Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology

by Adriana Locke

  He nods toward his car parked out front. “Ready? I don’t want to be late.”

  “Sure.” I snag my purse and start to walk out the door when Calder stops me.

  “Uh, is that shirt stretchy?”

  I glance down at my shirt and then back up at Calder. “Uh, what does it matter? Do you plan on stretching out my shirt?”

  “Maybe a little. Does it stretch?”

  Confused, I pull on the hem of it. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Good.” He takes my hand and shuts my door behind me. “Let’s go.”

  “Should I be concerned as to why you’re asking about the stretch of my shirt?”

  “Not even a little.” Guiding me by the hand, he helps me into his black Range Rover and shuts my door. The seats are heated and immediately make me feel comfortable. New car smell still lingers, and I wonder how old his SUV must be. Can’t be that old if he has a five-year-old. Believe me, I know all about five-year-olds and the smells they’re able to create.

  Calder hops in and roars the engine to life. He must have had my seat warmer on during his drive to pick me up. That’s a thoughtful man right there. Take notes, ladies.

  “Are you ready for this?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m telling you right now, if you take me skydiving, I’m going to give you a swift kick to the nut sac.”

  He puts the car into drive and takes off down the road. “There won’t be any extreme sporting tonight. We’re going old school.”

  “Old school?”

  He glances over at me and says, “Just you wait.”

  Zipping through the one-way streets of Philly, Calder drives with ease, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift, looking powerful, sexy, and commanding. While he maneuvers his way to our destination, I take the time to really absorb him. His square jaw is freshly shaven, his dirty-blond hair smoothly shaven all the way down, the buzz cut looking incredibly attractive on him, and those eyelashes of his, criminal on a man. Not to mention the fullness of his lips . . . I wonder what they taste like?

  “Are you a chocolate candy girl or a fruit candy girl?”

  “Eh?” I ask, pulling myself away from his looks and into the conversation he’s trying to have.

  “Candy. Do you prefer chocolate base or a fruit-flavored base?”

  “Oh. Hmm.” I take a second to ponder his question. “Depends on my mood.”

  “What about tonight?” He switches his blinker on, looks over his shoulder, and pulls into a parking spot that’s parallel to a CVS drugstore. “What is your mood telling you tonight?”

  He puts the car in park, turns off the ignition, and faces me, the street lights casting an orange glow over us. “Tonight? I’m not sure. You’re putting me on the spot. I don’t even know what my choices are.”

  Shaking his head, he sighs and says, “Fine, come on.”

  He meets me around on my side of the car, helps me out, then locks up. We walk into the CVS and I’m seriously concerned about where this date is heading. If he starts buying blood-cleaning supplies and tarps, I’m out.

  “CVS, wow, you sure know how to woo a woman,” I joke, looking around the establishment, my eyes falling on the display of As Seen on TV products. Does that foot egg thing really work? You know, the thing that’s supposed to get all the dead skin off your feet? It seems too good to be true.

  “CVS is not our date, just the beginning.”

  “Are we getting supplies to kill someone? Because I don’t think we went over our hard limits when it comes to dating. Unfortunately, murder is on the no-no list for me.”

  Not even sparing me a glance or a smile to let me know murder is OFF the table, he brings me to the candy aisle, where the bright colors of hundreds of candy bars stare back at me. This aisle is a child’s dream and a parent’s nightmare.

  “Go ahead, pick out what you want.”

  “What?” I ask, looking at him. “Pick some candy?”

  “Yeah. Whatever you want. Just know, we’ll be having dinner, so don’t get too much.”

  “And what’s for dinner? Lucky Charms and milkshakes?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, that would be my daughter’s dream dinner.” He almost mutters the sentence halfway through, as if he’s catching himself.

  I press my hand against his arm. “You know, you can talk about her, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.” He lets out a long breath. “But I don’t want to turn this night into a montage of everything adorable my daughter does because I could occupy your entire night about stories of Shea, and I really want this night to be about us, about something nostalgic I used to do before responsibilities and jobs, and being a dad came into my life.”

