by Liz Lincoln
And that did it. Thinking about his asshole dad killed his arousal. By the time Matt and Natalie made their way over to Quinn’s little sanctuary, his dick had gone back to sleep.
Then Natalie rose to her full height again, water sliding down her skin, dropping off the tips of her breasts. Quinn’s cock perked up.
Oh, hell no.
Dad was yelling at him again, this time in high school, mad he hadn’t gotten recruited by an SEC team. All the best players went to the SEC. That was how he’d get to the NFL. Northwestern players didn’t go pro. So why the hell was he wasting his time with football in college if he would never go anywhere with it?
He’d shown Dad. Fuck that guy.
Matt slid onto the built-in seat next to Quinn. “Mind if we join you?”
Little late to ask. “I think you already did.”
Matt gave him a half smile. “Touché.”
“Are we interrupting you?” Natalie asked.
Yes. “Just hanging out,” Quinn answered tersely. He was not looking at how her breasts swelled in and out of the water with every breath she took. He absolutely didn’t want to lick every drop of water from her smooth skin. Delicious skin. Lickable skin.
Goddammit, this was never going to work. He couldn’t make his imagination behave and pretty soon he was gonna have a raging hard-on with Matt right there and it was one thing to occasionally jerk off to the memory of Natalie, but it was another thing entirely for her to witness his arousal. And there would be no way to pretend it was inspired by anyone other than her.
So he edged away from Matt. “I was about to head up anyway. Study the new plays Colin gave us.”
“Don’t work too hard,” Matt said.
Quinn barked out a laugh, despite his now-surly mood. No one spent more time studying the mental side of football than Matt Baxter. That was a fact known throughout the league. It was actually a little surprising Matt was in the pool and not buried in his tablet.
“You actually decide you’d earned a break?” Quinn asked.
Then a terrible thought occurred to him. What if something was developing between Matt and Natalie? Matt seemed devastated over his separation from his wife, and while he didn’t seem like the type to seek temporary comfort with another woman, Quinn didn’t know him all that well. Maybe he had more womanizer asshole in him than Quinn thought. He certainly wouldn’t be the first guy to have sex with someone else while split from his wife.
And Natalie was a beautiful, sexy woman with a healthy sex drive. She had no reason not to sleep with Matt. He was pretty sure she’d hooked up with the Vegas photographer, Ryan. So she clearly was OK with casual sex.
Oh shit. If they had sex at Matt’s house—Quinn’s house—he was going to lose his fucking mind. But why else would she get in a pool with a player in that sexy little bikini?
He had to get out of that pool. Now. Moving as fast as the water would allow, he headed for the stairs. “You gonna be down here long?” He didn’t turn around as he asked the question. He couldn’t look at them together right now.
“I gotta call the girls in a half hour. Then I’ll be up. Before nine, obviously.”
Their curfew was nine o’clock, no matter what time they had to be on the bus the following day. Any player not in his room by then risked a team fine and possibly being benched for tomorrow’s game. Coach took their rest very seriously.
That gave him roughly an hour alone in the room. To think about Matt and Natalie and that bikini.
The universe was trying to kill him.
* * *
—
The hot water of the shower felt good on Quinn’s sore shoulders—he’d gone a little overboard yesterday with the weights. If he had to abandon his pool sanctuary, the shower was the next best thing.
OK, he could think of a couple other better ways to relax, but she was downstairs with his teammate and he was alone with his hard-on.
The hard-on that hadn’t decreased once he got away from her. In fact, it had been like his dick knew the instant they were alone. As his hotel room door slammed shut behind him, his cock had swelled even harder, making it difficult to remove his wet, clinging swim trunks.
He’d tried thinking more about his dad yelling at him for various infractions over the years. He’d thought about the passive-aggressive email Dad sent earlier in the week.
That had just left him still hard and even more annoyed.
As a last resort, he’d run math equations in his head. The quadratic formula. Pythagorean theorem. Except he couldn’t remember any others, so that hadn’t worked.
Fuck it. It wouldn’t be the first time since he first saw her at training camp that he jerked off to thoughts of Natalie and it probably wouldn’t be his last. His brain hated him, to make him so attracted to her still, after what she’d done to him. But sometimes it was easier to give in than to fight.
He lathered up his right hand, then fisted himself. Oh yeah. That was good. He closed his eyes and braced his arm on the wall, leaning his forehead on it. The water rained down on his back, his skin almost too sensitive to take the sensation. But it also tickled and aroused and added to everything.
As he started rubbing his hand up and down his cock, he let himself remember his first time with Natalie. He’d been in love with her for more than two years, but every time he’d gotten up the guts to say something about it, she’d started dating someone else before he could. So that time, when she broke up with the latest guy, he’d only waited a week. Then Friday night, after he’d had enough to drink to lose some inhibitions, he told her.
And she’d kissed him. In that moment, he thought he had everything. They’d spent an hour making out, and she went home with him. They’d decided they were too drunk to have sex, but she spent the night, letting him spoon her. And he woke nearly every hour, kissing her neck and her shoulder as she slept, barely able to believe that finally, she was there with him.
