by Jesse Jordan
“Nah... but I'll take a rain check on our date,” Lincoln says confidently. “You're probably right, it's late enough now that there's no way we could get a good table anywhere. And with this still being training camp, I can't miss bedcheck at midnight.”
“Red's still running training camp like military basic training, huh? Even though you're back home?”
Lincoln shrugs, backing up into the street. “Not that bad, really. In some ways I'm glad we did the month at the college, it's a lot easier to focus when you're not just going to the normal practice facilities and everyone's stuck in a hotel a few miles from home. Of course the married guys probably felt different, but... well, I'm going to enjoy finally getting to unpack my damn house.”
“You mean besides the shoes?” I joke, and Lincoln laughs. “How many pairs, by the way?”
Lincoln thinks before replying. “Twenty... seven or eight, I think. Let's see, six pairs a year, this is year five, and I had to throw out two... okay, twenty eight.”
“More pairs of shoes than I have. They say never trust a man with more pairs of shoes than you… so I’ll need to keep an eye out.”
Lincoln smirks, his voice sending another thrill through my body to join the butterflies in my stomach. “I certainly hope you do.”
We get back to the city, and Lincoln pulls up to the same corner he picked me up at. I shake my head, reaching over and putting a hand on his knee. “Walk me up to my apartment?”
“You sure?” Lincoln asks even as he pulls back into traffic. “Where?”
“Yes, and two blocks up on the left,” I reply. “There's underground parking, I'd say it's reasonably safe. I didn't know what you were driving before. This though... no offense, but it's nondescript enough. Things should be safe.”
My body's saying it doesn't want to be safe though as we get back and the elevator doors close. The magnetic pull of Lincoln's body and the memories of what I felt when we kissed by the lake make me want to throw out all the rules, to invite him inside and to take risks I've never done before.
The look in Lincoln's eyes when the doors open seem to tell me that he's read my mind, and as we approach my door he stops, pulling me closer. “I want you to invite me inside, Samantha,” he growls in my ear, “but we both know if you did that, you'd regret it in the morning. So instead, we're going to have a perfectly nice, maybe not quite polite goodnight kiss, and then we're going to figure out a time for our next date. And until then, I'm going to be on your mind, and you're going to be on mine.”
“Yessss,” I whisper, whether that's agreeing to his plan or that he's going to be on my mind I don't quite know... probably both. “But-”
“But you're worried about a lot of things,” Lincoln says, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting a hand on my hip again. “You're worried you're going too fast. So am I. But I'll tell you something else.”
“What?”
Lincoln lowers his lips to my hear, his breath warm and thrilling on my skin. “Just like you, I'm going to find a private place tonight and stroke myself again and again until I cum all over the place thinking about the way you felt pressed against me.”
I gasp at the image of Lincoln stroking that huge cock I felt thinking of me, and he kisses me again, our tongues twisting and wrapping around each other until I'm moaning loudly. He pushes me against the wall, kissing around to my neck as his hand reaches up to cup my right breast, massive but somehow sensitive fingers brushing just once over my nipple before he steps back, panting. Sweat dots his forehead and the look in his eyes is both feral and sexy as fuck... if he asks right now, I can't say no.
Instead he steps back again, almost by pure force of will regaining control of himself, and giving me a chance to do the same. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“Thank you,” I reply, reaching into my purse for my keys. “But Lincoln, there's one problem with what you said.”
“Oh?” he asks, smirking again. “What's that?”
“If you want another date, you're going to have to earn it,” I tell him, smirking back. I like this part of our game, and I'm going to keep it up as long as I can. It gives me at least some sort of control, some sort of shield against what my body's demanding right now. “Tell you what, I know next week's game won't give you a fair chance... but opening weekend, it's an away game. You want to see the inside of my apartment, you better have a game like last night's.”
Lincoln nods. “And until then?”
“Let's have lunch... quietly,” I remind him. “Goodnight, Lincoln.”
“Goodnight, Samantha. I look forward to our lunches.”
