by Amy Brent
I was all lean muscle, toned, with low body fat. My hair had always been a sandy blond, so you had to look closely to see that there were strands of white mixed with the blond.
My face and body were always tanned because when I wasn’t on the field, I was on a beach or a fishing boat somewhere.
Little lines cut from the edges of my eyes and the corners of my mouth. I guess I looked okay for a guy on the north side of forty. The ladies never complained, so why should I worry.
As always, my eyes were drawn to the scar that inched its way down the front of my right shoulder. The surgeons had been precise in the cut required to get inside my body and rebuild my shoulder. The tattoos did a good job of disguising it, but I would always know it was there. It represented far more than just a scar. It represented how quickly life could spiral out of control.
I stepped into the shower and lowered my head so the jets could beat against my neck and shoulders.
I felt the tension of the day draining from my body.
I gave my hair a quick shampoo and used the lather to soap up my body. That’s how guys can shower so quickly. We use the shampoo to wash everything, unlike women, who seem to have a special soap for every part of the body.
This soap is for my face.
This soap is for my underarms.
This soap is for my cooch.
I was glad that I was a dude.
I washed my cock and balls with the same lather I used to wash my hair. I just saved the dirtiest parts for last.
Speaking of, when my hands swirled the soap around my cock and balls, I wasn’t surprised to find my cock plumped up from meeting Allie Winston.
She was a gorgeous girl from all sides.
Not only did she have the bubbly ass, she had nice tits that filled out her sports bra perfectly. I could just see the faint bumps of her nipples beneath the confines of the material.
I had a hard time keeping my eyes off the camel toe wedged between her legs. The yoga pants had worked their way inside her cunt, giving me a nice idea of what she might look like without them.
As the steam swirled around me, I closed my eyes and wrapped my fingers around my cock. I worked my soapy hand back and forth a few times and it quickly grew to its full nine inches. I glanced down at myself. I squeezed as I slid my hand toward the head. The head mushroomed and turned dark.
“Fuck…” I sighed. I braced my left hand on the shower wall and closed my eyes. I could see Allie standing in the doorway, but her clothes were gone. She was cupping her tits in her hands and squeezing her nipples between her fingers. She parted her lips and moaned at me.
I imagined that her cunt was covered in little blond curls.
I could see her swollen clit peeking from beneath the curls.
She put a finger fully into her mouth to wet it, then smiled as she slid the finger between the folds of her pussy. She spread her legs so I could see the finger disappear inside her.
“Yes…” I growled, pumping my cock faster as every muscle in my body tensed.
Her finger slid in and out, in and out.
My hand milked my cock, faster and faster.
I felt myself cumming as the pressure built in my balls, screaming for release.
I stood on my tiptoes and tightened the muscles in my legs.
I bit my lip so I didn’t scream.
I shot milky ropes of white cum on the shower wall.
I milked my cock until there was nothing left to give.
I opened my eyes to look at the mess I’d made.
I smiled.
Not bad.
For a man my age.
Allie
I hurried down to the kitchen and hit “Preheat 450” on the oven, then checked the freezer for frozen pizzas. Bingo! The freezer was stocked with every kind of frozen pizza imaginable.
I picked a large meat lovers supreme. I ripped open the box, put it on a pizza pan, and stuck it in the oven. I checked the instructions and set the timer.
I had thirty-five minutes to make myself presentable.
It wasn’t that I felt the need to dress for dinner or that I was trying to impress Sam Carson.
To the contrary, the problem was that my panties and yoga pants were glued to my crotch and I could smell the tangy aroma of my own juices wafting in the air.
And if I could smell it, I knew he could.
Men have noses like bloodhounds when it comes to pussy.
They can smell a damp one from a mile away.
I grabbed my bag from the foyer and ran into the downstairs bedroom and slammed the door. I threw the bag on the bed and went into the bathroom for a quick shower.
I turned on the shower to let the water heat up and stripped off the crop top and sports bra. My armpits were drenched with sweat and my tits were clammy, as if I’d just finished a run.
The soggy yoga pants and panties clung to my crotch when I tugged them off.
My cunt was literally gushing.
The musky smell filled the room and made me wonder why Sam Carson had such an effect on me.
Admittedly, it had been a while since I’d had sex, but juicing like a horny teenager was somewhat out of character for me.
I liked to be wined and dined and wooed before giving up the goodies.
I’d had sexual encounters with men I’d just met before, but they were rare, and usually involved tremendous amounts of alcohol and the desire to get out of an ugly bridesmaid dress.
I turned my ear to listen to the shower still running in the upstairs master bedroom.
Sam was in the shower just above me.
Naked.
Wet.
Soapy.
“Stop it, Allie,” I scolded myself. “You don’t need this. Not now. Not with him.”
I pinned up my hair into a bun, jumped in the shower, and quickly soaped up my smelly parts. My fingers lingered on my clit for just a moment, but I quickly pulled them away and rinsed off. I didn’t have time for that now. Maybe later, after I went to bed, alone with my thoughts. For now, the fun stuff would have to wait because I wanted to be dressed and in the kitchen when Sam came downstairs.
