First & Long

by Jesse Jordan

  “I know,” I say, getting to my feet, “but it's what I need. Sam... sorry, I know a lot of the other people call you Miss Porter, but do you mind if I call you Sam? Or Samantha?”

  “Sam's okay, just never Sammi,” Sam replies with a small, slightly self conscious laugh. “I've been used to getting called a guy's name for most of my life, sort of comes with the territory of being a football person.”

  The way she says it settles the question for me, and I immediately make a decision. She's far too feminine for Sam, and she's right, Sammi's a name for a DJ, not a woman like her. “That reminds me Samantha, why didn't you tell me you're one of the team owners that night in the weight room? And a team executive?”

  Samantha smirks and glances over at me. “You really didn't know? You said you'd heard my name.”

  “I had,” I admit, “but it wasn't for... professional reasons. As for your work, I figured you were with the team, but Porter's a kinda common name. It wasn't until I got a copy of the program for the first preseason game and saw you in a picture with your dad that I had my slap my forehead moment.”

  Samantha laughs, but blushes a little. “I would have liked to see that.”

  I stop, freeing my arm and drop my mouth, slapping myself in the forehead with my free hand before falling to the grass in a giant rolling pratfall that leaves her giggling breathlessly. I roll backwards to my feet, bowing. “For my next trick, I'll do a one man recitation of 'Who's On First?'”

  “No, that's totally okay,” Samantha says, her eyes twinkling merrily. “So you really didn't know? I figured you were either ignorant or just ballsy as hell to call the owner's daughter a pinup model.”

  “Nope, I'm dumb as they come,” I joke, taking her arm again. “Guess I was distracted. You do sort of have that effect on most men, I bet.”

  “Oh, do I?” Samantha asks. “Lucky for you I watch the games from the owner's box.”

  We keep walking, crossing midfield before I stop, kneeling down just outside the big logo painted on the turf and close my eyes. Inside I'm just letting it happen, not worrying about tomorrow's game, even though this is the important one. The league gives us four preseason games, and always the third one is the 'dress rehearsal' for real game situations. I'll have at least two whole quarters to do my thing, and this is the next big hurdle.

  Samantha doesn't know about all that though, and just stops, letting me be. When I stand up, she's smiling a little. “You know, you're not at all like your reputation.”

  “And what reputation is that?” I ask, smiling a little. “That I'm a flaming asshole?”

  “Not quite... but your last team said you were a little difficult at times. Wanna give me insight as to why?”

  “Hmmmm...” I muse, pretending to think. I know exactly what she's talking about, and hopefully that situation never comes up around here. “Maybe I was just difficult when I realized I didn't have anyone to take out after games. You know, the single life and all. Know anyone who might help me with that?”

  Samantha chuckles, and looks over. “Lincoln, are you hitting on me?”

  “Perhaps,” I admit, smiling back. Samantha's not the sort of girl to get bowled over, she likes to chase a little too. I can tell it in her eyes. “Perhaps I'm asking you out on a date. Call me crazy, but anyone who was willing to cramp up like you were in camp over breaking up with a steaming douchebag like Joe Crenshaw deserves at least one date with someone who'll treat you right.”

  “And you'll treat me right?” Samantha asks. “Hell, just for calling Joe a douchebag you've mostly earned the opportunity.”

  “Mostly?”

  Samantha grins, looking around. “Lincoln, I know I've got high standards, but I swore to myself that after Joe, I'd never go out with a football player again. So for you to ask... let's just say you've got a lot to overcome and your timing is unlucky to the extreme. But... tell you what, you get three sacks tomorrow, and we'll go out for dinner. I'm not saying it's a date, but....”

  “But you'll be dressed up, I'll be dressed up, and we're not going dutch,” I finish for her. She laughs, and I find myself caught in her eyes again. They're so beautiful, Joe Crenshaw was a fucking idiot to ever cheat on this woman. “You do one thing for me, and I'll get you those three sacks.”

  “What's that?”

  “You be on the sidelines during the game, not up in the box,” I challenge. “Call it a token of support.”

