by Amy Daws
“Oh wow, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, so we lived half the year in Manchester during his season, and the other half at our house in Chigwell. But when Mum died, he quit the team without a second thought. He was making loads of money but just up and left. I was only three when all that happened so I only know about it from retellings.”
“He must have been devastated.” Indie watches me carefully, sympathy knitting her brows together.
I shrug. “I suppose so, but he doesn’t ever talk about her. Most of my memories of him from when I was younger aren’t good. He refused to hire a nanny, even though he could more than afford one. I think he didn’t want anyone to see his grief.”
“That’s heart breaking,” Indie says, looking down at my hand in the grass.
“I remember one night he threw all of our mum’s clothes into the fireplace. Vi was sobbing and trying to grab a sweater of hers, but Dad refused to let her get it. I was comforting Vi but didn’t understand why she cared about some silly sweater that was too big for her.”
Indie’s hand reaches out and covers her mouth, but I’m too busy haemorrhaging feelings like a broken blood vessel to stop.
“Then Bethnal Green F.C. came along, which is Championship League, so it’s one division down from Man U and Arsenal. I was ten and had never touched a football when one of Dad’s old teammates came barging in every day for a month straight. He was the Bethnal’s coach and he wanted my dad to be the manager. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Is that guy your current coach?” Indie’s soft voice reminds me I’m not alone, and I look up and see her listening intently.
“Yes. He’s a screaming arse most days, but he taught us everything we know. In many ways, he turned our life around. After Dad accepted the offer, everything changed. He got happier, and we went to work with him just because we were star-struck. Then Coach gave us jobs with the team doing basic stuff like picking up loose balls. Eventually we started helping with dribbling drills and, hell, before we knew it, Gareth was scrimmaging with them as a teenager.
“Arsenal wanted to offer my brothers and me a place in their youth academy, but Dad wouldn’t let us be promised to any league. He was angry at league football. Maybe because of everything that happened after Mum died. I don’t know. It was a pretty epic battle when Gareth signed on with Man U.”
“But now your dad wants you to sign with Arsenal?” Indie asks.
I nod. “I think my dad is still trying to get back at Man U. A twenty-year grudge maybe. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s been trying to work a contract with Arsenal for me, Tanner, and Booker. He’s been tight-lipped about it all, so who knows?”
“How do you feel about that?”
I look into her wide, probing eyes. “You know…I don’t fucking know. When I was young, Premier was my dream. But Championship League is still incredible. The money is great and I get to play with my brothers every day. That’s huge. Hearing our name chanted is like the most immense amount of family pride I can fathom. And my brothers are right beside me. They are my family. My teammates. My best friends.” I shrug, feeling myself lose control. “My family drives me crazy and we fight constantly, but they are mine and I can’t imagine a better life without them.”
“Then don’t sign with Arsenal.” Indie says it so simply, like it’s an easy choice.
I shrug, annoyed by even myself at this point. “I don’t think that’s the solution. It’s just that I can’t figure out what I want out of football. I don’t know what it’s given me.”
“How do you mean? I thought you said it saved your life?”
“We had no life before. Football gave us a life. But what else?” I reach down and touch the grass, instantly transported back to the feelings that overcame me when I went down over a week ago. “It wasn’t just my ACL that tore in me. It was my home. I am football. Nothing more. If I can’t play, what the fuck am I?”
“You’re a lot of things, Camden,” Indie exclaims, leaning forward and squeezing my arm urgently. I look up and her eyes don’t hold pity for me like I expected. They look exasperated, like nothing I’ve said makes any sense to her.
“Off the top of my head, Cam, you’re witty. Like the kind of wit you’re embarrassed to laugh at but even a grandmother would laugh…because, bloody hell, it’s funny.”
I smile and she continues, “You like to act like a cocky bugger, but you’re really smart and insightful. Those notes in the margins of your book are a whole other side of you.”
“I liked your note.” I pull her toward me so she has to climb on my lap. With her straddling me now, I grip the edges of her open shirt and I drop my head to her chest.
This is the first time I’ve said most of this out loud and I’m exhausted from it.
Fuck feelings. Feelings suck.
“We’ve been pretty good at juggling so far,” I add, referring to her pun in my book. Her words about me are too nice. I need to change the focus off of me.
She doesn’t take my bait. “You need to know that you are so much more than football. It’s not even the product of a reasoned list of items. It’s just something you innately are, Camden. You are beyond what words can articulate.”
My eyes are seeing her. My ears are hearing her. But my soul still can’t open itself up to the possibility of being more than football. As if sensing my anxiety, she adds with a laugh, “And you’re a great lay.”
I squeeze her sides and she falls down on my chest, laughing. She sits up and kisses my cheek once before whispering, “Can we go see your changing room now?”
Yes, Indie Porter. Yes, we fucking can.
I lead her into the home-team changing room, pointing out the differences between this one and the visitor’s. Visitors get hooks on a wall for their kits. We have cubbies with backlighting, bronzed nameplates, and a whiteboard for words of inspiration. It’s posh. The visitor’s resembles a prison cell.
