Homecoming King

by Jami Albright

  “Oh, yeah.” He makes another rotation and this time he drags his fingertip over the swell of my breasts and across my upper back, then drops a kiss on my shoulder. The lick of flames left in the wake of his touch pebbles my skin and sends heat racing over my flesh.

  I reach for him, but he stills my arm. “Uh-uh. Hands down.” He’s behind me now, and his lips go to my ear. “Be good or I’ll have to spank that lovely ass of yours.”

  My head falls back to his shoulder, and a pitiful “Ahhhh,” is all I can manage.

  A second pass and he slowly zigzags his finger around my waist, then across my lower back. He’s only touched me with the tip of that one digit and I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.

  On the third time around my body, his finger traces the top of my butt. I jump when his explorations take him to the cleft just below that bow. “Shhhh, I got you,” that sex-on-a-stick voice says behind me again.

  I keep my mouth shut because I think I’ll die if he stops. On the next rotation his finger trails under my bottom, sending goosebumps cascading down my legs. As he makes his way to stand in front of me, he slows the progress of his touch, torturing me inch by precious inch. When he finally gets to the scrap of satin between my legs, he draws circles over the sparkly material. His burning whiskey eyes are locked on mine like he’s trying to see into my soul. I want to lower my lids and keep him away from my feelings, but I resist. Because even though it scares me to death, he’s sharing his secrets with me while trying to unearth mine.

  He breathes out, and I breathe in.

  I breathe out, and he breathes in.

  We stand in this exchange where the very thing that gives life passes between us. It’s a becoming of sorts. I’m no longer just Tiger. He’s not just Cash. We’re something more, something stronger and braver than we’ve ever been before. Whatever it is, I’m snuggled into it and never want to leave.

  “Cash, please.”

  His mouth catches mine, and my bones turn to mush. A groan breaks loose from somewhere deep inside me when he snags my bottom lip and tugs. His finger is continuing its discovery of the most intimate parts of me, and I’m not sure how much longer my legs will hold me.

  Long, wet, open-mouthed kisses skim over the skin at my neck, but I want more. I need his skin against mine as much as I need my next heartbeat. The bottom of his shirt is bunched in my hands. His lips leave my flesh just long enough to let me pull the material over his head. When his mouth returns to my body, he covers my nipple through the thin material of my bra. Waves of pleasure tug me under, and I have to grasp his shoulders to stay upright. He slips his hand around my back and unclips the satin covering my breasts.

  I step away from him and hold the cups to my chest. “Sit.” Now I’m the one giving the orders. He obeys and situates himself on the edge of the bed. “Stay.”

  Humor flashes in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  His hungry gaze follows the motion as I slowly lower the material covering my breasts, one torturous inch at a time.

  “Kitty Cat, you take my breath away.”

  My lips hook up into a smirk. “That was the plan.”

  “Mission accomplished.” He leans back on his hands and nods. “Now finish.”

  I stalk toward him. “So bossy.” The fingers of my right hand slide into his hair until I have a handful of the silky black mane. I tilt his head back. “Truth or Dare?”

  “Truth.”

  I’m so shocked that he didn’t say dare that it takes me several beats to ask the question. “Is this real?” I ask before I know what’s coming out of my mouth. It is the question that’s haunted me, but I hadn’t planned to ask it.

  Long fingers clasp my waist and he pulls me to him, then he raises his head to meet my eyes. “It’s always been real for me, Tiger.”

  The simple honesty of his words breaks the leash I’ve had around my heart since he first walked into Wayland Estate. And that’s the moment I lose all of my heart to Cash King.

  His thumbs slip into the material at my hips and he pulls my thong down my legs. I steady myself with my hands on his big shoulders and step out of the panties. I stand before him totally nude and let the naked truth of my feelings radiate through my eyes.

  I love him.

  The words stay hidden in my heart. I’m not ready to say them, and he’s not ready to hear them, but the feelings are there just the same.

