by Shandi Boyes
My thoughts snap back to the present when Gia says, “Your turn again, Sky.”
We’ve been playing celebrity heads. Usually, I’m the first to guess which celebrity I am, but this round, I’m the last man standing.
With my competitiveness rising, I give it another attempt to guess which celebrity I am. “We know I’m rich, extremely handsome, and have dangly bits between my legs.” Gia slaps her forehead during my last comment as Lorenzo snickered laugh heats me up. “I’m not a movie star, and I can’t sing to save my life, so that can only mean one thing… I’m a sports star?”
“Yes!” shouts multiple voices. Even Nonna gets in on the act.
“Am I a world-renowned sports star?” My lips twist when I get another resounding, yes. “A known-across-the-continent sports star?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
My mouth gapes. “Am I Presley Carlton?”
Giovanni tosses a deck of cards into the air as Lorenzo falls back against the couch with a groan.
“What? Who else could I possibly be?” With everyone else out of the game, I yank the headband off my head. A giggle rumbles in my chest when the name written across the front is highly distinguishable. It’s the same name scribbled across the only official contract I’ve ever signed. Lorenzo Ricci.
I graze my teeth over my lower lip while straying my eyes to Lorenzo’s. “Sorry.”
Remaining quiet, Lorenzo scoots closer to the coffee table to pack away the board games we’ve been playing the past four hours.
“Are you mad at me?”
The shake of his head can’t hide his shy smirk. “No. I’m just trying to work out when your version of football was ever played at the Olympics.”
“In 1904 and 1932.” I realize his question was rhetorical when he arches his brow. “If you had said an extremely handsome face with an…” I lean closer to him to ensure little ears don’t hear me, “… outrageously large cock, I would have known it was you in an instant.”
A squeak pops from my lips when he unexpectedly yanks me off the couch. I land on his crotch with a bang, my temperature rising to the point I’m certain summer is just around the corner. When Lorenzo’s lips seal over mine, critical members of his family make themselves scarce. I would be panicked our open PDAs the past two days have been grossing them out if they didn’t smile like loons every time our desire for each other got the best of us.
After kissing me long enough I’ve forgotten we have company, Lorenzo pulls back his torturous lips from my tingling mouth. “I’ve been dying to do that all evening.”
“Me, too,” I admit, unashamed that my sole struggle the past two days has been keeping my hands off him. I have finals coming up, so my mind should be on much more pressing matters. They haven’t been. Not in the slightest. “Would you mind if I stay another night so I can drop your family off at the airport as promised?”
Lorenzo tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear before locking his sparked eyes with mine. “You can stay as long as you like, amore mio. You never have to ask.”
“Thank you.” I kiss him to show my appreciation.
Then I kiss him some more just for the hell of it.
After pulling back for the second time, Lorenzo stands from the couch taking me with him. My eyes bounce between Alessia and Jonah when our burst into the kitchen causes them to jump away from each other like they were doing something they shouldn’t be doing. Lorenzo’s lips are lodged in my neck, so he fails to notice the awkwardness lingering heavily in the air—even more so when he says, “Say goodnight, amore mio.”
My eyes snap up to his, shocked. “Goodnight? It’s not even eight.”
He stops peppering kisses on my neck to peer at me. “It’s two days out from finals. You need to study.”
“Finals?” Alessia asks, praying her interest in our conversation will shift the focus away from Jonah and her looking cozy in the corner.
“Skylar is studying to be a sports journalist.” The pride in Lorenzo’s voice almost puts me on my ass. Anyone would swear I was studying to be a pediatric cardiologist. “But she won’t be anything if she doesn’t follow the schedule she designed months ago. You had tonight blacked out for study, so I’m going to make sure you study.” After dragging his finger down my screwed-up nose, he repeats, “Say goodnight, amore mio.”
“Goodnight.” My mimic of his accent is a terrible thing for me to do in a room full of Italian people.
