The Unforgettable Kind

by Melanie Munton

  Sam is the woman for me. Always has been. Always will be.

  And I fucked up majorly with her.

  Getting us back to even being friends might very well be a lost cause. She might have buried whatever feelings she once had for me so deep they’re unsalvageable now.

  But I still have to try.

  Because if my instincts are finally working right, Sam is and forever will be mine. I’ll never hurt her again. I just have to prove it to her.

  And my bruised balls are telling me that’s going to take some time.

  ***

  That afternoon, I stand off to the side of Set B as the director positions each analyst around the “Analysis Table” for our segment. Another chair has to be brought over for my inclusion, making everyone scoot a little closer together. Hair and makeup people bustle around righting clothing and fixing Sam’s hair, touching up shiny faces, cleaning off glasses lenses, and running lint rollers over suits. The usual pomp and circumstance that precedes a broadcast. Organized chaos.

  And in the midst of it all, I can’t take my eyes off Sam.

  In this sea of testosterone, she shines like a beacon. Though she does that no matter where she is.

  The director steps back and views the new seating arrangements from the camera view finder. The primary host of FNN’s main sportscast, Stuart Goddard, sits on the far end. Marcus Babbett is to next to him, followed by Sam, Grant Edgars, and John Trainor.

  “Well, adding another person is going to throw off Samantha’s center position,” the director states, “but we’re going to have to make it work. Jennings, go sit between Babbett and Samantha. See how that looks.”

  I quickly note three things as I’m approaching the table. 1) Everyone in the sporting world knows Sam as Samantha, a name I know for a fact she hates. Although it gives me some weird sense of satisfaction that I’m one of the few who call her Sam, I’ll still be asking her about that later. 2) The director calls everyone by their last names except for Sam. Maybe everyone treats her differently because she’s the only female analyst. But I think it’s really because everyone in the studio regards her with a high level of affection, including the director. And, 3) Sam and Marcus sit next to each other for every segment I’ve ever watched on TV.

  Ugly jealously barrels through me at the thought of the two of them being anything more than co-workers. He’s a known player, and she’s unquestionably stunning. It wouldn’t be surprising if they ever hooked up.

  Not while I’m around.

  “That’ll have to do,” the director calls out after I take my seat. “One minute to broadcast!”

  The hair and makeup people scurry off as I straighten my tie one final time and glance down at the notes before me. A brief rundown of the segment and some highlights I wrote down for talking points. It doesn’t matter how many times I do this in my lifetime, I always get a little nervous before I’m on camera. I thought I’d be playing football forever, not sitting and smiling before millions of viewers. Sam, on the other hand, seems completely at ease. Oddly, sitting next to her through this eases some of my anxiety.

  Then our legs brush under the table.

  She stiffens.

  That gives me an idea. It might be playing dirty, but I’ve never claimed to play fair.

  The cameras start rolling and Stuart begins the segment, welcoming viewers to today’s show. The first order of business is introducing the new guy. “And joining us for today’s segment is two-time All-American and Heisman Trophy winner, former Florida Gator Kade Jennings.”

  I flash my pearly whites at where I assume the cameras are. The lights are so damn bright you can’t see a whole lot in front of you. The teleprompters are visible, but they’re mostly there to guide us through the talking points, rather than provide lines like a script.

  “Happy to be here and talk some football, Stuart.”

  We dive into the first topic of Sunday’s games, both college and pro. Feeling ballsy, I nudge Sam’s foot with mine under the table while the highlight reels are rolling. She tilts her head in my direction but doesn’t look at me when she kicks my foot back. A clear message—back the hell off—that I choose to ignore. Hiding my grin behind my hand, I slowly slide the toe of my oxfords up her calf. Before I can guess her next move, her hand comes down on my thigh in a hard smack.

  And she keeps it there.

  Holy shit.

  Her hand is on my leg.

  I don’t have time to celebrate that revelation because she suddenly digs her nails in. Hard.