Shit. Quinn had to stop. He was getting too close, and he wanted to get through the entire memory before he blew his load. It was such a good one, and if he was going to go there, might as well go all the way.
When his blood was back down to a simmer instead of ready to boil over, he got another handful of soap and resumed stroking. He didn’t squeeze quite as hard or move as fast, teasing himself. Every hair on his body seemed to stand at attention, waiting for the giant orgasm he was building.
It was gonna be a good one.
Back on that perfect day in college, when he’d opened his eyes that next morning, Natalie had still been asleep, her tangle of blond hair covering his face. He’d gotten up to piss, downed some Advil with a full glass of water, gotten two condoms out of his nightstand—he was an optimist back then—and slid back into bed with her.
She’d stirred when he slid his hand up her thigh. She’d stripped down to a tank top and her panties to sleep, he in just his boxer briefs. So her legs were bare.
“Is this OK?” he’d asked, lips moving against her shoulder. She tasted like desire and sweetness and sex and the best thing he’d ever encountered.
“Don’t you dare stop.” She’d grabbed his hand and put it over her breast, and the second he cupped her, they were in motion. It had been as if the brush of his palm against her nipple was the match that lit the spark.
She’d flipped in his arms, pressing her mouth to his, her tongue slipping in to tangle with his. Her legs wound around him, holding him close, only thin layers of cotton separating them. And they’d touched each other everywhere.
That first time had been desperate, frantic, as if her body too had waited to have him since the moment they met, even if it took her mind a few years to catch up. At least he told himself that.
Finally they were naked and he’d knelt between her legs, rolling the condom down his painful erection. She’d looked up at him, her expression as
naked as her body, her eyes vulnerable.
“Quinn,” she’d breathed more than said.
And it had been the most perfect moment of his life. Because he knew beyond just his name, she was saying she loved him too. She’d been opening herself to him, to his body and to his love. She would be his for the rest of his life, this beautiful, brilliant, amazing woman with whom he was so madly in love.
Oh shit, the memory was so good. In the shower, the orgasm crested at the base of Quinn’s spine, seeming to roll up from the soles of his feet and down from the top of his head. He could no longer stop it, could no longer wait.
The pleasure choked him, jerking his head back as a cry broke from his throat. Usually he could keep himself silent when he came so as not to alert his roommate, but tonight, tonight the memories were too powerful, the ecstasy too intense.
His come hit the wall, the same color as the tile, sliding down to the tub. And still the sensations held him, limbs shaking as the memories flickered in and out like an old TV.
Her expression from that morning recrystallized in his mind and another wave washed through him. Jesus, this was intense. So good his back teeth hummed with enjoyment.
Panting, he finally sagged against the wall, his legs barely able to keep him upright. He was a professional athlete, in better physical shape than the vast majority of the world’s population. But all it took was one woman to make him weak.
One woman who would destroy him again if he wasn’t careful.
* * *
—
Division rivalry games were Natalie’s favorite to cover. Something in the air felt different when the Dragons played the St. Louis Stallions or the Colorado Springs Vipers. An intensity, an anticipation that wasn’t there for other games. Even against the Las Vegas Scorpions it wasn’t the same, though it had been several years since the Scorpions had a team that could give the Dragons much of a challenge.
So tonight’s win over the Stallions also came with a different feel. Despite the late hour, since they’d played the Sunday Night Football game, the players buzzed with adrenaline as they milled around the airport gate. They were waiting out a torrential rainstorm, visibility too poor for them to board the team’s private plane yet.
Natalie stifled a yawn and took a swallow of her tepid coffee. She winced at the bitterness. All the airport restaurants were long since closed, but a generous airport employee had brewed some and brought it to their gate. It was too strong and had a burnt aftertaste, plus the employee hadn’t brought sugar, which Natalie preferred. Still, she was grateful for the caffeine or she would probably have fallen asleep in her uncomfortable airport chair.
“Nah, global warming’s a hoax,” linebacker Mike Delaney said from his seat across from Natalie. “The Chinese made it up.”
She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see her rolling them.
“Man, how dumb are you?” his fellow linebacker Cedric Moore asked, echoing Natalie’s thoughts. “You take a hit to the head and nobody notice? There’s approximately a metric shit ton of data about climate change. It’s fuckin’ real as shit.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” Mike said.
“Jesus, you too stupid to live.” Again, Cedric spoke Natalie’s thoughts aloud. “How you gonna get the entire scientific community in on a hoax that big and not have a single person leak the truth? I’ll tell you. It’s because it’s the motherfucking truth.”
As if to drive home Cedric’s point for him, the world outside the airport windows lit up, a jagged scribble of lightning illuminating the black sky. The thunder followed immediately, loud enough to rattle the glass panes. Natalie loved thunderstorms, but the power of that strike still sent a shiver up her spine. They were in for a long night.
“If climate change is a hoax,” Matt said from next to her, “they did a damn good job getting Mother Nature’s buy-in.”
Natalie chuckled at his joke. It wasn’t particularly funny, but she was buzzed on adrenaline, fatigue, and caffeine.
“OK, men, listen up. Here’s the scoop.” Head Coach Crosby’s voice came over the address system at their gate. He stood behind the desk, talking into the PA microphone.