He turns and walks back to the elevator, and it isn't until the doors open and he gives me a final glance that I realize I haven't even tried to unlock my door. Instead I wait until he disappears inside and fumble my key into the lock.
What the hell am I getting myself into? I don't know, but I know Lincoln's right about one thing... I need to get these panties off and get my vibrator ASAP, or else I'm going to fucking explode.
Chapter 6
Lincoln
The crowd roars, and sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades as the heat beats down on me. It's what I really hate about the first four weeks or so of the season. The damn heat.
Sure, in winter I'm going to be facing games where I'll be freezing my ass off. Warming up in a place like New York, or Chicago where I spent the past four Decembers in sucks... but in September, I can't for the life of me figure out how to scratch between my damn shoulder blades with my pads on. I mean, it's not the sort of thing you ask one of the training staff to do, and I can't just bring one of those bamboo back scratchers onto the field.
“Defense!” Coach Petersen calls, and I hurry out, strapping on my helmet as I go. Just as I cross the sideline, Petersen reaches out and grabs my shoulder pads. “Lincoln!”
“Yeah, Coach?” I ask, turning back to him.
“Short field... you gotta wreck some shit out there if we're going to win this one.”
I glance up at the score board, knowing what he means. Fifty three seconds to play, up by only one, and we just got torched for a big punt return. If Miami can move the ball just ten or fifteen yards, they've got a kicker who can put it through the uprights. Not a good way to start the damn season.
“Don't worry, chill yo' ass out... I got this shit,” I misquote in reply, fixing the last strap on my helmet. I jog out to the huddle, wait for the call to be made, and line up.
Coach is right. While I've torn up Miami today with two sacks, the offense has only done so-so. Two touchdowns is fine, but Joe Crenshaw's thrown an interception, and Miami was able to capitalize that into a touchdown of their own. Add in two field goals... and here we are. Maybe not the prettiest game in pro football history, but we're in the fight.
The ball snaps, and I launch out of my stance. Miami's got a pass based offense and no time outs, so I don't need to worry about them running. They're going to be throwing, and our secondary is tired. Hitting the Miami left tackle up high, I shove him off balance, looking for their quarterback. He's done a play action fake to the right side and peeled back, running in my direction. I get my hands ready, prepared to go high. There's no way I'll be able to sack him even if the guy's a ten year veteran with the mobility of a Christmas tree, but I don't want to sack him. Instead, I hand fight with the Miami tackle, waiting for just the right moment....
There. His arm's back, and I can see the direction he's going to be throwing the ball. Six foot six with an armspan that's longer than that comes to my advantage and I jump just as he releases the ball. The Miami tackle shoves me, making me go tumbling, but it doesn't matter as I feel the solid smack of the football on my outstretched hand before it goes careening wonkily to the ground. Incomplete pass.
“Damn,” Reggie Turner, the defensive tackle who plays next to me, says as he helps me up off the turf, “if you had better hands, you woulda had an interception.”
“Next time I want to catch a bul
let, I'll remember that,” I joke as we go back to the huddle. Second down, and Miami goes for a quick out route, there's nobody who could get to the quarterback unless they had a rocket strapped to their back on that play, and we've got third and four with thirty two seconds left.
“Come on, let's get this fucking stop!” our strong safety yells as we break the huddle. I agree, and lick my chops as Miami lines up in an empty backfield situation. Sure, that means the only rush is going to be me and the other three linemen... but it also means I just pin my ears back and go as hard as I can.
As soon as the ball snaps I attack, blasting Miami's tackle and pushing him by me with a swimming motion. With an unobstructed view of the quarterback I roar, charging towards him. At the last instant the Miami guard sees me and tries to get a hand on my shoulder but he's too late, and just as the quarterback releases I grab him and throw him to the ground.
I start to feel relief was through me, but then I hear the whistles. Turning around, I see two yellow flags down on the turf, and my heart goes numb. No, not a penalty, there's no fucking way I hit the guy late....