God forbid he think that I got clean just for him; even though he was the reason I needed a shower.
* * *
I left my hair pinned up in a messy bun on top of my head. I put on a pair of fresh panties, a pair of loose-fitting lounge pants, and a large Atlanta Trojans t-shirt.
My look could best be described as “baggy”.
It wasn’t that I was trying to be as unsexy as possible.
It just turned out that way.
This was how I dressed when I hung out alone.
Which was still my plan for the weekend.
After the pizza, I was going to politely suggest that Sam find another place to spend the night.
Sam
I could smell the decadent aroma of frozen pizza as I came down the stairs. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was nothing that a frozen pizza and a six pack of Coors wouldn’t fix. The unexpected company of a lovely young woman would be the icing on the cake.
Or the pepperoni on the pizza.
Whatever.
Allie was setting out two plates on the kitchen table when I came into the room. We looked at each other and smiled. We were identically dressed in a pair of black lounge pants and a grey Trojans t-shirt.
“Okay, this is getting weird,” I said with a grin.
“A little bit,” she said with a wry smile. “Are you sure you didn’t peak down to see what I was wearing?”
“And have the exact same outfit in my bag so I could dress like you?” I asked as I went to the fridge for a beer. I popped the top and toasted her with the ice cold can. “No, my dear, Miss Winston, this is called a coincidence.”
“Well, whatever you call it, you look lovely,” she said, grinning as she slid the pizza out of the oven.
“As do you.”
“Have a seat. The pizza is ready.”
“I really appreciate this gourmet meal,” I said, picking up a slice and blowing cool air across the bubbly cheese. I nibbled off the end and sucked in a quick breath to keep the skin from melting off my tongue.
“Careful, that’s hot,” she said. She picked up a fork from the table and proceeded to cut her pizza into bitesize pieces. She stabbed a piece and held it to her mouth. I watched her lips purse to blow cool air over the steaming bite.
I picked up the beer and took a sip. Smacking my lips, I said, “So, Allie Winston, tell me about yourself.”
She chewed slowly, then picked up the glass of wine she’d poured herself and took a sip. Dabbing her lips with a napkin, she said, “There’s not much to tell, really. I grew up in Atlanta, got my Masters in Sports Marketing from the University of Alabama, came back to Atlanta, and got a job with Image Sports Limited. They are based in New York, but I work out of the Atlanta office. I work mostly with athletes in the southeast. I’ve been there two years and love it.”
“Why didn’t you go to work for your dad?” I asked.
“Why didn’t you go to work for you dad?” she shot back.
“Because my dad’s never been more than an assistant coach for shitty teams. And he isn’t Ben Winston.”
She stabbed another piece of pizza with the fork and gave me the eye. “You haven’t worked for my dad for long, have you?”
I shook my head. “Less than a week, but it’s off-season so our contact has been minimal. We’ll see more of each other when spring training kicks in next week, I’m sure.”
“My dad is a wonderful father and a brilliant business man,” she said with respect. “But Ben Winston can also be sexist and condescending to his female employees. And to his daughter. I just felt it would be better for our relationship to not work directly together.”
“Football is a good old boy’s game,” I said with a nod. “Although, there are some female team owners now that give as good as they get.”
“I’m sure you’d know more about than I would,” she said, chewing through a condescending smile. “Weren’t you involved with the woman who owns the Huskies? What’s her name, Lucinda…”
“Mills,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her. “I wouldn’t say that I was involved with her.”
“Right, right… You just had sex with her in the middle of the day in the owner’s box at Huskies Stadium, and a reporter for Sports Illustrated who was there to interview you happened to get photos of the two of you on his cellphone.” She brought the wine glass to her lips and stared at me from over the top of it. “Or at least that’s the story I heard.”
“Actually, he was from Sports Insider,” I said, forcing a smile.
She gave me a condescending smirk. “Ah, my bad. Sorry.”
Wow, what a bitch. So much for a nice, civil dinner. This was why I preferred groupies over “normal” women. Groupies don’t judge you for the stupid shit you’ve done in life. To the contrary, they want to fuck you because of the stupid shit you’ve done.
They want to be part of the stupid shit, not run from it and certainly not chastise you for it.
That wasn’t the case with Allie Winston -- Miss “I Chew My Food a Hundred Times Before Swallowing”.
“Word is, Lucinda Mills is a real ball buster,” she said casually. She let her eyebrows arch as she sighed into the wine glass. “Did she bust your balls while you were coaching quarterbacks for her, Coach Carson?”
“My balls are just fine,” I said. I picked up my beer and leaned back to stare at her. “But to answer your question, yes, Lucinda could be a real ball buster. But then again, most women are ball busters at one time or another.”
She put on an innocent face and brought a hand to her chest. “Really? Are we?”
I asked, “Aren’t you a ball buster, Miss Winston?”
“I only bust balls that need busting,” she said with a dismissive sigh.