  Despite the slight sting of pain, the corner of my mouth twitches—along with my dick—as I give her a sidelong glance. She’s looking down at her notes, trying and failing not to appear smug.

  Saucy little minx.

  I subtly lower my hand beneath the table and trap hers against my thigh, releasing her nails from their hold. Her mouth firms into a thin line as I move our connected fingers toward my inner thigh. She struggles to release my grip when she feels where I’m heading. I tap my thumb against her skin, making her wonder what I’ll do next.

  We lock eyes.

  Her eyebrows climb up her forehead. A challenge if I’ve ever seen one.

  Don’t think I’ll do it, sweetheart?

  Her answer is written all over her face. Not in the slightest.

  With my fingers clasping hers, I move them in the direction of my dick. Because I’m a sick bastard, I’m pitching a serious tent right now. She notices. What can I say? I guess that after years without the girl of your dreams, you’ll bone up at the mere brush of her fingertips.

  But this is more than a brush.

  My breathing picks up speed, my pulse hammering.

  She seems to realize she’s being almost acquiescent and tries to pull away. I just tighten my hold and pull harder—pun intended. She tries to curl her fingers into a fist. I don’t let her. Then she tries to gouge me with her nails again, but I stop her. For a brief moment I envision her actually giving in, wrapping her slim fingers around my shaft, and giving me a hand job in front of millions of viewers.

  My steel rod turns into a diamond cutter at that image. I have to clear my throat just to hide my groan.

  Again, she notices.

  Just as Stuart finishes his commentary on the reels and the cameras come back to us, I reluctantly release Sam’s hand, the tips of her fingers mere centimeters away from touching my tip. I mask my expression as she straightens her posture and throws her shoulders back. There’s a slight tint of pink to her cheeks, but I doubt the cameras will catch it. Fortunately, my arousal is hidden by the table.

  Time to get your other head in the game, Jennings.

  “Grant, I hate to point this out because you all know I can’t stand proving someone wrong,” Sam quips, making us all chuckle, “but I told you if Oregon could hold Wisconsin to two touchdowns, they would pull off that win. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  Grant, the loveable know-it-all, throws his hands up. “You did, you did. I’ll admit you were right.”

  Everyone laughs again.

  “But you also said that Oregon’s offensive line needed to step it up or they wouldn’t win another game all season,” I interject, drawing Sam’s attention.

  Her eyes widen as what I just said sinks in. She made that statement in a segment two weeks ago. Yeah, babe. I’ve been watching your show.

  “I’d say that’s what really won it for them,” I add. “They did a much better job of reading the defense.”

  Warmth spreads through me when I feel her lean just a little closer to me. It’s probably only a microscopic amount to anyone watching, and probably an unconscious action on her part, but it feels a whole lot bigger and more meaningful to me.

  Stuart moves on to the next topic, projections of tonight’s pro games. Debate arises over Green Bay’s quarterback, who’s been having a rough time since coming back after a shoulder sprain.

  I really need to talk to Sam about where the fuck that cherry scent of hers comes from— how have I
never found out before?—and convince her to wear less of it during tapings. It’s distracting the hell out of me.

  “He needs to stay inside the pocket and take his time,” John states, an authority of the Hall of Fame caliber when it comes to quarterbacks. “He’s not very accurate when he gives the ball away too quickly.”

  Sam speaks up. “True, but he also needs to work on that quick release. He had one of the best offensive lines behind him when he was at Alabama. But now he’s at a different level, facing the Stealers’ defense, which is the best in the league. He’s not always going to have all the time he needs to get a good throw off. His accuracy when releasing the ball within three seconds of the snap is one of the lowest in the AFC. When they played the Stealers in pre-season, he overthrew his receivers how many times?”

  “I have to disagree with you on that one, Samantha,” I cut in.

  Our eyes briefly connect as her full name rolls off my tongue, sounding foreign and all kinds of wrong.