  Samantha thinks for a moment, then nods. “Deal. I'll be sideline, you get three sacks, and we get dinner Monday night. How's that?”

  “Deal.”

  “Stack five eagle slant alpha,” our defensive captain, Nick Sedgwick, says. He's our middle linebacker, and while he's near the end of his career, he and I have a good working relationship so far. “Cover man up.”

  The huddle breaks, and I glance up at the clock. There's forty seconds left in the first half, and I know with the game truly in hand for the defense, this is my last chance to get my third sack. Coach has already told us he's playing the second string and guys fighting for a roster slot from the third quarter on.

  I'm having a great game. I haven't dominated an offensive line like this since high school, but with only one half to get my three sacks... it's tough. This isn't Madden ball, where guys put up ridiculous scores and players pull off superhuman antics. This is real pro football... but looking across the line at the Minnesota left tackle, I know I've got a chance. He's big, easily three hundred and thirty pounds with a longer reach than I do and that sort of freaky quick first step that makes great left tackles.

  But he's a rookie, freaked out by the crowd, the pros, and the fact I've already burned him twice for big hits on his quarterback. He's worried, and I know for damn sure he's never been blown up like this in college. He sets up in his stance, and I can already see him on his heels, he's worried he's going to get burned again.

  The ball snaps, and I rush him hard, blasting him in the chest while he's still taking his first step back. He goes tumbling, and I've got an open path. At the last second the quarterback sees me, and if this were the regular season, he'd probably try and scramble, to chuck it somewhere or at least get it out of bounds. But this is the preseason and he half crumples around the ball, allowing me to swallow him in my arms and roll him to the ground for my third sack.

  The crowd's roaring, I don't think the Knight faithful have seen this sort of hope from their defense in years. Still, I react the way my dad taught me to. No dancing, no antics. Like he always said to me, act like I've done this before. I'm gonna show you now, and there's going to be a lot more to come. Nothing special, just another day at the office.

  Still, as I jog to the sidelines, absorbing the congratulations of the coaches and the other players, I catch sight of Samantha in her normal work shirt, but sporting a pair of slacks that... well, if I can't get motivated watching her legs and ass in those pants, I've got no pulse. I give her a smile and a nod, not saying anything as I go to get a drink of Gatorade.

  She smiles back, giving me a small nod as well. Okay, then. Tomorrow night.

  Chapter 5

  Samantha

  I feel nervous in my favorite summer dress as I wait on the corner two blocks from my apartment. When I'd given Lincoln my phone number after the game, he'd texted me the time of our date, which was fine by me. But I can't take the risk of someone from the team seeing me going out with Lincoln, things are too fragile with Joe. The last thing I want is for Dad or Red to do something because their star player is being a whiny little bitch. And in reviewing my relationship with Joe... there were plenty of times he was a whiny primadonna.

  I don't have to wait long. Just as my watch beeps six o'clock I hear a horn, and Lincoln pulls over in, fittingly enough, a Lincoln Navigator. I guess I should have expected he'd be driving a large vehicle, there's no way in the world he'd fit that frame of his in a Honda without ripping out the front seats. And, I notice, it's not a brand new one, it's a few years old. For some reason that calm
s me. Lincoln might drive a Lincoln, but he's not the kind to go out and blow his paycheck on frivolous crap... like a certain ex-boyfriend of mine. Little things, but those little things make all the difference.

  “Right on time,” I note as I climb in the passenger seat. I'm shocked by what I see. Instead of the athletic clothes I've seen Lincoln in every moment since that first day on the field, he's wearing a tailored suit that puts anything even Dad has to shame, all tasteful blue-gray with coordinating tie that's tied in a classic four-in-hand that works perfectly with his massive physique. Okay, my mind says, he does spend money... but damn if he doesn't do it differently. And he looks damn good like this. “Wow... you do clean up well.”

  “Thanks,” Lincoln says, pausing before he pulls into traffic. “And you... every time I see you you always look more beautiful, never failing to knock my socks off.”

  “Considering what you're wearing, I'd say they'd have to get through some thousand dollar wingtips first,” I joke. Lincoln laughs, and lifts his foot enough I can see what he's got on.