  “Sounds like a dream.” I turn back to the candy. “Okay, so you have to give me some kind of information about where we’re taking this candy. What I choose really depends on what we’re going to do with it. I mean, are we playing fast and loose with this candy? Riding into the wind, candy bar in hand? Or are we taking it slow and easy, something where I can casually pop a few pieces into my mouth.”

  He nods in understanding. “Ah, I get you. You’re very thoughtful when it comes to your candy.”

  “I have to be. I know I’m an adult and I can do whatever the hell I want, but it’s not every day I get to dabble in the candy department.”

  “No?” He quirks an eyebrow at me.

  I shake my head. “No, I have to keep up a great figure if I want to attract tiara-wearing fathers like yourself.”

  “If I wasn’t so confident in my own skin, you’d be giving me a complex about my choice of headwear.” Confident, oh believe me, I know.

  Turning back toward the candy, I study it and ask, “So, what’s the plan? You have to give me some kind of information.”

  “Fair enough.” He sticks his hands in his back pockets and for the first time since I met him, he shows a small bit of insecurity, making him more relatable, more human, easier to breathe around.

  Okay, maybe he’s just as nervous as I am.

  “I spent all week trying to come up with the perfect date for us. I looked into everything around the city, all the new fads and restaurants, and honestly, none of them seemed good enough. Hell, you wore a ball gown on our first phone call. How could I sit back and think you deserve a lesser date?”

  “I am fancy.” I primp my hair and give him a smirk.

  “I figured, so I thought, why not play it completely old school?”

  “I’m intrigued. What’s old school to you?”

  He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out two tickets. He holds them out to me and splays them with his fingers. In bold, black writing, right down the center, the tickets say “Die Hard.”

  Brow raised, I give him my best are-you-kidding look. “Die Hard?”

  Chuckling to himself, he put the tickets back in his pocket. “Old-school dating, to me, is sneaking snacks into a movie and making out the entire time.”

  I snort and cover my mouth. Oh my God. “So when you say old-school dating, you don’t mean old school as in 1950’s gentlemanly actions, you mean . . . like high school dating.”

  “Is there anything better than high school dating?”

  “A lot.” I laugh, loving how his cheeks are starting to blush from his idea. “But I’m digging this. Still iffy about the make-out session, but we’ll see where the night takes us.” I turn back to the candy and start assessing what I want to grab. “Why Die Hard?”

  Standing next to me, his shoulder brushing against mine, he says, “Seemed like the cheesiest thing to take you to, plus, I figured if I took you to the cheap theater that plays old movies, I have a higher chance of getting you to make out with me.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because if you’ve seen the movie, it’s not like you would be missing anything.” Looking down at me, a boyish charm exuding from his smirk, he sheepishly asks, “Have you seen Die Hard?”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I hold my answer back for a fe
w seconds, just to make him sweat a little. “Lucky for you and your endeavors to get me to make out with you, I have seen Die Hard.”

  Cutely, Calder does a small fist pump to the side, expressing his excitement over my answer.

  “You know what’s funny?”

  “What?” he steps forward, his space invading mine, heating my body up to dangerous levels, like sweat levels. I don’t want to be sweaty, not if he plans on making out with me, because I think you and I both know what happens during a make-out session: roaming hands. I love a good wayward hand that accidentally flicks a nipple, but what if I’m sweating and he grips the back of my neck, where it’s all dewy? What an embarrassing nightmare that would be.

  Trying to hide the affect he has on me, I answer, “You’re a professional hockey player, very well known not just here in Philly, but around the country. Grown men would kill to have a make-out session with you—”

  “That’s weird.”

  “But true.” He takes a second but then humorously nods. “So you have all these men who worship you, children who want to be you, and a giant bank account with over a million reasons as to why men, women, and children adore you so much.”

  “Your point?”