“Do you think my balls need busting?” I sucked pizza out of my teeth and held out my palms. “Obviously, you have something to say, so just say it so we can get on with this lovely dinner.”
She set the fork aside and laced her fingers together on the table. She cocked her head at me and leaned in a little. “I’m just wondering if all that stuff is behind you now?”
“All what stuff?”
“Oh you know, stuff like public intoxication, sex tapes with groupies and cheerleaders, bar fights with fans from other teams, DUIs, DNA tests to prove paternity…” She smiled curtly. “The stuff that seems to follow you wherever you go, Coach Carson. The stuff my dad will not put up with and the stuff I can’t whitewash.”
“Ah, that stuff,” I said. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Well, Miss Winston, all I can tell you is that stuff is in the past. And most of that happened during my playing days. When I wasn’t on the field in those days I was either drunk or stoned on pain killers; or on my way to get drunk or stoned. I did a lot of stuff that I’m not proud of, but that’s all behind me now.”
“Is it?”
My fingers tightened around the beer can until it popped. She glanced at the can and rolled her eyes. If she had been a guy I would have punched the smug look off her face.
I let go of the can and said, “I promised your father that the only headlines I would generate would be related to taking his team to the Super Bowl next year. I gave him my word and that seemed good enough for him.”
“Then, that’s good enough for me,” she said. She picked up the fork and stabbed another bite. “But fair warning; if you thought Lucinda Mills could bust balls, wait till you see what I can do if you try to drag the Trojans through the gutter with you.”
I glared at her for a moment, then blew out a long breath and smiled. “Do you put all of your dad’s new employees through this drill?”
“Not all of them,” she said with the wine glass at her lips. She didn’t smile. Her eyes went around my face. “Just the ones who really need it.”
I went back to my pizza and ignored her for a bit. I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but then I realized that she was right.
I’d spent the last twenty years stumbling drunk and disorderly through the remnants of a once-promising career and life.
It was time to grow up.
The words of my agent echoed in my head.
“This gig with the Trojans is your last shot at staying in the game, Sam. Try not to fuck it up.”
Allie
I honestly didn’t mean to start harping on Sam right out of the gate. I’m really not a bitch, regardless of what he was probably thinking now.
But I am super-protective when it comes to my dad and his football team. Not that he needs my help. Daddy wouldn’t have hired Sam Carson if he thought there would be problems. Ben Winston was one of the sharpest business men on the planet. If he hired Sam Carson to be the head coach of the Trojans, he had a good reason for doing so. I just couldn’t imagine what that reason might be.
Sam and I ate in silence for a while.
He devoured the four slices I’d put on his plate, and then went back for the remaining two slices without asking if I wanted more.
He crushed the beer can and tossed it in the trash on his way to the fridge for another. My wine glass was empty. The wine bottle was on the counter. He didn’t offer to retrieve the bottle or refill my glass.
I flipped through the mental card catalog in my mind, trying to recall everything I knew about Samuel Carson, Junior.
Let’s see…
Star quarterback at Lincoln County High School in Lincoln, Nebraska…
Set all kinds of Nebraska state high school football passing records his senior year…
Star quarterback at Nassau College in New York his ju
nior and senior years…
Set all kids of NCAA passing records…
Drafted in the first round by the New York Thunder at age twenty-two…
Backed up Kyle Holder, their franchise quarterback, for three years until he retired…
Became the Thunder’s franchise quarterback at age twenty-five, and played at the top of his game for ten years, until the night he got drunk and drove his two-hundred-thousand-dollar Lambo into the back of a semi-truck that had stalled on the highway.
His right arm was broken in three places and his shoulder was crushed.
He spent two months in the hospital and a year in rehab, but his ability to throw touchdowns died on the side of that road.
At age thirty-five, Sam Caron’s playing days were over.
For the last seven years, he’d worked as a color commentator for ESPN and as a quarterback’s coach for three different teams.
And now he was the head coach of the Atlanta Trojans.
Whatever my dad was thinking didn’t make a lick of sense to me.
Sam Carson was qualified to coach the quarterbacks and maybe coordinate offense, but to head coach the team, especially after two lousy seasons?
The Trojans needed someone with vast experience in turning shit into diamonds; not someone with experience creating shit wherever they went.
We needed Nick Saban.
Or Jim Harbaugh.
Or Andy Reid.
We didn’t need Sam Carson.
What the hell was my dad thinking?
Then a thought crossed my mind.
Ben Winston was no fool.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Did he hire Sam Carson for his ability to coach a winning team or his ability to generate headlines?
Only my father knew for sure. It was the first question I would ask the next time I talked to him.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. I looked up to find Sam standing next to the table, wiggling the wine bottle at me.
I blinked at him. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I asked if you wanted more wine,” he said. He nodded at the empty glass I was holding in my hand.
“Oh, yes, sure. Thanks.”
I held out the glass and he put his hand on mine to steady it as he poured. His hand was rough, like sand paper, but warm, like a friendly hug. He filled my glass and set the bottle on the table between us. He popped the top on another beer and took his seat.