While Lorenzo walks me to the door, I spot Alessia’s pleading look, begging for me not to say anything about what I witnessed. Although I hate the idea of lying to Lorenzo, I’m okay with tiptoeing around a subject he knows nothing about. If he brings it up, different story. If he doesn’t, no skin off my nose.
“Am I really going to study?” I question when Lorenzo veers us past the living area so I can say goodnight to his mother and grandmother. “Or are you using it as an excuse to get me in your bed earlier than usual?”
Since he’s carrying me through the house like a child, I sense his smile more than I see it. “You’re going to study.”
My lower lip drops into a pout. I’d stomp my feet too if they were close to the floor. “You suck.”
“I do, as you will once you’ve finished the assignment Professor Nut-Slip couriered me this afternoon.” I almost heat up over his comment until Professor McManus’ wayward nut enters my thoughts. That image is enough to turn me off sexual expeditions for a year.
When we reach the master bedroom at the back of the suite, my heart makes a sighing noise. Don’t worry, I was of the understanding hearts didn’t sigh either. I’m just relaying to you what’s happening. It’s up to you whether you believe me or not.
My heart’s singsong response is understandable. Lorenzo has set up the desk in his room as a study nook for me. My laptop is open at the assignment he mentioned earlier, and a notepad, six precisely sharpened pencils, and a waste bin are at the ready to catch the numerous draft copies I go through any time I attempt to write a sports article.
I suck at writing in-depth sports reports, and everyone but Lorenzo knows it.
“Remember what I said, amore mio. Write from here…” He taps my boob, and for once, he isn’t feeling me up. “Forget the statistics and results, write what you experience when watching a game because those emotions far outweigh the results of the game.”
I plop into the chair squashed up against the desk so he can’t see how moved I am when he quotes, “The numbers on a scoreboard don’t decide the winner. It’s the men who gave everything they have for a chance of glory instead of turning up to get everything they could have.”
When he presses his lips to my temple, I anticipate for him to leave the room, so you can imagine my shock when he snags a sports magazine off his bedside table before bracing his back on the headboard of his bed.
I’m about to ask him to leave, but before I can, the image of him laying before me summons a new angle I hadn’t considered previously. Instead of forcing my fake dislike of a sport onto the ‘so-called’ readers of my article, I do what Lorenzo suggested. I write about the aspects I like, and shockingly, my article has nothing to do with American football.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Skylar
“Is it true? Did you hook up Lorenzo’s mother with our stabby-nailed wax technician when she asked you what wax you use on your lip?” Willow’s words are so garbled, I can barely understand her, and it has nothing to do with her accent. She’s laughing too hard to make any sense.
“Shut up! How was I to know which set of lips she meant?” Despite the watchful eyes of hundreds, I smack Willow in the stomach, silencing her hysterics. “She saw me bent over a couch without any panties. I assumed she meant…” I inconspicuously nod to my nether region, “… those lips.”
Once Willow settles her laughter enough so she can speak without howling like a wolf, she asks, “You know why they say you should never assume anything?”
“Because it makes an ass out of me and
you? Yeah, I’m aware of that.”
Giggling, she follows me out of the packed train when it arrives at 69ers’ home stadium. “How come you didn’t tell me what happened weeks ago? Between study and E being at training camp, I could have used the laugh.”
My hair slaps my face when I crank my neck to face her. “I wanted to tell you. I just never found the time.”
I bump her with my hip, not buying her sad puppy-dog eyes. My constant sleepovers at Lorenzo’s suite the past four weeks means we haven’t seen each other as often as we’d like, but I’m certain she loves the privacy as much as me. There’s less risk of me walking in on her getting down and dirty with Elvis via FaceTime like I did Elvis’s first day at training camp.
“Talking about smooth lips, did you visit Elise in preparation for E’s homecoming?”
Willow’s grimace tells me everything I need to now.
I poke my finger into her ribs. “Still poky?”
“Uh… yeah. I almost asked for my oil back.”