  “Sorry, black derbys,” he chuckles. “My feet are too wide to go with wingtips, by the time I get ones able to fit my foot, I've got something the size of a clown shoe on. Come on, before we get caught in traffic.”

  “Where are we going anyway?” I ask as we pull out. “You said dressy casual, but you just showed up in a suit that'd look great in a boardroom or at a society event. What gives?”

  “I spend so much of my time in sweaty athletic clothes, I enjoy dressing like a gentleman when I can,” Lincoln explains as we pull out. “Luckily, one of the endorsement contracts I still have is with a king-sized men's clothing supplier, so they practically give me this stuff. It's led to a... well, I've got a lot of shoes. And suits.”

  “And you're too big to just give them to the Salvation Army,” I finish with a chuckle. “Trust me, I understand. The last time I donated anything, they said the local drag queens would be ecstatic. Not sure if that's a compliment or not.”

  We drive in a comfortable silence, a warmth growing inside me as, at every stop or red light, I catch Lincoln looking at me out of the side of his eyes. He's not being shy, just a confident driver, but I can feel the heat as he looks me over. He especially likes my legs I notice, and I find myself crossing and uncrossing them for him, the hem of my dress riding up a little higher on my thighs. “So,” I ask when we've been on the Interstate out of town for about fifteen minutes, “where are you kidnapping me to, anyway?”

  Lincoln laughs quietly. “Kidnap you? If I kidnap a woman, I make sure that they're properly kidnapped, which means tied up and held in the back of a van wearing only skimpy clothing. Gotta do things right, you know. You've got on far too much to be a kidnap victim.”

  “Hmmm, well next time I'll wear a shorter skirt then,” I tease, making Lincoln glance at me again with desire in his eyes. I find myself liking it... and liking him. “But seriously, where are we headed?”

  “Well, when I asked you out, and you said things have to stay quiet. I understand why,” Lincoln says, hitting his turn signal to get off the Interstate. “Joe's a... well, let's just be plain. He's a hell of an athlete, and a pretty good quarterback. In the system the Knights have, he's probably one of the best in the league for it. But, he's a drama queen. I've seen it in the way his locker has to have certain things, be in just the right position, all that sort of crap. I figured you want to avoid drama, both for the team and from him. So I thought about it, and spent a little bit of time searching this out. And... here we are.”

  Lincoln pulls into a small driveway, and moments later my breath is taken away as the trees melt away to show a beautiful lake that stretches all the way to the horizon. The sun's just above the trees on our right as we get out, and I blink, stunned. “It's... it's beautiful.”

  “I've always enjoyed spending some time in nature,” Lincoln admits, offering his arm again. “There's a certain peaceful relaxation that comes with being away from concrete and steel all the time. I even go camping when I can in the off season. Come on, there's a wonderful little place that's just along that walkway over there. We could drive, but I thought the walk was worthwhile.”

  “I think... I think I agree,” I reply, taking his arm again. “You spend a lot of time walking, you know that?”

  Lincoln laughs again. “I've got two good legs, and a body that likes movement,” he says, smirking. “What sort of moving do you like to do?”

  The implied meaning is clear, and I find myself smiling again. Sexy, flirty, but not smutty... he's good. I decide to tease him back a little. “Well, when I'm not making sure I've got a squat booty, I like to do yoga... helps maintain that flexibility.”

  “Oh really? Well, I look forward to finding out how flexible you are sometime.”

  We keep walking, and up ahead is the restaurant. As we get closer, I notice that there's a sign in the window, and Lincoln curses under his breath. “That son of a... I can't believe it.”

  “What?” I ask, but my question's answered a few seconds later as we get close enough that I can read it. Chef Has Appendicitis... Closed. Sorry.

  “Well, at least it's a good excuse,” I joke, looking over at Lincoln. “Let's face it, the man dropping dead while cooking up some trout probably is not very good for their reputation.”

  Lincoln sighs, then chuckles. “Good point. Well, I guess we can find somewhere else to go.”