“What’s that?” Indie asks, pointing to some text that’s wood-burned into the wall above the changing room exit door.
“It’s a saying that the original owners put up. It’s been there forever.”
“‘I am thine, thou art mine.’” She reads the words and admires the glimpse back in time this area of the room represents. The rest of the room was sheet-rocked and refinished a few years ago—all updated to a more modern, state-of-the-art feel. But this one old, weathered slab remains original.
“We all touch it as we walk out before every game.”
“Interesting. What’s the story behind it?”
I exhale. “Coach says it’s to represent the player’s relationship with the sport. You give yourself to football and it will give itself back to you. But there are other stories out there.”
“Like what?”
“Marty is a janitor who works here. I talk to him sometimes ‘cause he’s old and knows stuff.”
Her brows lift as she turns away from the sign to eye me. “Old and knows stuff?”
I shrug my shoulders because I’m not about to sound like a complete wanker by admitting Marty is like the grandfather I never had. “He’s worked here for forty years, and he said it was a vow the old owner made to his wife on their wedding day. Since they got married on the pitch, it must’ve seemed fitting to burn it into the wall here. I don’t know. Marty’s a romantic I think.”
“What a cool mystery,” she states with a smile. “But I agree. A bit overly romantic.”
“You’re not?” I ask, watching her carefully.
She shakes her head with a light laugh. “No, I look at things too critically. I see the seams of a relationship and it just looks like something that could pull apart.”
“I tend to agree with that,” I reply, mulling over what she’s said when something else catches my eye. “Come in here. You’ll find this interesting, too…‘cause you’re a nerdling and stuff.”
I grab her hand and drag her behind me. I swear I can hear her eyes rolling. “This is called the Cry Ro
om,” I grin. “It’s where injured players are brought in to be examined.”
Her eyes are wide. “Wow, you guys have an X-ray machine in here?” I try not to take it personal that this room impresses her more than the pitch.
“Yeah. They X-rayed me before I left the field last week.”
“Interesting.” She walks around the room, touching anything of interest, which is pretty much everything. I stand in the doorway and drink her in like a creep, eyeing every square inch of her legs the entire time. “You have a staff doctor at every game, too? Does he travel with you?”
As I’m answering her, she slides her plaid shirt off her shoulders and ties the offensive material around her waist. Now she’s in nothing but a skimpy white tank top with tiny metal buttons begging to be unsnapped.
“Let’s revisit that part of our conversation where you said I was a great lay.”
“After all you shared out there, that’s what’s on your mind?” She stops in front of the large padded exam table and hoists herself up, kicking her feet nonchalantly.
I smile and walk slowly toward her. “You know, I was inside of you over twenty-four hours ago.”
She smiles and her cheeks flush. “I remember.”
“Think you’re feeling better down there?”
She looks down, revealing her innocence again. “You want to do it in here?”
I nod. “There are security cameras on the pitch. And since this is a medical room I thought it would be kind of poetic. I’ve been dying to play doctor/patient with you since the first time you kissed me in the ICU.”
“I didn’t kiss you! You kissed—”
I kiss the word kissed right off her mouth. With one flick of my tongue, she grabs me by the shirt and yanks me between her legs.
My hands stroke up her sides as she wraps her legs around my waist. “Is that a yes?” I murmur with a smile.
“Yes,” she gasps, and I finally get to rip those stupid fucking snaps open on her chest.
It was mostly just for dramatic effect because, five seconds later, I pull the whole bloody thing off of her, along with everything else she’s wearing. She immediately returns the favour, all but ripping my clothes off. Now, with her on the footstool, we’re standing skin-to-skin and eye-to-eye. She’s completely pressed flush against me as I ravish her mouth with my tongue.
After palming her arse and groping every delicious curve of her, I’m desperate to be inside of her. Without hesitating, I turn her around and bend her over the exam table. Her gorgeous hair splays out wildly, and she lets out an excited groan when I press myself against her backside. Propped on the footstool, she’s at the perfect height. I waste no time sinking my fingers into her wet, tight channel. I throb with appreciation, but I continue spreading her, prepping her for my entry. I need her ready for what I want to do to her next.
When my thumb grazes her back hole between her lush cheeks, she lets out the sexiest fucking groan. It’s a sound that makes no mistake that she likes what I’m doing to her. And that pleases me greatly.
When she begins bucking against my hand and begging for more, I pause my actions and dig a condom out of my jeans. I watch her back rise and fall with laboured breaths as I slide the rubber on.
Smiling, I bend over top of her, brush her hair off to the side, and breathe, “Now, Specs, this isn’t going to be slow and careful like last time. It’s going to be hard and fast.”
“Yes,” she exhales, moaning out loudly when I press my fingers down firmly on her clit, teasing the flesh in slow, rhythmic strokes.
“I’m going to really fuck you this time.”
“Yes.” She sounds like she’s going to come already.
“Have I mentioned I love your noises?”
“Camden, just do it already!”
A mighty cry erupts from her when I slam myself inside. I have to close my eyes because she’s still so tight and it feels even better than the first time. I pause, allowing her body to adjust. Her laboured breaths come hard and fast.
