Hard As Steel

by McKinley May

  He makes a show of giving her a leering once over. “Nah, you're definitely a Barbie. And a damn gorgeous one at that. Although I think you'd make an even better angel.” He winks seductively while I do everything in my power not to gag.

  Oh, jeez. I should've known he'd be all over her tonight. She's tall, blonde, and leggy—the top three qualities he looks for in a woman.

  Luckily, I’ve already briefed her on Weston, telling her multiple stories about his playboy ways and excessively warning her not to fall for his shit if ever they should meet.

  Her eyes bounce to mine, eyebrows raising as if to ask Is this him? I give a quick nod, and she rolls her eyes as she points beyond him.

  “You've got yourself enough angels, dontcha think, Satan?”

  “You can never have enough angels.” He smirks and extends his hand. “And it's Weston, but feel free to call me whatever you like, sweetheart.”

  She takes his hand and shakes it, a sinful smile on her lips. “Oh, really? Would you prefer Douche Canoe or Fuck Boy? The choice is yours.”

  Yep, that's my best friend.

  “As long as you're screaming it tonight in my bed, either will do,” Weston drawls with another charming wink.

  And, yep, that's Vaughn's best friend.

  Lexie lets out a hearty laugh. “Wow, you are something else. Your good looks must let you get away with all those crappy lines, huh?”

  He twirls the pitchfork in his hand, grinning. “Glad to know you find me good-looking. And, yeah, they totally do.” He takes a step towards her. “You want to dance?”

  She quickly steps away and grabs the closest body she can find.

  “I’d love to, but this nice man just asked me to join him on the dance floor. Isn't that right?” She widens her eyes and nods her head at her captive: a drunk guy in a caveman costume who looks completely baffled.

  “Huh? What? I did?” he questions, but once he gets a good look at her his stuck-on, bushy eyebrows jut upwards. “Oh shit, hell yeah I did. Let's go.”

  He takes her hand, and she gives Weston a menacing wave as she disappears into the crowd.

  He slowly shakes his head as he watches her leave. “I like that one,” he mumbles to himself before heading back towards his waiting angels.

  I think we may finally get a moment of peace when Cameron dramatically ducks his head and lets out an anguished grunt.

  “Shit. I think she spotted me.” He pokes his head up and ducks it down just as fast. “Yup. She's heading this way. Gotta go.”

  And with that, he takes off into the crowd.

  When Julie reaches us, she flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She's undeniably beautiful, but that vicious scowl on her face is doing her no favors.

  “Where did Cameron go? Is he avoiding me?” She snaps at us, scanning the surrounding area ardently.

  “Who?” Vaughn plays dumb, but she's not having it.

  “Very funny, Vuh-awn.” I have to bite my tongue so I don't burst out laughing at the dramatic, two-syllable fashion in which she just pronounced his name. Girlfriend's speaking Mean-Girl 101. “I saw him here thirty seconds ago. I want to know where he went, and I want to know now.”

  I point in the opposite direction of where Cam sprinted off to, understanding why he's on the run. “I think he went that way,” I offer.

  “Fucking finally.” She huffs and storms off.

  I swivel my head towards my boyfriend to find him looking at me with the same expression I'm giving him: wide-eyed and annoyed.

  “Sheesh,” I say as we're finally able to get a word in alone. “I think I've had enough of everyone else's drama for the night.”

  “Same.” He fills our cups up with another round of drinks before flashing a bright smile at me. “Let's proceed with the partying.”

  And proceed with the partying is precisely what we do. I'm not sure if it's the five cups of punch talking or what, but this is the most fun I've had at a party since arriving at college three years ago. We tear up the dance floor, Vaughn dominates an apple bobbing contest, and I cringe as I watch drunk people carelessly carve pumpkins, praying they continue to stab the orange spheres and not their appendages.

  Diego gives an animated speech announcing the team's confirmation bye to the second round of playoffs, and Parker takes a drunken, fully-clothed dive into the frigid pool before Ellie forces a bottle of water into his hands and bans him from ingesting any more liquor. I even spy Lexie dancing with that stupid skeleton again, a jello shot in each hand and her caveman suitor staring at her like he's already madly in love.

  At the end of the night, I find myself in Vaughn’s bedroom. He’s sprawled out on his bed, shirtless, clad in black boxer briefs, and wearing a tipsy, turned-on smile as I show him the costume I wore underneath my Dalmatian get-up.

  The moment I peel off the black-and-white dress, he lets out a satisfied moan.

  “Jesus fuck, Rayne. If I had known that’s what you had on under there, we would’ve left that party fucking hours ago.”

  I laugh and twirl around, giving him a 360 degree view of my matching black lace bra-and-thong set. I point to the dog ears still on my head.

  “This is the For Vaughn’s Eyes Only version of my costume.”

  He groans again, his bulging erection growing more evident by the second. His teeth rake against his lip as he breathes deeply. “So fucking hot, babe. Get over here before I lose it just looking at you.”

  I don’t give in to his demands just yet, parading around his room and giving him a little alcohol-induced striptease.