  “I don’t always think the problem is his accuracy. I think his receivers need to work on their spatial awareness. They were flagged twice for offensive pass interference during that pre-season game. There doesn’t seem to be a good connection between them and their quarterback.”

  Both Grant and John nod in agreement, and I can feel Marcus shift next to me. Sam just stares. When I throw out some more facts and figures to back up my argument, her stare turns into a glare. As if to punctuate her emotions, her foot inches closer to mine—and the pointed heel of her stiletto stabs into my foot.

  This time I cough to hide my grunt.

  Motherfucker. That hurt.

  First my balls, then my thigh, and now my foot. And I thought playing football was painful? Interacting with Sam might as well be considered a full-contact sport, too.

  To be on the safe side, I should probably wear full pads to work tomorrow.

  Chapter Seven

  “Heartbreaker”

  by Pat Benatar

  Back then…

  Sam

  This was what I got for playing solitaire on my phone during class.

  A dead cell battery…with a broken down car.

  Oh, and now a smoking broken down car.

  Whatever was going on underneath that hood couldn’t be good. I was standing on the side of the highway, cursing the sky, myself, and my wayward father who always checked on my car and made sure everything was in tip-top shape. Thanks a lot, Dad. Then I mentally kicked myself because I should know how to fix my own damn car. If the last few years had taught me anything it was that you could only truly rely on one person in life: yourself.

  I could spout off a number of football statistics off the top of my head, but I couldn’t navigate my way around a car engine to save my life. And with a dead cell phone, it looked like I’d be waiting for the next Good Samaritan to wander down this road at—I looked at my watch—six forty-five at night. I’d been having dinner with Trent and his parents at their house, but had bowed out early due to an unfinished history paper.

  A fictional history paper.

  Yes, I’d lied.

  I’d just needed away from that situation. I’d felt claustrophobic sitting there with him, even a little suffocated. I didn’t know what that meant and at this point, I was too damn tired and frustrated to figure it out.

  I heard the rumble of a truck in the distance, and sent up a prayer of thanks for my salvation. The truck came into view and—oh, shit.

  Salvation, my ass.

  That right there was my damnation.

  Kade freaking Jennings was barreling down the highway in his beat up Ford pickup, far exceeding the speed limit. Up until he spotted me, that is. All of a sudden, he slammed on his breaks, halting to a stop just behind my car.

  I shouldn’t have given myself a quick once-over. Shouldn’t have run my hand through my hair or righted my bra underneath my V-neck sweater. I shouldn’t have given a diseased rat’s ass what I looked like.

  But the same thing had happened every time I’d been around him for the last month.

  He unfolded his massive frame from the truck, and approached me with all the causal air of someone who wasn’t causing me major heart palpitations. Dammit, why did he always have to look so…yummy? He was the only guy I knew who could make a plain white T-shirt look so good. Those blue jeans hugged his ass just right. Much like his football pants did because yeah, I’d been looking.

  And that grin. Oh, that grin. It had the power to burn the panties off a nun.

  Like I said, damnation.

  “Let me guess, you were late for something and forgot to put gas in your car.” He phrased it as more of a statement than a question.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  He chuckled as he rounded my car and popped the hood. “Sam, please. Have you ever been on time for anything in your life?”

  Despite my prickly mood, I found myself wanting to smile. I was shocked he’d even noticed something like that about me. “As a matter of fact, I’m home on time for dinner whenever my mom cooks sausage casserole. Even a few minutes early.”

  His head shot up, his eyes widening in mock surprise. “You’re kidding. You must have to set an alarm on your phone.”

  My smile dropped. How in the hell did he know that?

  He burst into laughter. “Oh, my God, I was joking. You really do, don’t you?”

  “Shut up.”

  He just laughed harder, the jerk.

  I stepped closer as he inspected the engine or whatever the hell he was looking at. Even with all the scents and smells of the outdoors, I could still smell him. Pine and spice and everything nice. I wanted to wrap that smell around me like a Snuggie and take a nap in it.