  He slips his basketball shorts and briefs off and they join the pile of my lingerie. “Condom?”

  “Nightstand.”

  In no time he deals with protection and pulls me down onto the bed with him. His big body covers mine, and I’ve never felt so safe. Lips that I’m becoming addicted to cover my mouth in a deep drugging kiss that steals the breath from my lungs. I clutch him to me and writhe beneath him, fighting for one more inch of closeness. “Cash, I can’t wait.”

  I barely have the words out before he’s inside me. Our bodies move in coordination like we’ve been doing this together our whole lives. He shifts so that he’s on his knees and pulls my hips up to meet every thrust. In this position there’s nowhere to hide, but I have no desire to conceal anything from him. I haven’t told him my feelings because I’m still sorting them out in my own heart, not because I don’t trust him with them. Every push and pull of his strong, aggressive body is an act of worship that only makes me fall deeper in love with him.

  He bends his head to my breast. The sucking and flicking of his tongue only intensifies what’s happening between us. We both want it to last, but our bodies are racing for the finish that destroys and remakes us all at the same time. The friction is unbearable, but if he stops I think I might die. “Right there. I’m close.”

  “Come for me, Tiger.” His finger goes to the bundle of nerves where we’re joined. The orgasm quakes through me in rolling, seismic shudders. I’m undone, and I nestle into the feeling that I will never be the same after this man.

  His thrusts grow faster and more urgent. His grip on my hips is bruising, but I don’t care when my name bursts from his lips as he follows me over the edge.

  We hold each other through the aftershocks, kissing and praising each other.

  “Never in my life …”

  “That was incredible …”

  “You’re amazing …”

  Once our breathing levels out, he goes to deal with the condom.

  I’m under the covers when he returns. He climbs into bed and tucks me into his side. Long fingers play with a lock of my hair and he studies my face like he wants to say something.

  “What?”

  “Come with me to the Thunder game on Sunday. I want you to see my world.”

  “Okay.” It’s not a declaration of love, but it is an invitation into his life. I’ll take it.

  Forty-Three

  Cash

  “This way.” Tiger and I follow the team through the tunnel that leads to the field of Thunder Stadium. The clip, clip, clip of cleats on concrete fills the space. I inhale and get a nose full of the scents of game day—body odor, fresh laundry, and testosterone. Goosebumps chase pinpricks of anticipation over my skin. The atmosphere buzzes and pops like static electricity on a cold winter morning.

  I wonder if Tiger can feel it too. This is my world, and I want to share it with her. I want her to understand why football is so important to me, and why I’d do anything to keep my place on this team.

  Guthrie yells, “Let’s kick some ass today, boys!” And the rest of the team roars their agreement. The team stops at the entrance of the passageway, but nobody moves to enter the stadium. They’re waiting on their cue.

  A remix of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” fills the arena. For several minutes it’s just the lone sound of a lead guitar, then the pounding beat of the drums is added, a video on the jumbotron flares to life, and the crowd loses their collective minds. The fans stomp their feet and yell “Thun-der, Thun-der, Thun-der” along with the band. Tiger’s eyes are as big as her smile, an
d she covers her ears to protect them from the noise. I don’t blame her, the sound in the tunnel is deafening.

  On the lyrics “you’ve been thunderstruck,” pyrotechnics on either side of the tunnel opening explode, and the team bursts onto the field like a herd of pissed off bulls who’ve been penned up far too long.

  The song’s still playing when Tiger and I make it onto the field. Forty thousand screaming people are on their feet, and everyone turns their attention to the video on the jumbotron. In between slow-motion clips of the team dominating our opponents, the faces of the team’s star players are shown. Mine is the first image, and pride and adrenaline are like rocket fuel in my veins. It’s always a freakin’ head rush. But the high is quickly squashed when McKay’s pretty face flashes onto the screen after mine. That’s new. He wasn’t on the video at the last home game. What does it mean?