“Pass interference, number 18, defense. Fifteen yard penalty... automatic first down.”
I look and see the same safety who was so fired up to get the stop looking stunned, about ready to argue with the ref, but two other guys grab him and pull him away before he can get himself into any more trouble. I sigh, seeing that the ball's now on the twenty five yard line... from here it's a forty two yard field goal. Easy for any pro.
“Goddammit Warren!” somebody yells in the huddle, and I can see the defense ready to fall apart in internal bickering. I reach out, my voice booming.
“Cut the shit!” I holler, making everyone stop. “Okay, so we got a penalty. Shit happens. We get this stop, block the damn field goal, and we go home happy. Now let's do this shit.”
Warren gives me a grateful look, and we break. With time for one more play to burn up the clock Miami stuffs it up the middle for five yards before spiking it and stopping the clock with nine seconds left, just enough to get two tries if they really need it.
“Timeout!” Coach Petersen yells, and we come over, grabbing a little bit of water in the oppressive Miami heat. “Okay... last chance. Special teams block... Lincoln, you're on the left side this time. Get that damn ball.”
I nod, glancing over at the second tallest player on the team, Dave Brinkshaw. Six four, he's got plenty of power, but we both know that if anyone's going to get a hand on this ball, it'll be me. We jog back out, lining up as Miami takes their position. Their kicker's good, veteran enough he's not going to get rattled by any gamesmanship, but young enough he's still got a rocket launcher for a leg.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the ball snap, and I hurl myself at the Miami line. Their guard, a wide bodied brick of a man, gets low, but that's just what I want as I jump as high as I can, my left hand pushing down on his helmet to give me that extra boost. I see the kicker's foot hit the ball...
I've made a lot of good jumps before in my life. When I was in junior high school, I was the first kid to dunk a basketball, and one time in high school I actually broke a backboard. None of them measure to this leap, and maybe fate's got a little to do with it as well. Instead of hitting my arm, the ball smacks me directly in the helmet right above the facemask before bouncing high into the air. There's a scramble for it, but it doesn't matter... by the time the ref blows the play dead, nine seconds have ticked off the clock and the game's over.
My ears ring, I've never caught a football in the face before, but everyone's elated. I shake hands with the Miami players, including the kicker. “Jesus man, what got into you that last play?”
“Good jump I guess. Sorry if we made the highlight reel at your expense.”
The kicker laughs, shrugging. “I've gone six years without a single blocked kick... guess there's a first time for everything. Good luck the rest of the season.”
Back in the locker room, everyone's going nuts like we just won the damn championship and already been invited to the White House. Part of me wants to tell everyone to chill the fuck out, that there's still fifteen games left to play this season and one win doesn't mean a damn thing. I know far too well, considering my past in the league.
But I don't say anything. The Knights are an assembly of losers, according to the sports writers who've spent the entire preseason predicting our continued suckitude. Hell, the morning line on the game had Miami favored by two touchdowns. So for us to get a win, even if it was something some people would call a flukey win? I guess a little cheering is necessary.
Red calls everyone around him. “Good game, Knights. For the first time in five years, the Knights win our season opener!” That earns a few cheers, and Red gives us a few seconds before quieting us down. “Now... they say football's a team game, but sometimes, someone steps up just a little more than everyone else. Today, we saw the birth of a monster out there. Lincoln Watson, step up here!”
The roar from the players is heartening, and Red tosses me a football. “Game ball... Lincoln Watson. Keep it up, Monster.”
His new nickname chills me to the bone, but those chills are quickly pushed away as the Knights cheer me again. Everyone except for Joe Crenshaw, who looks upset that he's not the one getting the glory today. I don't really care, I've got other things to do, and I head back to my locker, stripping off my pads and handling the press as they ask their questions. Eventually I get a chance to grab a quick shower before I change into my traveling clothes and leave the locker room.