“Are you good?” I pant.
“God, yes,” she cries.
I position one hand on her cheek, massaging and gripping while the other skirts around to her front and swipes at her slickened nub.
“Oh my God,” she cries out as I start to move inside of her.
My head drops back as I thank the world of football for giving me this after taking so much away. “This is why I needed more time.”
I pump into her faster, feeling every inch of me slip in and out with wet, firm strokes. Her body squeezes me like she doesn’t ever want me to leave and, God, I could imagine living here just like this.
My continued assault on her clit it fruitful. “Oh my God!” Her voice is high and alarmed.
“Not yet, we’re doing this one together,” I say, letting go of her front and gripping her hips in both of my hands. I pull her back into me with every hard thrust I push forward. I bounce her supple arse on me and hit even deeper than before.
“Camden,” she cries again, and I feel everything inside of her tighten around me. It’s so incredible that I can’t hold back.
I slam into her one final time. The cries of her release are what push me over the edge, too. Quaking, shaking, and trembling as I pulsate everything I have inside of her. Or inside the condom, I should say.
When I finish, I hunch over her back, both of our breaths heavy and sated. Christ, I don’t remember anyone ever feeling this good.
That’s a disturbing thought, so I quickly pull out and walk to the loo to clean up. While I toss the condom, I recall the last time I had sex with a girl twice in this short amount of time. It was probably that model a few months ago. I knew the second time with her was a mistake because, as soon as we finished, she tried to make plans with me for the next night. When I refused, it turned into a social media smear campaign that had my dad breathing fire at me for weeks.
Thank fuck this has a clear kill date on it because things are already getting confusing.
Indie’s already dressed when I come back. As she watches me put my clothes back on, I do my best to forget about the odd thoughts racing through my mind.
When I look up, she’s shaking her head in wonder. “There’s no way the next one is going to be that good.”
“What are you talking about?” I pull my shirt down over my head and button up my jeans.
“You don’t want to know. You’ll think I’m a head case.”
“I already kind of do and I still want to fuck you.” I force a congenial smile. “Tell me.”
“I can’t. I refuse.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“I could force it out of you.” My brows lift playfully, but deep down I’m frustrated by how badly I need to know what’s inside her mind.
She makes a move like her lips are sealed. Without hesitation, I shoot toward her, clutching her sides in my hands and fiercely tickling her against the exam table. Her noises are infectious. Before long, my crabby mood is all but gone as I laugh at her squirming reaction.
She begs for mercy with tears in her eyes and exclaims, “Okay, I’ll tell you!” I pull back with a triumphant grin. “I have this Penis List I made-up with Belle.”
“A penis what?” I release my hands from her waist and stand back. “Is that like a Christmas list of dicks?”
“No, it’s just a Penis List,” she says with a huff, leaning on the table. “It’s that plan I’ve mentioned. About why I’m not worried about falling for you. Because of the list. The plan. You are Penis Number One, which is a very distinct type. Number one is supposed to be a playboy. Someone…experienced.”
“Okay…and?” I cross my arms.
“And, I’m just saying…Penis Number Two is going to have big shoes to fill because you and I have been doing quite well, I’d say.”
Her talking about other men again is not amusing. “What the fuck is Penis Number Two?”
She counts the descriptive traits on her fingers like she’s listing off items on her grocery l
ist. “Total opposite of you. He’s got to be sensitive, a giver…takes nothing, gives everything. Emotional…” Her voice trails off when she notices the look on my face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Are you saying I could never be Penis Number Two?” I can’t help but think I’ve given up a lot these last couple of days with her. I’ve screwed her in ways I’ve never screwed anybody else. So how different could a Penis Number Two be?
She eyes me skeptically.
I move toward her and trap her against the table with a hand on either side of her. “Indie. I’ve fucked a lot of women. You don’t keep women coming without being a giver. Has there ever been a time you haven’t gotten off?”
“Well, no.” Her face looks uncomfortable.
“See? That’s my primary goal every time. When you come…the face you make…the sounds you utter…that is what makes me come.”
She opens her mouth but no words come out.
“So your Penis List has some holes in it I’m afraid.”
“Well, thankfully…it won’t concern you once our arrangement is done.” She crosses her arms with a determined scowl.
I push myself away from her. “I think I could show you whatever else you’re trying to get from that list. Easily.”
“I highly doubt it.” She puts her hands on her hips. “And besides, this isn’t a contest, Camden. There’s no winner.”
“No, but it sounds like you have goals. Pun intended. So you need a sensitive lover? Challenge accepted.”
“Challenge not accepted. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. The point is to have multiple penises, not one. And you’re Penis Number One. Not Two! End of.”
I scoff, “Relax, Specs. You’ll have plenty of time to shag other blokes when I’m gone.”
For some bizarre reason, the notion feels like razors in my stomach as it tumbles out of my mouth.
THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE up alone in my bed. Tanner came home late last night, so that was a big reason I didn’t invite Indie back to my flat. Or stay at hers. I don’t need questions about where I am or what I’m doing right now.