  “Instead of taking me on a fancy date, you paid two dollars for a movie ticket and we’re sneaking treats in so we don’t have to pay for the up charge on movie theater goodies.” I smile brightly at him. “I like that a lot.”

  “Yeah?” There is hope in his eyes.

  “Yeah.”

  “So,” he steps closer and grabs my hand with his. “Does this mean my chances of making out with you have grown exponentially?”

  “I wouldn’t say exponentially, but I would say you’ve gotten closer to at least a peck on the cheek.”

  “Damn.” He grips his jaw and stares down at me. “I don’t even have a peck yet? You’re a tough crowd, but I’m willing to work for it.”

  “Good, because you’re going to have to.” I wink and start gathering candy. Little does he know, he’s not going to have to work that hard, because I don’t think it’s going to be possible to stay away from his lips for that long.

  “If you think I’m wearing that, you can think again.”

  “Come on, I can’t wear it.”

  “You sure as hell can,” I protest.

  “Men don’t get pregnant.”

  I look him up and down and say, “Men get beer bellies.”

  He looks down at his stomach and back up at me. “Sure, men get beer bellies, but star hockey players don’t. I was on the cover of Men’s Health, shirtless, sporting an eight pack last month. There is no way in hell I can walk in that theater with a beer belly.”

  How did I miss that issue of Men’s Health? Note to self . . . subscribe!

  “So when you were thinking old-school dating, you thought I would walk into the movie theater with a Styrofoam half circle under my shirt containing not a fetus, but a bag full of candy.” Leaning forward in the car, I say, “You want me to give birth to chocolate in the movie theater.”

  Maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but never in my life have I ever seen this idea. And what’s super cute—and it’s weird that I think it’s cute—is that when Calder told me about his idea, he was genuinely excited, as if we were about to pull a fast one.

  From behind his seat, he brought forward a hollow Styrofoam half circle and held it out to me, giddy to see me pretend I’m pregnant so we can smuggle in all our treats. He said his brother and sister-in-law do it all the time.

  I mean, it’s a good idea . . .

  “Is that why you wanted me to wear a stretchy shirt?”

  “Maybe.” His guilty look weirdly warms my heart.

  Sighing, I stare down at the circle. “You’re insane, you know that?”

  “Insanely fun.”

  I chuckle. “God, this is ridiculous.” I take the half moon, pour my twenty candy bars, Skittles, and Fun Dip in the shell and then stick it under my shirt. My shirt stretches around the little orb, and I’m relieved the only thing living inside my fake stomach is a toothache waiting to happen.

  Laughing to himself, Calder asks, “Are you ready?”

  “I’m going to get you back for this, you realize that, right? And your little make-out session is loooooong gone.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He exits the car and rounds the front where he opens my door. Holding out his hand, he helps me out. My hand instinctively goes to my fake belly, and I hold it in position.

  I glance at my belly, not able to see my cute heels, and say, “Never in a million years did I think you would impregnate me on the first date.”

  As he closes the door, he starts laughing so hard, he starts coughing. I give him a few sturdy pats on his back, just to be nice, because honestly, what else do you do when someone chokes on their own saliva?

  “Damn, I’m so good, I impregnated you without even taking your pants off.”

  We walk toward the older building that houses the cheap movie theater, Calder’s hand on my back, his body especially close. “You know, I’ve heard of hot guys getting girls pregnant just from a picture on the internet, but I never thought it would happen in real life.”

  “Do you feel special?” His smile is so brilliant.

  “Yeah,” I rub my hands together. “Child support and the life of luxury here I come.” I point my finger at him. “Don’t you dare think I’m going to let you just walk away. You have responsibilities now, mister.”

  “Ahh, you’re one of those girls, huh?”

  “Better believe it.”

  Calder hands the guy at the front door our tickets that he picked up earlier in the day, then walks us into the lobby. There is red everywhere. Curtains, carpet, counters, tables, and chairs. Track lighting frames the baseboards and molding, and the concession stand worker is wearing an old hat and jacket like they used to wear back in the day. The poor kid.

