagan Kade

  There’s an excess of saliva in my mouth, a languid state of desire clouding out all else until only Chance and I exist in our little world of pleasure, my clit pulsing every time he enters me.

  My climax comes rushing up, spreading out from my core. My chest heaves with the effort, my nipples trembling against him, muscles tight and tense, released by the beautiful snap that follows when I allow myself to fall into sweet oblivion.

  Chance stiffens, fingers clawing deep into the fleshy pillows of my ass, a pulsing gush of release following to the end of me, my own arousal pressed out around his cock.

  I throb and shake, caught between the hard wall behind me and the marble body of a flesh-and-blood man intent on taking me to the furthest planes of pleasure.

  I stretch and quiver, convulse and twitch, a fish caught on the line, my orgasm endless.

  Finally, he withdraws still hard, lets me down onto shaky legs, only the wall to keep me from collapsing.

  He kisses me again, the heat and swelling scent of sex all around us, the intangible elements of our act surely to betray us as soon as that door opens.

  As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door. “Chance? You ready?”

  “One second,” he says, stuffing himself back into his pants, his cock still wet and slippery from the heated grip of my pussy.

  I pull my bra back into position, hooking my arms through the straps and swiping my blouse off the floor, pulling it on and buttoning as fast as my shaky hands will allow. I barely manage to get my skirt back into place before the door opens and one of the team assistants waves Chance out.

  The assistant sees me and smiles, perhaps aware something is amiss, but not quite able to place it.

  Before he leaves, Chance turns and winks, a hand running back through his hair as he steps out into a storm of camera flashes and questions.

  When the door closes, I slump to the floor, the space between my legs still filled with his phantom appendage and the memory of it. I draw in deep breaths, a good five minutes passing before I’m able to stand and compose myself.

  I slip out of the door quietly, the press thankfully engaged with Chance on a small stage on the other side of the room especially set up for conferences such as this.

  I work my way across the back, a reporter asking, “How about your recent calf injury? Are you receiving treatment?”

  Chance finds me, his eyes meeting mine, cheerful glee written all over his face. “Yes, I’ve been working closely with the team massage therapist on that. Suffice to say, I think I’m in good hands.”

  *

  The following week Chance stays with me in the trailer every night. I didn’t tell him to, but I think he knows deep down I still feel unsafe, and sure, it’s comforting having him there. It also means he’s on hand for other things, naturally, and schoolgirl in me has been more than willing on that front, even more so after the little stunt he pulled before the press conference the other day. For a second, I was sure he was going to blurt it out, casually announcing to the world, “Oh, and by the way, I just had hot, wet, back-scratching sex with the most beautiful girl in the world.” I wonder how that would have gone down…

  About as well as Chance did last night.

  Wow. Even my head’s turning into a perv. Still, as nice as all the sex and attention has been, there are constant reminders I’m essentially locked away from the world, stuck here on stadium grounds until the threat has passed, but when will that happen?

  Maybe it never will.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHANCE

  “We can do more.” I’m pacing around Morgan’s office frustrated. It’s not helping that the AC to this entire place has been down all day. My damn shirt’s sticking to my back for crying out loud.

  David watches on from the wall. He’s keeping out of it for now, but everyone knows this is dragging on too long.

  “Sam can’t live caged up here forever,” I continue. “She might seem like she has it together, but I can tell you she’s close to losing it. She wakes up in the middle of the night calling for me, for help. She’s terrified.”

  Morgan looks down at the field, hands in his pockets. “That’s all well and good, son, but what else can I do? I’ve already doubled the security near the trailer. There are more cops than ever at the games. Any more and someone’s going to report there’s been a threat on the team. That is a PR nightmare we do not need.”

  David pushes off the wall. “What about the Feds?” He addresses Morgan. “Who that was guy at the FBI who came here when we had the bomb scare—sharp, kind of high cheekbones, moody.”