Laughing, I hand my ticket to the agent at the gate. While she scans it into the system, I drag my eyes over the thousands of people doing the same thing as Willow and me. The number of attendees for today’s match is as crazy as it was when the 69ers played in the championship game. The only thing is, this isn’t the championship game. It’s not even the playoffs. It’s just a standard old match.
It’s quite impressive when you think about it—a packed stadium for every single game. The promoters were on the money when they contracted Lorenzo to play for them in the hopes it would increase attendance. If Danny’s stats are anything to go by, they’ve more than tripled their investment.
I’d tell Lorenzo how proud I am of him if it didn’t risk trudging up feelings I’m struggling to conceal. Things have been crazy hectic for us since his family went back to Milan. I’ve had exams almost every day, and Lorenzo has been training nonstop for the upcoming finals, while also squeezing in press junkets like he’s an integral member of Rise Up. Although things are hectic, we always find time for one another. No matter what we have planned, our day starts with us saying good morning to each other, and it ends with us saying goodnight.
It’s stupidly beautiful, however, it’s done little to douse Lorenzo’s controlling habits.
It took an intense amount of negotiating to get Lorenzo and Elvis to agree for Willow and me to take the train to today’s match. They don’t understand the satisfaction one gets from fawning superstars because they’re the ones we gush over.
Any game, whether American football, soccer, tennis, or that whacked game Willow’s home country likes to call AFL is ten-times more thrilling when you’re surrounded by people who adore the game as much as you do. It’s as distinguishable as discovering someone loves the same book you’ve read a trillion times. Instant besties.
When my rant reaches my lust-crazed head, I freeze halfway through the turnstile, causing Willow to ram me from behind.
“If I knew you were desperate for anal-play, I would have lubed up for you.”
I shudder. Don’t ask me if it’s from Willow’s disturbing joke or the realization I’m comparing myself with the freaks who think soccer is the sport of gods. It’s not the supremacy of all sports. Football is… isn’t it?
“Oh, no.” Willow’s murmur is long and dramatic, almost a complete sentence. “I’ve only seen that face once before. It was when I deciphered one of your football rants without consulting the index cards you wrote for me. You’re in love with soccer.” She sings her last sentence as she did her flap-clapping song months ago.
“Nuh-uh. Don’t be mental.” I push through the turnstile with so much force, Willow has no choice but to come with me, meaning she butt-fucks me for the second time in under thirty seconds. “I was just working out if we should get hot dogs now or later. You know how much I enjoy a wiener before a game.”
“This…” she wiggles her finger in my face like I usually do to her, “… isn’t an I-love-hot-dog face. That’s your post-climax face, the face you pull when you sniff out a touchdown seconds before the QB does.” Her shoulder touches her ear as she rakes her teeth over her lower lip. “The same face you donned every time Lorenzo arrived at our dorm to pick you up at the start of your agreement.”
My eyes snap to hers, prepared to shut down her ridiculous notion with a witty comeback, but no matter how much my mouth moves, no words come out. They’re stuck, trapped in horror at the realization I’m not just falling in love with Lorenzo Ricci, the number one striker in the world, I have a keen fondness for his stupid sport as well.
“Willow…” I sob like someone just told me my grannie died. “I can’t. Soccer isn’t allowed to overtake football. It’s the sport of gods… right?” The fact I’m seeking confirmation from a non-football lover proves how snowed under I am. “Oh, God. This is worse than I realized.”
“There, there, it’s okay.” Willow pulls my head onto her bosom to cradle me like a mother does a child. “At least they’re not on the same schedule. Imagine the controversy then?”
I whine even louder. Danny would be beyond proud of my dramatization of an event I’ve felt coming for weeks but was too scared to admit out loud. I’m not falling in love with Lorenzo. I love him and his stupid sport.
Someone call a therapist, I’ve gone mental.