  There are two theaters. One is playing Happy Feet, and the other is playing Die Hard. The movies change every week to keep things fresh. Between the two movies for today, I’m glad he chose Diehard, because dancing penguins doesn’t quite scream sexy. But Bruce Willis killing people, showing off his man-chest, now that’s sexy!

  When we reach the theater, I’m reminded how small the seating area is, and how tiny the screen is. I’m sure there are home theaters bigger than this place, but I’m kind of enjoying the intimacy. Calder picks a row with only two seats in the back. He takes the seat next to the wall and lifts the arm rest so there’s nothing between us.

  I see what he’s doing, getting all snuggly.

  Eyeing my “stomach” he says, “Are you ready to push?”

  “Will you catch the baby?”

  “Gladly,” he chuckles.

  Peeling my shirt up, I lift it over the “baby bump” and release the Styrofoam that Calder expertly catches by the dome so the candy is right side up and ready to be picked at. He sets the dome on the ground and says, “Look, the perfect bowl. It’s useful in so many ways.”

  I have to give it to him, he’s right. The damn thing is useful. I make a mental note to tell all my friends about this idea. Sorry movie theaters, maybe lower your concession stand prices and I won’t have to be so stealth, with my fake baby bump.

  “I hate how much I like this Styrofoam thing.”

  “Stick with me, babe, I have so much more to show you.”

  Oh damn, I hope he shows me with his tongue!

  “Does it sound like I’m ordering pizza?” Bruce Willis screams into a phone, making me chuckle.

  I’ve worked my way through two candy bars; I kept it respectable, because I don’t feel like gorging myself on the first date. Now the second date, I hold nothing back, but the first, I try to present myself in somewhat of a dignified manner.

  Since the movie started, Calder has been very much to himself. He’s kept to his side of his seat, leaning on the opposite arm rest, and he’s been focused on the screen in front of him, not once giving me th
e idea that he remembers I’m on the date with him.

  It’s kind of weird actually, almost as if he’s been all talk this entire time and when the moment is here, to make a move, he’s choking. It’s seriously odd.

  What happened to the suave man with all the confidence? Right now, he looks like a guy who has never been on a date before, or someone who’s so infatuated with Bruce Willis that—

  Oh, hold on a second . . .

  Calder shifts to the side, his shoulder brushing against mine now, his eyes still trained on the screen in front of us. From the corner of my eye, I watch as his hand slowly makes its way to the edge of his thigh, where my leg is brushing against his.

  Is he going to make a move?

  Wanting to make it easy on him, since he seems a little nervous despite his bravado from before, I move my hand close to his but keep it on my leg, not being too bold, just in case I’m looking too far into things.

  Gunshots splash across the screen, Bruce Willis looking damn good in his white tank top, trying to defeat the Christmas Eve terrorists. The room lights up from the screen, giving me a quick view of Calder’s hand moving even closer to mine.

  When he said old school, he really meant old school didn’t he? I don’t think I’ve felt this kind of innocent anticipation since I was in high school and went on a date with Ricky Kingston, who took an hour to even look me in the eyes.

  Holding my breath, I wait for his next move, and when his pinky reaches out and touches mine, an entire wave of euphoric heat shoots across my body. It’s a pinky touch, just a pinky, but it offers so much promise of what’s to come.

  At first, he’s hesitant, his pinky barely stroking my hand, but when I turn my hand over, wanting to clasp his, he doesn’t initially take the offer.

  Instead, he does something I wasn’t expecting, something that has me squirming in my seat.

  Carefully, almost feather like, he starts to brush his index finger over my palm, drawing lazy, slow circles, sending chills all the way up my arms and down my spine. It’s a small movement, something that shouldn’t have such a huge affect on me, but it does. Feeling his thick finger drag over my small palm has me thinking of all the other things he could do with that digit.