  Panic claws at my throat, but I do my best to beat it back.

  Tiger’s grip on my hand tightens. “Oh, my gosh. This is overwhelming.” She has to lean close to my ear because the song is still playing.

  I laugh, remembering my first few pro games. I put my lips to her ear and the intoxicating smell of happiness fills my head. For a minute I forget what I was going to say. That hesitation is enough for the song to end, and I can speak normally. “It can be. My first few games, the stadium personnel kept a bucket next to the tunnel exit so I could puke before I ran onto the field.” Nostalgia hits me in the chest, and I can’t help the wistfulness in my voice. “The best and worst feeling in the world.” Those were the good ol’ days, before all the injuries, team politics, and media scrutiny.

  “You’re kidding,” she laughs.

  I chuckle. “I wish. The whole offensive line taped barf bags to my locker with messages on them, things like don’t screw this up, rookie and remember you’re replaceable.”

  “That’s so mean.”

  I squeeze her hand. “I appreciate your indignation on my behalf, but it was the best possible way to motivate me. It reminded me that I could lose all of this if I didn’t get over my nerves and do my job.”

  “I guess it is a job. I think most people just think of it as being a game.”

  “Oh, it’s a job all right. There are millions and millions of dollars involved, and the owners are serious about wringing every dime out of you while you’re on their payroll. So you do your job or you don’t get paid.”

  “Don’t you guys have contracts?”

  “Yes, but there’s a portion of our salaries that we don’t get if we don’t play. That’s in the contracts too. So guys play hurt because they don’t want to lose any money.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  I follow the progress of the captains as they move to the middle of the field for the coin toss. That should be me. “A lot of these athletes come from nothing, and the money they make isn’t just supporting them, but their extended families as well. It’s a lot of pressure.”

  “Do you include yourself in that group?”

  “Hell, yeah. We didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, so yeah.” We stop in a piece of shade out of the way of the field staff and television crews readying to broadcast the game. “But I was lucky, I had a big fat ironclad contract, thanks to my agent. Some of my teammates aren’t as lucky.”

  Her cool fingers brush the hair behind my ear, and I can feel her gaze on the side of my face. “It’s a lot to put up with. I guess that’s why you guys get paid the big bucks.”

  She’s making a joke, but this is a super sore subject with me. “It’s worse for college athletes. If you’re a scholarship player, then they own you. You play and do as they say because they hold all the cards. The university makes millions off what you’re doing.” We step out of the way of a big cable some guys with a sports network logo on their black T-shirts drag past us. “That’s why there should be some kind of monetary compensation for collegiate athletes. It’s the only way to balance the power dynamic.”

  “I’ve heard people talk about this, but I guess I thought that the players are getting their education paid for, so that’s their compensation.”

  “It’s so much trickier than that. If you’re like me, you can’t work because school and football take all your time, but then my mom didn’t have money to throw my way to live on. Sure, they provide room, meals, and books, but most players are asked to move out of the dorms after their freshman year, so the expense of an apartment falls on the athlete. Also, if practice goes past dining hall hours, then you’re responsible for feeding yourself, and believe me, that happens more than you would think. Then there’s the extras that a normal college student would need to function, and I’m not talking about partying money.”

  “Sounds like you’d make a great advocate for those players. Have you done anything to advance that cause?”

  I laugh and step away from her, resisting the urge to pull at the neck of my shirt that’s suddenly too tight. “No. As you might imagine, it’s not a very popular opinion. There are people spearheading the cause, and I can privately support them without putting my ass on the line for something that’s probably not going to change.”

  “But who better than someone who’s lived that life to speak to the issue? Not to mention you’re one of the NFL’s premier players. It seems like your opinion would go a long way to furthering the cause.”

  Her confused expression aggravates me. “Not all of us are willing to throw away everything for a cause, Tiger.” The words are out, and I can’t call them back. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  To my surprise, she laughs and shakes her hair back. “That’s fair.”