  “Why?” I ask, taking his arm again. “Lincoln, I agreed to go out on a date with you because I wanted to spend time with you, not because I wanted to get a free meal. Trust me, the Knights pay me enough I can afford my own take-out kebabs.”

  Lincoln smiles, and turns to me, taking my hands. “Well then... how about a dance?”

  Reaching into his suit jacket, Lincoln takes out his phone and taps at the screen. A few moments later, jazzy instrumental music, sounding a little country but not too much so, filters up and he slides the phone into the front pocket of his jacket. I grin, letting him pull me closer.

  “Well now, I'm sort of glad I wore high heels then tonight,” I say as I put a hand on his shoulder. The music's just right, not so slow that we're dancing romantically, but not so club-like that it feels strange to be dancing to it on the side of a lake as the sun sets. Instead, my body moves in time with his as the music continues, moving closer and closer as his hand pulls me in tighter, resting just above the curve of my ass while his left hand holds mine.

  “You really know how to move,” Lincoln says as the music changes. “I guess I should have expected it, you did say you were on the cheerleading squad.”

  I grin, pressing myself against him, letting my breasts squash against his rock hard body and feeling butterflies form in my stomach. “Actually, you can thank my mother. Before she left Dad, she was worried that I was too much of a tomboy. So I took dance lessons for four years. More than a little bit of it was classic ballroom styles. It's really about the only positive memory I have of her... less said the better there. You're not quite ready for the Mirror Ball... but you do pretty well yourself.”

  “I'd like to think so,” Lincoln says. He pulls me tighter and lowers his lips to mine. I know it's stupid, I should resist him... but I can't. His mouth brushes against mine, and suddenly I'm ravenous, consuming his kiss while at the same time he consumes me. His hands roam up and down my back, stroking my skin through the thin fabric of my dress and sending fireworks up my spine and down to my pussy.

  I moan as Lincoln's hand slides lower, over my hip to cup my ass and I open up, letting his tongue invade my mouth. For long, wonderful moments I lose myself in his kiss, thrilled to my very core by Lincoln's strength and hunger. I let my hand run over his chest, feeling the rock hard muscles and the ridges of his abs before the dark whispers inside me have me reach lower, past his belt to the bulging, growing warmth between his legs. “Holy....”

  Lincoln chuckles, squeezing my ass, driving words from my brain as my pussy aches for what my hand's touching. Big?
That's like saying New York's kinda big. He's a certified monster down there, and a dark, sensual side of me that's never been truly satisfied wonders if Lincoln could ever thrill me the way it wants to be thrilled.

  “Hey, y'all might want to get on back to your place if you're gonna do that,” a slight country drawl says from behind us. “Sign says restaurant's closed, not love hotel's open.”

  I push back, gasping for breath, and Lincoln lets me go, his eyes gleaming in the twilight. I look behind me and see a man in khakis and a dress shirt standing in the doorway of the restaurant, chuckling. “Sorry.”

  “Don't be... but once the sun goes down the bugs get pretty hungry,” the man says. “Don't want to get bit where it's gonna suck to scratch tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Lincoln says. “Sorry about the appendicitis.”

  “Me too... but while I can run the front of the house, I can't do the fish justice at all. Won't have the place open if you folks aren't going to be going home happy afterwards. Guess you're the reservation... give us a call next week, I'll get you anytime you want, half off on the house.”

  “Thanks... for now though, maybe your advice is best,” I reply, taking Lincoln's hand. We walk back, and my heart's still hammering in my chest as I look at him in the fading light. What the hell came over me? I mean, I'm no prude, but I'm also not the kind to just publicly engage in heavy making out and almost more. Especially not on the first damn date!

  But there's something about Lincoln, the way he holds my hand, the way he looks at me with both desire and respect... he's more of a man than anyone else I know. He's no dumb jock, he's no overly brainy intellectual, no meathead while not being prissy or effeminate at all. Instead with every move he makes, every gesture of his hands or even in the way he holds my hand as we walk back towards the car, masculinity surrounds him like an aura.

  “So... I guess the best thing might be to take me home,” I say in a shaky voice when we get back to his Navigator. “Uhm... unless you want to grab some drive-thru or something.”