Like I need more evidence for my confession, I’m slathered in it when a guy with shoulders as broad as he is tall mistakes my panicked cheeks as excited ones. He smiles and winks at me before delving his tongue out to wet the sexy dimples at the top of his lip. Although he’s wearing the wrong jersey, he’s an exact replica of the football-producing spouse I was seeking only six months ago, yet, for some fucked-up reason, his panty-wetting face isn’t altering the dampness between my legs in the slightest. Not even the weakest buzz is teasing my clit. It is as if Lorenzo’s cock truly broke my vagina.
After narrowing her eyes at the stranger like he should know my vagina was broken by a short Italian man who’s hotter than sin, Willow guides me toward the corridor that leads to our seats. “Come on, let’s get to our seats before the beers you shoved down your shirt get too hot to drink. Then, once the panic scorching your throat has lessened, I’ll prove how everything you’re just working out didn’t occur overnight. You’ve been walking down this path for a very long time. Your article published by the university newspaper proves this without a doubt.”
Her tone is witty, but everything she said is one hundred percent honest. I’ve felt this coming for weeks. I’ve just been in denial. It’s what you do when your dreams alter from one sport to another.
We make it part the way to the stadium when my phone dings. It’s not the standard double doorbell ring I have set for messenger or the 69ers’ chant the players belt out at the end of every winning game. It’s one I’ve never heard before.
Curious, I dig my phone out of my pocket. Before I get it halfway out, Willow and I are bombarded by the press who attend every match. I assume they’re hoping to capture Elvis entering the stadium with Willow, but my theory is proven wrong when they shout my name multiple times.
This is a first.
Unlike Willow, I can go about my day-to-day activities without any fanfare. Sure, I get a handful of admiring glances and even more propositions for both Lorenzo and me, but for the most part, my life hasn’t changed. So what’s different about today?
My stomach gurgles when one question stands out amongst the rest. “Is it true your relationship with Lorenzo Ricci is a ruse? That you were paid to spend time with him?”
I’m too stunned to speak. Mercifully, Willow has no issues giving as good as she’s getting. “The rumors you’re citing are unfounded and untrue. Whoever is spurting these vicious lies should stop before they find themselves on the other side of the law.”
With her arm curled around my shoulders, she guides me away from the reporters, which happens to be in the opposite direction we were traveling. Since we’re not layered down with camera equi
pment, microphones, and slanderous lies, we move away from the stadium rather quickly, saving me the additional attention of Lorenzo’s fans curious as to what is going on, but regretfully, it doesn’t stop me from hearing the reporters’ accusations over and over again. They know way too much for this to be a simple misunderstanding. They’re even aware Lorenzo negotiated for me to watch his friendly in exchange for him attending my cousin’s wedding.
The deeper we descend into the 69ers’ staff parking lot, the more risqué the reporters’ questions come.
“Would you care to clarify your relationship with Ricci?”
“Have you done something like this before?”
“Do you offer long-term agreements with your other clientele? Or was your four-month term an exception for Ricci?”
“Was your agreement with Ricci sexual in nature? Or were you truly his tour guide?” The group of mostly men laugh at the female reporter’s question, vilifying her as cruelly as they are me.
Once she’s shoved to the pack of the back, they continue with their demoralizing questions.
“How many clients do you have on your books right now?”
“Will Ricci be offered a refund since news of your contract broke a week out from the playoffs?”
“What was the final agreed-upon amount for you to be Ricci’s whore?”
That question gets my back up. I spin around so fast, Willow doesn’t have a chance in hell of stopping me from returning the paparazzi’s cruel shoves. I push them back with everything I have, the anger boiling my veins enough to keep my tears at bay.
“I wasn’t paid a dime to spend time with Lorenzo. I’m also not a whore.”
“That’s not what your bank records show. A one hundred-thousand-dollar check was deposited into your account earlier this week.” A man with a seedy mustache and a wonky eye lowers his camera from his face so his good eye can rake my body. Once he has my skin crawling from his depraved stare, he makes a kissy-face at me before asking, “How many weeks will ten grand get me?”