  Morgan heads behind his desk and fishes through his top drawer, finally pulling free a plain white business card. He squints to read it. “Agent Anderson.” He looks up. “I can give him a call, but if the cops couldn’t help…”

  It almost seems like Morgan’s giving up, and that’s very uncharacteristic. Even when he was in the game, when the Bears were forty down against Cincinnati, he pulled through. “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? They’ve got far more resources at their disposal than the LAPD, too busy trying to stuff their fat fucking faces full of donuts.”

  Morgan smiles. He’s not adverse to a donut or three himself. “Okay, boys. I’ll give this Agent Anderson a call and see what he can do. And there are more strings that I can pull. I might have to shell out some season passes, but fuck it. If it keeps Sam safe and you guys happy, I’m all for it.”

  “Thank you, Morgan,” I say, and I sure as fuck mean it.

  David nods in solidarity and we both head outside, David softly closing the door to Morgan’s office. “You think he’ll do it?”

  “He’ll do it.”

  “And if he can’t get the Feds on board?”

  My fist tightens by my side. “We take matters into our own hands.”

  *

  But our little vigilante mission is not to be. Morgan does come through. A meeting is arranged downtown the very next day.

  Sam’s nervous sitting beside me in the Hummer.

  I take her hand. “This Hummer used to belong to 50 Cent, you know.” I tap the window. “Bulletproof glass, and fuck, think of how many people wanted him dead.”

  It’s a poor choice of words, but Sam still smiles. “This is far too much to ask of Morgan, and you.”

  “We’re happy to do it. Whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

  “What if you can’t?”

  I sense the defeat in her voice. I take her by the shoulders, hold her tight. “Don’t say that.”

  She looks away, but I draw her face back with a finger under her chin, gaze deep into her eyes. “You’re with me. You are safe.”

  She nods, another smile, but it’s a show.

  We arrive at one of the Bureau satellite offices, a non-descript concrete block that doesn’t get any cheerier the deeper we go into it.

  It’s the three of us—Sam, Morgan and I.

  Sam tells them everything, right from the top. We ran over it before we came, made sure we got details right and left nothing out, especially the pressing nature of the threat. These guys have to know it’s serious.

  Agent Anderson didn’t turn out to be a great deal of help, but he does return with another agent, both of them entering the interrogation room we’re in.

  Anderson pulls the chair out and allows the other agent to sit down. “This is Agent Roderick. He’s head of the Organized Crime Division. If anyone knows what’s going on here, it’s him.”

  Roderick, a hard-cut middle-aged man, takes a seat and slides an enlargement of the photo I took of the two men onto the table. It looks a lot sharper and clearer than I remember. “Given what we can make out, your buddies here are Michael and Eizo DiLucca, brothers and hitters for the Vegas Mob.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “Fucking hell.”

  Sam doesn’t say a word.

  Morgan jumps in. “Can she go into protective custody?”

  Roderick and Anderson exchange a look.

  “W
hat?” I ask. “You are going to put her into protective custody, aren’t you? Her fucking life is in danger.” I jab the picture. “This is proof.”

  Roderick leans towards us, hands together. “I’m afraid it would be premature.”

  That’s it. I fucking explode, leaping up, the chair I was in crashes to the ground. “Prema-fucking-ture? Jesus Christ! Are you even listening?”

  Morgan tries to calm me down, but I shrug him off. “No!” I point to the agents. “What the fuck are you going to do about this?”

  “That’s just it,” continues Roderick, “until they make a move, we can’t do anything.”

  “You motherfuc—”

  I’m halfway across the table to him when Morgan manages to pull me off, pushing me towards the door as I shout and curse. He might be bloating out a little in the stomach area, but the fucker’s strong as ever.

  When he’s got me outside, he closes the door and tells me again to calm down. “For fuck’s sake, son. Get a grip. So they’re not going to put her into protective custody. Do you think your little meltdown is going to help matters? What we are getting here is information—valuable information we wouldn’t otherwise have access to and which, using our own resources, we can put to good use.”