  Her complete confidence in her decision only irritates me more, but thankfully I’m stopped from replying by the sight of a sportscaster headed our way. “Oh, I’m going to have to do an interview or two while we’re here. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” She steps back with her arm extended as if ushering me into place. “I’m going to find the ladies’ room.”

  “It’s just up the tunnel to the left.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Her expression is relaxed and sweet, but I swear I see a hint of disappointment hiding behind her pleasant air. Before I can think too much about it, the sports reporter steps into my space.

  “Bullet, do you have a minute?”

  “Sure, Jill.”

  She looks at her cameraman and makes a rolling motion with the hand that’s holding the mic. He nods, the red light on the camera comes on, and she turns to me. “Cash, how’s the shoulder?”

  “Good, Jill, getting better every day.”

  “Glad to hear it, but I suppose the pressure to return is off, given how well McKay is playing these days.”

  It takes every bit of the iron will I possess to keep my face placid. “Not at all. I want to be available to help my team any way I can. Also—”

  “Thank you for speaking with me, Cash.” She makes a cutting motion with her hand below the camera level. “There’s McKay. Let’s see if we can catch him before kickoff.” She barely glances my way when she says, “Thanks for the interview, Cash.” Then she’s gone.

  I’m left alone and looking like a fool in front of the whole stadium. I smooth down my tie and fight to keep my confident appearance on my face like it’s an everyday occurrence that I get tossed aside for a younger, healthier, more important story.

  The team is milling around, slapping each other on the helmets and pads, and firing each other up for the game. I make my way to them, but I’m on the outside of their circle. And unlike the last game, no one is asking when I’ll be back.

  In fact, no one seems to have noticed me except for Guthrie, who tips his chin up before he finds something else to give his attention to. The pain and betrayal are lashes across my chest and straight into my heart. These men have been my family for nine years, and it’s like I don’t exist. I haven’t felt this insignificant since the beginning of my freshman year in high school.

  I wil
l my spine straight and my head high. Hurt quickly transforms to resentment. Do the bastards know who I am? I’m Cash Fucking King. I own the football field. I was born to play this game.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I retrieve it and see a text with a video from Kayla.

  Coach, we wanted to show you that we’ve been practicing the drills you taught us.

  I play the video. It’s Kayla, Cam, and Jared running drills like pros. I’m not sure who’s holding the camera until the whole scene goes upside down, and I hear, “Goooo, Lions.” So, one of the Twinkies is filming.

  The kids run up to the phone and start waving and yelling at the same time. “Thank you, Coach Cash. We miss you, Coach Cash. Watch this, Coach Cash.” My heart expands two sizes in my chest at their smiling, happy faces. It’s almost enough to make up for the snub from my team … almost.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Tiger loops her arm through mine.

  I play the video for her and she laughs. “Man, you’ve got some serious fans in those kids.” She waves her hand around, indicating the stadium. “If this whole superstar thing doesn’t work out for you, then you always have a place at the Ryder, Texas Rec Center.”

  It’s a throwaway remark, she’s not serious, but it unleashes a torrent of panic into my veins at the thought of her witnessing how irrelevant my team thinks I am. “Ready to head to the owner’s suite?”

  “Sure. Whatever you want to do.”

  “Cash.” Coach Robbins, the quarterback coach, makes his way through the throng to me with his hand extended. Which is weird because he was one of the people who wouldn’t look me in the eye a few minutes ago. Maybe I read the situation wrong?

  “Coach. How are you?”

  “I’m great. The question is, how are you? I got this week’s medical report, and everything looks good.” He appears to mean it, and my shoulder muscles relax a fraction.

  “Yeah, I’m pleased with the progress. Duke says he doesn’t see any reason I shouldn’t be ready for next week’s playoff game.” It’s a small exaggeration, and I can see Tiger’s head jerk to look at me from the corner of my eye.