  You’re losing it, Sam.

  “What’s the diagnosis, Top Gear?”

  “Well, it’s not the battery. Can’t tell for sure, but you might have a crack in your radiator.”

  I hung my head, sighing. Cracks were never good, were they? “First my period and now this.”

  He tilted his head at me as if to say come on.

  “Really?” I teased. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who can’t handle hearing about the scourge of womankind.”

  Trent certainly was. If I even said the word tampon he would shudder and say something like, “Seriously, babe, I don’t want to hear about that shit.” I used to think it was cute. Now I kind of thought it was just immature.

  Kade slowly shook his head. “No. I was just wondering what you weren’t saying in that sentence.” I must have looked confused because he explained. “Sounds like more is going on than your period and cracked radiator, that’s all.”

  God. How could he read me so well, yet my own boyfriend, someone I’d known for over ten years, hadn’t sensed a single thing wrong at dinner?

  “Just a lot going on right now, you know? Mid-terms and…personal stuff.”

  I hadn’t meant to say it. I really hadn’t. My mouth apparently didn’t have an emergency stop button when it came to Kade.

  He stood there and studied me for what felt like ten hours. Long enough to make me start fidgeting.

  “Is someone coming to pick you up?” he finally asked.

  I held up my useless device. “Cell phone is dead. Can’t exactly send a carrier pigeon to AAA.”

  I briefly lost the will to speak when his expression darkened. “You weren’t seriously going to get into the next random car that pulled up, were you? What if I had been a complete stranger?”

  “Wait, did I forget to ask if you were a serial killer? I guess that’s ground we should have covered that first day in the hallway, huh?”

  He rolled his eyes and then surprised me by grabbing my arm and hauling me against his chest. Now, I didn’t just lose the will to speak—I lost my damn breath. In fact, our mouths were so close that his breath became my own.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a smartass?”

  “At least once a day.”

  His featur
es softened. “Anyone could have driven by, seen a pretty girl, and coerced you into their vehicle. Promise me you would never do something that stupid, Sam.”

  I struggled to swallow around the lump in my throat. The intensity in his eyes was making me nervous, but not in a bad way. In a scary way, yes, but scary for all the right reasons.

  I mean wrong reasons. What I was feeling was wrong.

  “This is freaking Mason, Kade. Not Atlanta.”

  He grasped my other arm and pulled me closer. Our mouths were only inches apart, so close I could smell his peppermint gum.

  “Sam. Please don’t ever trust a stranger like that. Here, Atlanta, anywhere. It’s not safe for a girl like you.”

  “A girl like me?” I whispered.

  His eyes flew over my face. “Beautiful girls like you. Just…” His lips thinned. He looked conflicted over something. “Just be smart, okay?”

  All I could do was nod. He’d effectively rendered me speechless. He thought I was beautiful.

  After an interminably long time, he released my arms. I immediately placed distance between us. Being too close to Kade made me want things, yearn for things I couldn’t even understand. Things I didn’t know actually existed outside of romance novels and movies.

  “I’ll take you home and you can call Ned at Tires Plus to tow your car into the shop.”

  I mumbled my agreement but didn’t necessarily like the part about him taking me home. I wasn’t ready to go back home and face my reality yet. A reality that my father was still absent from, where my brother was screwing his way through the entire OU co-ed population, and the one where I was suddenly feeling like something was missing from my life. No, I wasn’t ready to go back there yet.

  “You want to stop for ice cream first?”

  He answered without hesitation. “Sure.”

  It was as if he’d been waiting for me to say something like that.

  Chapter Eight

  “Why Can’t This Be Love”

  by Van Halen

  Kade

  “No way!” Sam slapped my shoulder while balancing her cone of cookies ‘n cream with her other hand. “You’re seventeen. How have you been to so many concerts already?”