  “You’re going to take on the Mob? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “If we have to.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know, Morgan. This is going to shit.”

  “Think about it like a game, son. It’s the fourth quarter and you’ve got a defensive line facing you that’s the modern day equivalent of the Roman Army. What are you going to do? Are you going to give up or are you going to fight like you’ve proved you can time and time again?” He pokes me in the chest. “The Chance Adams I know is not defeated so easily.”

  “But that’s just it,” I retort. “This isn’t a game. This is someone’s life, someone I care deeply for.”

  He locks eyes with me. “All the more reason, I’d say.”

  *

  My fingers dance on Sam’s back. The air conditioning at the stadium is still down and Sam’s trailer is basically a giant pressure cooker. A stand-up fan I found at the back of the storage area blows lukewarm air over our prone bodies. I lift myself a little, the sheets sticking.

  Sam’s simply lying there looking sideways. She’s definitely been more distant since we got back. It was a bad idea. Knowing the FBI couldn’t help? That didn’t help matters.

  I roll her over, her breasts rosy and flushed, her nipples still hard and erect. “Sam, forget about the FBI.”

  “I can’t. What am I up against if even they can’t do anything? I’m doomed.”

  “You are not doomed.” I play with the soft hairs at her temple. “I promised to protect you and that is exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Whatever it takes?”

  “Whatever it takes,” I repeat.

  And by god I fucking will, even if it means my life.

  As if she’s reading my thoughts, she says “I don’t want you get hurt, Chance. Not because of me.”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  “I’m serious, Chance.”

  “So am I.”

  I run my hand around her side, run my fingers lightly around a nipple. I use my other hand to shift into the hot space between her legs. “What can I do to help you forget about it?”

  She gasps, eyes closing. “But we just…”

  I work a finger inside her. “As they say, once is never enough.”

  *

  With the AC on the fritz, I organize for Georgio to bring his food truck onto stadium grounds and set up right there in front of Sam’s trailer, table and everything just like our first date. I’m hoping it will help distract her a little.

  It seems to be working. She’s smiling, Georgio’s sitting with us and regaling her with endless stories of army life.

  She laughs again. “You really got peed on?”

  Georgio places his hand on his heart. “Swear to the Lord Almighty. We were bunkered down in that ditch hard when that Al Qaeda convoy came through, and the one place they decided to pull over for a piss? Well, you get the idea. I thought the sound of it pinging off my helmet would give us all away.”

  “I thought you had your mouth open?” I interject.

  Georgio kicks my chair. “I don’t know what kinky shit you get up to, pornstar, but golden showers aren’t my thing.”

  I smile harder. “No, but I do hear you’re a big fan of ladies under—”

  I don’t get to finish the sentence before Georgio is on me, the two of us rolling on the ground.

  One of the security guards comes rushing over, but I manage to get to my feet and hold my hand up. “It’s all good. Just having a friendly tumble.”

  The security guard looks to Sam, clearly not ready to believe us two bozos.

  She smiles back and shrugs her shoulders. “Boys being boys, I suppose.”

  Placated, the security guard heads back to his post by the stadium entrance.

  Georgio takes a seat. “Whoa, everyone’s a little edgy around here, aren’t they?”

  I cut him a look.

  “What?” he says.

  “How about you shut that ugly mug of yours and dial us up some grub?”

  Georgio kicks my chair again. “You’re paying, Gunner.”

  “I always pay,” I reply.

  Georgio winks at me. “Which is why I always order the most expensive thing on the menu.”

  Georgio heads into the back of the truck laughing.

  I take another look around. It’s not Santa Monica beach, but hopefully it’s a nice change for Sam.

  I look up to the sky, the white disc of the sun beating down on the umbrella above us. “How long do you think this can possibly go on?”