  “Rayne,” he warns, voice strained and desperate. He reaches down, stroking himself twice for some relief. “Get. Over. Here.”

  His deep, insistent growl lets me know I’ve prolonged his torture long enough, and I grin before leaping onto his bed.

  My knees are on both sides of his torso, straddling his body as I crawl forward until my mouth meets his. His lips are warm..wet...deliciously sweet.

  Large hands grab my ass, and I moan when he yanks my hips down, thick erection rubbing directly against my underwear. He grinds slowly against me, guiding my hips with his in a sensual motion that has my body scorching.

  My lips travel under his jaw where I kiss his flawless skin, then lower where I suck gently just above his collar bone.

  Soon I'm trailing kisses down his bare chest, down the ridges of his abdomen, and then—

  “Oh shit, babe.” He groans with pleasure, knowing exactly what's about to happen. I gaze up, fingertips teasing the waistband of his briefs.

  I lick my lips and smile. “Consider this a ‘thank you’ for handling the costumes.”

  I peel his boxers down and take him into my hand. He's long and hard, so fucking warm and aroused as I fist his shaft. He gets comfy, leaning back against the bed frame as I pump my hand up and down.

  And then I start to get to the good stuff; I lean forward and gently kiss the tip, giving him teasing licks as I build the tension.

  When I flick the sensitive underside with my tongue, a tortured hiss escapes his parted lips.

  “You are a fucking dream, Rayne,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure.

  I take him all the way into my mouth, keeping my eyes focused on him because this is my favorite part. Seeing his reaction, the raw arousal taking over, the vulnerability in his features...Shit, there is nothing more attractive than that.

  Pleasure zips down my spine when he fists the sheets, knuckles going white as his head falls back in ecstasy. When I swirl my tongue around the head, his hips raise involuntarily and a husky groan slips from his lips.

  “Baby, that feels so fucking good. Don't stop,” he begs gruffly.

  I bob my head up and down, sucking him off as he lets out habitual moans of pleasure that render me desperately achy and so freakin’ wet.

  He reaches out and gently threads his fingers into my hair. His hips move in time with my mouth, and after a few minutes his grip tightens.

  “Rayne,�
� he chokes out in warning. “I’m gonna come.”

  He bites down on his lip, blue eyes swirling with fiery passion. His muscles flex, thighs clench as he hardens and releases into my mouth. And Jesus Christ, it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.

  After his orgasm weans, I sit up and watch as he recovers.

  “You are so fucking good at that,” he mumbles as he drags both hands through his hair, mussing it up. He pulls his boxers up over his semi-hard dick and grins at me. “So that was a thank you, huh?”

  I nod my head.

  He sits up and grips my waist, situating me so I'm lying back on a massive pillow. He plants steamy kisses down my neck, past my breasts, towards my belly button. And when he gets to the edge of the black lacy fabric, he looks up, a sultry smile tugging at his lips.

  “Time for me to say ‘you're welcome.’”

  36

  The next evening as I sit in the Windhaven Weekly meeting, I'm still floating on a high from the night before. Sure, the giddiness from the Pumpkin Punch has been replaced with a dull headache from the resulting hangover, but absolutely nothing can pull me down from the clouds at this point. Not when things are going so well.

  I'm acing all my classes (including Calc thanks to my badass math tutor), the feature is done and turned out fantastic, and things with friends, family, and Vaughn could not be better. For once in my life, I don't have a nagging feeling of stress floating in the background. I feel...relaxed, like everything is falling into place.

  My thoughts come to an abrupt halt when I hear the familiar rustling of laptops being shoved into bags and chairs squeaking across the linoleum—the telltale sounds signaling the end of the meeting. Right as I'm joining the others packing up, Dani makes one last announcement.

  “Rayne, stay behind so we can chat,” she commands without lifting her eyes from her computer screen.

  “Um, sure,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at Jessica and Jorge dubiously. I'm assuming it's about the piece, but Dani usually emails the first sets of edits before having a face-to-face discussion about it.

  Jess gives me a reassuring smile. “I bet she just wants to touch base about publication date and stuff. I'm sure it's nothing bad.”

  “Or she might be keeping you behind so she can compliment your article without everyone else listening in,” Jorge adds. “Can't have the rest of the staff seeing her be nice for once.” He gives me a goofy wink.

  I nod and wave goodbye as they head out with the rest of the students, leaving Dani and me alone in the now awkwardly quiet room.

  I take a seat in front of her desk while she continues typing on her computer, oblivious to my presence. After a whole sixty seconds of the silent treatment, I clear my throat to get her attention. She finally raises her head.

  “You wanted to talk with me?”

  She sighs deeply and closes her laptop. Folding her hands together on the desk, her eyes reach mine and she shakes her head side-to-side. I suddenly feel like I'm in elementary school—the class trouble maker about to get reprimanded by the principal. My stomach starts to drop as she begins to speak.

  “I expected more from you.”

  A mixture of disappointment and disbelief whooshes through my body.

  “You didn't like the article?” I question, unable to hide the dumbfounded tone in my voice.