“These runways are flooded and visibility is shit. Nothing’s getting out of here tonight.”
A collective groan rolled through the group. Natalie swallowed her frustration and another yawn as they waited for Crosby to continue.
“Storm’s supposed to continue for another twelve to twenty-four hours, so it’s gonna be a long time before anything gets out.”
More grumbling from the players and other coaches. A rookie offensive lineman yelled, “Fuck you, Mother Nature!” at the windows, drawing laughter. Natalie managed a smile, but her eyes felt like sandpaper every time she blinked. She was too tired to laugh.
“We’ve arranged for the team to get on the next train out of St. Louis, which will get us to Milwaukee faster than waiting on a plane or trying to take a bus. Parts of the interstate are flooded out too,” Crosby continued. “We should get in around noon tomorrow. So it’s back on our bus and we’ll head to the Amtrak station.”
Around her, conversations resumed. Natalie waited to stand, taking a few more fortifying gulps of her coffee first. Noon tomorrow was still so far away. Hours and hours on a train instead of a couple on a plane and some sleep in her own bed. Ugh. Ugh blarg ugh.
But what choice did she have? It was either go with the team on the train and be the only reporter all season with this level of access to the Dragons, or join her colleagues at other airport gates, hanging around for an unknown amount of time until the storm passed, the runways cleared, and flights resumed.
Amtrak it was.
* * *
—
Matt hobbled down the aisle in front of Quinn, heavily favoring his right leg. He’d taken a bad hit in the fourth quarter, the Stallions’ nose tackle coming down on him with his leg bent at a funny angle. For a second, Quinn had feared the worst—broken bone or torn ACL, guaranteed season enders. But Matt was able to walk off the field on his own, and his backup had finished the game while he got X-rays. Fortunately they were clean, though undoubtedly he’d get an MRI when they got back to Milwaukee.
Logan, one of the trainers, slid into the seat next to Matt and immediately started pulling ice packs out of his bag. Quinn settled in across the aisle. He balled up his sweatshirt and used it as a pillow to lean against the window. The rain beat at the plexiglass, the rhythm almost soothing. Too bad he’d downed three cups of shitty coffee to stay awake at the airport. Now the caffeine jitters hummed through him.
And fuck, he had to piss. So he went in search of the restroom.
That taken care of, he made his way back to his seat. He returned just in time to hear Matt tell Natalie, “Go ahead and sit with Quinn. He won’t care. And I can give you a couple quotes to write an exclusive piece on my non-injury.”
Natalie’s gaze flicked up to meet Quinn’s and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth. Fuck, that was so sexy. Did she do it on purpose?
No, he could not sit with Natalie. He was already edgy from the abrupt change of plans and overcaffeination. If she sat next to him, he wouldn’t get a single minute of sleep. He didn’t sleep well on transportation anyway, but at least alone he had a shot in hell of a few hours.
He could see the conflict on her face. Could even guess at her thoughts. She didn’t want to sit with him either, but she needed the story. Reporters loved exclusive access.
Maybe she could quickly get the quotes from Matt, then move for the duration of the trip. Except a scan of the train car revealed he was the only person without a seatmate.
Resigned, he moved into the cramped space and wedged himself as close to the window as he could get. “It’s all yours.” His voice was closer to a snarl than he meant, but who the fuck cared?
Despite pract
ically flattening himself against the wall of the train, the space was too narrow for his broad body. She pressed against him from knee to hip to shoulder, adding a different sort of hum to his veins.
She wiggled around, getting her laptop out of her bag, setting it up, adjusting to find a comfortable spot. And every little movement had her brushing against him. He gritted his teeth and shoved his sweatshirt ball against the window, again leaning on it to stare out at the darkness and rain. As the train flew past sleeping suburban neighborhoods, he could barely make out the shapes of houses. The monotony of it lulled him, helping to relax him, countering the agitation of Natalie on his left.
Finally she settled in, and he relaxed a fraction more. He brain was too jazzed to sleep, but at least he could do some of the relaxation exercises he’d learned over the years. One of his counselors at rehab had been big on using meditation as a tool to fight cravings. It wasn’t the one true answer—Quinn knew there wasn’t just one—but it was definitely a good tool to have in his arsenal. Because every day he needed that arsenal fully stocked to keep moving forward.
At least the stubbornness that had always been his enemy now worked in his favor. Years ago he’d been too damn stubborn to admit he had a problem, that he couldn’t handle things on his own. Now that he’d admitted he was addicted to alcohol and pills, he was too stubborn to let himself fuck up and backslide. It was no guarantee, but it definitely didn’t hurt.
He put on his headphones and pulled up his meditation phone app. Chose a guided one, seventeen minutes long, to help with focus and relaxation. The woman had a soothing British accent, talking about clearing his mind, letting go of the day’s stresses. She walked him through releasing the tension in his muscles, progressing through the major groups until his body really did feel looser. His ass still throbbed, a dull pain from landing hard on his tailbone. But nothing he wouldn’t recover from. He’d probably have a hell of a bruise there by the time they got home, but bruises healed. He’d been hurt way worse in his career.