“Mr. Watson!” a low, feminine voice calls, and I turn to see Samantha approaching. We've only been able to have lunch twice in the past two weeks, whether that's because of her work schedule or just both of us needing a little time to adjust after the heat of our makeout session after our first date, I'm not sure. What I am sure of is the smile on her face, and how hot she looks in her sleeveless blouse and skirt.
“Miss Porter,” I reply, keeping my cool. Other guys on the team are coming out of the locker room still, I don't need to cause her a scene. “How can I help you?”
Samantha raises her hand, and I see she's got an envelope. “Message from my father,” she says softly, her eyes telling me the truth. The person who sent this might be named Porter, but it sure as hell wasn't a sixty seven year old man who wrote whatever's in there. “Thanking you for a dramatic first game.”
“Thank you,” I reply, taking the small envelope from her. “Please, pass along the message... I plan to never, ever disappoint, and hope I can always let you see a very... satisfying performance from me. See you back home.”
Samantha blushes a little at my words and bites her lip, but nods. Turning, she disappears down the hallway just as I feel a clap on my shoulder. I turn my head, seeing Coach Petersen. “Great game, Lincoln.”
“Thanks Coach... I feel a little strange getting a game ball, but I'll take it.”
Petersen glances up the hallway at Samantha's disappearing ass, which I can't blame him for. Skirts were made for women like Samantha. Petersen gives a small shake of his head, and turns back to me. “So, what's in the envelope?”
“She said it was just a note, congratulating me on a good game,” I reply, knowing I'm lying. Still, I gotta protect Samantha.
“Well, let's hope that note comes with a check that has a few extra zeroes on it for you,” Petersen laughs. “Listen, Linc... I've been thinking. You showed a lot of leadership out there today on that last drive, the other guys told me how you held everyone together after Warren's penalty. I want to capitalize on that.”
“What do you mean, Coach?”
Petersen grins, clapping me on the shoulder again. “I already talked it over with Nick Sedgwick... how'd you like to be defensive co-captain? It'll mean calling the huddle when Nick's not in the game.”
I think, then nod. “We can try it out. You gonna fit my helmet with one of those stupid little radios now?”
“Damn right,” Coach says. “Anyw
ay, we'll talk on the flight home. I have to go do the press conference.”
Coach leaves, and I'm left alone for a moment. I open the envelope, where inside there actually is a quick little note from Mr. Porter saying congrats for the game. Folded inside it though is a smaller piece of paper, with much more feminine handwriting. You earned it, stud. Eight PM, my place. Casual. Name of the restaurant is Guiliani's. Hope you like Italian.
I fold up the note before slipping it into my wallet. Other people might want to see the note from Mr. Porter... but the one from Samantha? That's all for me.
Chapter 7
Samantha
I'm just as nervous as I was two weeks ago while I put on my makeup. “I can't believe you're doing this,” I tell my reflection as I mess with my lipstick. What exactly is casual, but not too casual, anyway? I mean, am I supposed to go light pink, sort of natural... but if that looks too casual, Lincoln could take the wrong idea from it. I want him interested, not thinking I'm friend zoning him. So if I go a deeper shade of red, highlighting my lips... “He's going to want to kiss me again.”
Not that kissing Lincoln would be a bad thing. Watching him the past few weeks, my nights have been sweaty, lust filled trips to dreamland as I remember what it felt like to make out with him on the side of the lake. While he's been mostly polite during our lunches, our talks always have that edge to them, a certain undercurrent of sexual tension that leaves me tossing and turning at night until I pull out my vibrator and pleasure myself until I'm exhausted and temporarily satisfied. So far, in two weeks I've gone through three sets of batteries. Finally I broke down and bought two sets of rechargeables, so at least I'm not killing the planet with my lust.
Still, the logical side of my brain says that doing this is a bad idea. He's a player, and while the defense loves him, I know some of the offensive players aren't happy that the new guy on a veteran minimum contract is getting all the glory while all they get are paychecks... paychecks that are starting to look like the team flushed money down the damn drain for them. Of course I know who the ringleader of that little hissy fit is... and that makes up my mind for me.