  Because there's no way she can be serious.

  I've put so much work into this, treating this feature like it was another one of my college courses—hell, like it was a freaking graduate thesis. I spent ten hours on Sunday nit-picking every last section until it was up to my incredibly high standards. This is the best work I've ever done, and that's saying a lot considering I'm my own worst critic. I would never send in something I didn't put 100% of my effort into.

  Another thing I would never do? Sit back like a doormat and let someone shit all over the months of blood, sweat, and tears I've put into this piece.

  Nope, not gonna happen. I'm going to defend this thing until I'm blue in the face.

  “Dani, I truly think this is my strongest work. It captures the essence of what it means to be on one of the top college soccer teams in the country. It brings the reader into the world of a D1 college athlete, gives them a glimpse into the massive amount of time and dedication and sacrifice put into the sport and how they balance that with academics and social calendars and—”

  She holds up a hand to stop me. “You're misunderstanding me. I'm not saying the article is bad, because it's not. It's fine. I liked the creative spin you put on the format, merging the timeline of the season with the interviews. But where's the rest of it?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, but the moment the words pass through my lips, I know exactly what she's referring to.

  “The Steel Blue story, Rayne. His background? The one thing I felt was crucial for this piece.”

  Shit.

  There it is.

  I should've prepared myself for this confrontation, but I was optimistic Dani would be so pleased with the final product that she'd forget all about our little agreement.

  Stupidly optimistic.

  I stand my ground. “Sorry, I didn't feel like that information was relevant to the Warrior's current season or Vaughn's future.”

  “And at what point did I ask you what your feelings were on this piece?” She lets out an agitated breath. “I thought I made it crystal clear that the information was to be added, but apparently I needed to take a firmer approach. I didn't take you for the type that required constant micromanaging throughout this process. Looks like I was wrong.”

  I grit my teeth. “It wouldn't be fair to Vaughn. It's his business whether or not he wants to share certain things from his past, and I completely respect that.”

  She frowns. “If you're unwilling to put your personal opinions aside and dig deep for a story, then maybe you're in over your head when it comes to pursuing a career in sports journalism.”

  What the hell?

  “But that's just it,” I begin, trying to make her understand. “I want to be a sports journalist, not a gossip columnist. I'm not interested in exploiting athletes' personal lives for my work.”

  She leans her head back and lets out a patronizing laugh. “Oh, please. Get with the times. People want more with their news nowadays. They want drama and action and scandal. And if you're not willing to go there, I've got some bad news for you, sweetie; there are plenty of people who will cross that line. And you know what happens then? They get the job and not you. They get the internship and not you.”

  She pushes her glasses up her nose with the tip of her pointer finger, leveling me with a harsh perusal. “You're not special, Rayne. You have writing talent, I'll give you that, but that's not enough anymore. You've got to go that extra mile or you're not going to make it to the top. It's just how it is.”

  Each sentence she utters is like a stab to the abdomen over and over again in the same aching spot, the blade sinking deeper as I contemplate her words.

  “That's not true,” I counter softly, the hesitation in my voice evident.

  She raises a brow. “Is it not?”

  She turns her computer towards me and points to the screen. The familiar layout of StadiumScore’s website glares back at me, their home page riddled with this week’s article headlines. I read them silently, heart sinking with each click-baity title I come across: New York QB Jaxon Flint's Wild Night Out!

  Rhett Paine's Runway Babes: 5 Supermodel Spottings with the Arsenal Star

  Trouble in Texas? Pitcher Miguel Ortiz's Shocking Past Uncovered!

  Jesus.

  Dani clicks her tongue. “Looks true to me.”

  I'm trying to remain composed, to fight back and tell her she's wrong, but as my eyes flit back over the damning headlines, I have a devastating revelation.

  I think she might be right.

  Have I been looking at my future career with rose-colored glasses on my entire life? Imagining it as some fairytale utopia as opposed
to the cutthroat, money-grabbing industry it truly is?

  If I’m being honest with myself, every time I turn on any sports news stations they're gossiping about players, focusing on their personal lives almost as much as they do the games and scores and actual sport. Before I didn't give it a second thought, never evaluating how the athlete feels about the endless scrutinization.

  But now that I've been up close in a situation like this, seen the devastating effects these types of stories can have on players like Vaughn, it's as if a little crack has appeared in the rose-tinted lenses. With each negative realization, the crack grows bigger, allowing me small glimpses into reality.

  In a matter of mere minutes, it's like I'm looking at the career in a whole new light, and it's not nearly as pretty and inviting as I previously thought.

  Dani studies me as I silently evaluate my life plans up to this point, sensing my unease.

  “Is that what you want, Rayne? To give up on your future career to protect the feelings of some entitled athletes?”

  The sickening realization that I wouldn't have thought twice about saying no if she'd asked me this two months ago makes my stomach clench with nausea.

  When I don't respond, the corners of her mouth twist up. “I want the finished version of the article by 7:00 a.m. tomorrow. And don't skimp on the details. I'm sure your little boyfriend told you everything there is to know.”

  That's when something inside of me snaps.