  But Sam doesn’t reply. She probably can’t tell whether I’m talking about the heatwave or the fact she’s still a prisoner here.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EIZO

  “How long are we going to sit out here staring up at this shithole?”

  Michael turns towards me in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t like being disturbed when he’s listening to his classical composer bullshit, but I’m in serious need of action. We came here for a hit, not to spend twenty-four hours stuck in this excuse of an automobile sipping on lukewarm coffee you wouldn’t feed to your dog.

  Michael’s brown eyes focus on mine in the darkness. “Did you know Schubert was given the nickname ‘Little Mushroom’ because of his height?”

  I hate his endless trivia. “I think we covered the whole you’re-taller-than-me thing when we were kids, didn’t we?”

  We might be brothers, but in almost every aspect of our life we’re polar opposites. That is, except for the fact we’re DiLuccas, born from a long line of professional hitmen. This was supposed to be a simple gig. We could’ve had this broad when she was with the big footballer guy, but Michael didn’t want it like that. No, he likes things clean, all tied up nicely with a bow—no witnesses. “Enough with the history lesson. What are we doing?” I point out the window up at her apartment. “I ain’t seeing any signs of life up there. This is a lost cause.”

  Michael leans over the steering wheel and stares up at the apartment. The streetlight catches his face and I realize he’s really starting to grey out up top. The buzzcut doesn’t help We’re getting old, but we’re still the most reliable hitters in Vegas. Fuck it. Maybe the world.

  “If you’re so concerned about it,” says my ever-insightful brother, “why don’t you go up and have a look around?”

  He knows I can’t resist a challenge, so I shrug, “Sure thing, asshole.” I pop open the glovebox and take out the kit and a flashlight.

  It’s midnight as I step out, but the temperature doesn’t feel like it’s dropped since midday. I mean, we’re from a fucking desert and this is still fucking hot.

  I loosen my collar as I cross the road, scanning to make sure everything’s nice and quiet as I come up
the stairs to her apartment.

  I take out the kit and look at her door number. Lucky number thirteen, hey.

  I make quick work of the lock, slowly pressing inside and taking out the flashlight. It soon becomes clear the broad’s gone. She’s gone and she left in a real fucking hurry.

  I come down the hall towards the master bedroom, the .22 holstered by my side is itchy, but as I step in I know she won’t be here magically asleep. That would be too easy—pop her in the head. She wouldn’t even know.

  I sort through the drawers and kitchen, but there’s nothing to go on. “Where are you, baby?” I question, light between my teeth as I hunt through a strewn pile of lingerie beside the bed.

  It’s a pity, really. This girl’s attractive, sort of understated. She’ll be wasted as a corpse. Hell, I could have had some fun with her before putting her to sleep, but that’s not Michael’s MO. He’s all about getting in, getting the job done and getting the fuck out. That’s how we’ve always done it. Michael wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Empty-handed, I slide back into the passenger seat. He continues to listen to his fucking medieval drivel.

  “Well,” I announce, “do you want to know what I found or not?”

  He stares ahead. “What did you find?”

  Wise guy. “Fucking nothing. She’s gone. We’ve been wasting our time.”

  Michael considers it. “No friends in the area, no cell since a week ago—This one’s going to be tough, brother.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  I sense Michael isn’t telling me everything. He’s the one who gets the jobs from the Don, and all the details. Unlike me, however, he doesn’t take everything as gospel. He can’t shut up that big brain of his sometimes. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. You getting soft in your old age?”

  He licks his lips, perpetually dry. “I don’t know. You heard the spiel we got from the Feds. If I was a betting man like yourself, I’d say it was the customer she screwed over who put this whole thing into motion.”

  Our contact in the FBI managed to slip us the interview recording the broad gave. She says it was a client she refused who’s responsible, but I’m not buying it. I shake my head. “Who fucking cares whether she did this or didn’t do that. The Don wants her dead and he’s paying us very fucking handsomely, as always, to put her in the ground.”