Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology

by Adriana Locke

  He is good enough to never mention it if I suck (no pun intended), and man enough to never say a word about it to anyone we know.

  “Oh, fuck, so close. Jolie, my beautiful, gorgeous Jolie…”

  He scoots up, slides his cock from between my tits, and shoves it into my mouth, cupping my head from behind and making me deep throat him. And I do. I fight my gag reflex and wrap my lips around his cock as he pumps the base, warm, thick liquid sliding down my throat in spurts. My hands are on his rear, and I’m squeezing hard, as if I’m the one who is milking him, and it feels dirty and wrong and so, magnificently right.

  When he collapses next to me, his salty taste on my lips and tongue, I close my eyes and breathe, trying to rearrange the jumbled mess that is my mind. My bra is torn, my pussy throbs and burns from the friction of the denim and the pinching, and I feel like a train wreck with smeared lipstick.

  A big paw reaches across my stomach, rolls me over to my side, and embraces me into a hug. Sage kisses my temple—like a loving friend, not like a quick lay—and whispers something I cannot decipher.

  “What did you say?” I murmur, allowing my head to rest on his iron pecs.

  He doesn’t answer, and I don’t probe, falling asleep in the arms of the boy I pieced back together myself with a hug.

  Chapter 5

  Sage

  The next day, I tackle Mark to the ground in practice. My official reason? He’s a fucker. My real reason? Jolie is standing across the football field with Chelsea and a few of her other girlfriends, hugging her MacBook to her chest and laughing at something one of them said. That, in itself is not a problem. But the fact that Mark just ogled her for two straight minutes? Totally is.

  “What part of ‘she’s mine’ did you not get?” I snarl in his face, nailing him to the ground. Well, this escalated quickly. Can’t help it, though. The more the idea of Jolie and Mark dating assaults my mind, the more I want to punch him into unconsciousness. Luckily, Jolie and I have this kind of relationship where we don’t even have to fully explain ourselves to each other, and she’d agreed to “date” me.

  Just like I’d agreed to take care of her friend’s pet ferret for a month junior year because her grandmama was allergic and she couldn’t do it herself. We’re there for each other in big ways and little ones. Always.

  “I’m not looking at Jolie, dickwad! I’m looking at Chelsea. I asked her out yesterday.” Mark pushes me off of him, and I roll on the hot, damp grass, laughing to the bright blue sky. It unburdens me from weight I didn’t know I had on my heart. Ever since I graduated from high school, I’ve always had it easy—easy with girls, easy with grades, and easy with football. The rest I didn’t really care about, frankly. And maybe that’s why I’ve never had something I was in danger of losing. I do now, and hell if it’s not a bitch to keep it from slipping between my fingers.

  “Chelsea, huh? You move fast,” I note, standing to my feet and wobbling between Michael and Elliott, who are stretching on the ground.

  “Said the guy who dicked the girl I wanted to date just so I couldn’t have her.” Mark picks his gear up from the grass and stomps toward the dressing room behind me. He catches up to me, and I rein in the urge to steal a glance at my fake girlfriend, who really doesn’t feel all that fake at all.

  “Don’t talk about her like that.” My jaw ticks.

  “Why? You talk about girls like that all the time.” He snorts.

  Because she’s not a fucking girl; she’s my best friend, I’m tempted to yell, but I’m not five, nor a pussy, so I bite my lip and change the subject.

  “You inviting Chelsea to that charity thing in New York?” I jerk my chin in the girls’ direction. One of my sponsors is flying me out with a plus one. I can’t wait to see Jolie in a red dress—that’s the dress code for the female attendees—and watching everyone’s faces when this Southern belle is on my arm alone could make me shoot my load all over my tux.

  “Why? Are you asking Jolie?”

  “Of course, I fucking am. She’s my girl. So?” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. Maybe because I really want to hear that he’s over JoJo.

  “Fuck knows, man. We haven’t even gone on one date. What’s it to you?” He frowns and stops by our lockers. I shrug. I know that Mark and Jolie aren’t close or anything. I’d just like to keep it that way for the remainder of our last year of college. If she finds out I cockblocked her out of this potential relationship, she is going to jerk me off with a Brillo pad.

  “Just curious.”

  “Hey, man, don’t take this the wrong way, but it looks like something’s eating you,” Mark says carefully, peeling his shirt off and throwing it on a bench behind us. “Is everything okay?”

  Everything is not okay. I made a horrible mistake with a girl, and even though it made me realize that there’s another girl I deeply want and love, I hurt someone. A lot. Of course, I don’t tell him shit. Just smile my broad, shit-eating grin. “Couldn’t be more perfect.”

  “Good.” He strokes his chin. “Good.”

  I take my clothes off and step into the shower, letting the scorching hot water punish me for what I did.

  Remember the silver lining. Remember the end game.

  Jolie

  The day drags.

  By the time I stumble through my front door, it’s already ten at night.

  Between my shift at the Happy Bunny—a diner off of Bordeaux Street—and a library session with Chelsea and Penny, I’m thoroughly spent. Too exhausted to even grab myself a bite. The minute I get into the apartment, I head straight to the shower, scrub off the day’s dirt, slip into my pajamas (conveniently located on a hanger in the bathroom right next to my towel to avoid any more embarrassing hallway encounters with Sage) and slide under my blanket without even turning on the lamp next to my bed. I scoot to the edge of my bed and close my eyes.

  Mmm, this is nice.

  So relaxing.

  I can just drift and clear my mind and not think about…

  Okay, something is poking my ass.

  Correction: an erection is poking my ass.

  Double correction: a bare erection is. Poking. My. Ass. Mothertrucker!

  “Sage!” I jolt, partly pissed, but—let’s admit it—mostly turned on. It’s like Sage has the manual to my body and knows how to work it better than I do. Which is weird. We still haven’t spoken about the sudden escalation in our relationship, but since it’s already happened—what’s crossing another line, right?

  “Shhh, baby girl.” His strong, warm palm slides down to cup my ass. “Let daddy take care of you.”

  “Call yourself my daddy one more time and I’m fishing your eyeballs out with a spoon.”

  “Fuck, my girl has some pent-up aggression in her. So glad I’m here to loosen…” He glides the sleeve of my pajama dress across my shoulder and kisses it. “Her.” He lets the gown slip over my head and down my body, leaving me completely naked, save for my cotton panties. “Up.” His hand slinks between my thighs, cups my pussy, and squeezes. Hard.

  “No need, as I’m perfectly loose,” I murmur, teasing him back. He slides my panties down and I wiggle my ass into his erection so that his cock is halfway between my ass cheeks, putting pressure on my tight hole. He could dream. But then again, that’s exactly what I want him to do. Crave me like a fantasy.

  “Nah, you’re not loose. Tight as your sweet little cunt, more like.” His tongue skates down my spine, leaving shivers in its wake. He is moving south. Who gave him permission to move south? This is like Game of Thrones. Wars should be fought to win the south. You can’t just knock on the door and expect me to open it up.

  Wait, you totally can if you look like Sage Poirier.

  “Too tired for sex, Mr. Fake Boyfriend. I’m not in the mood to move,” I protest one last time, just to tell myself that I’ve tried if things go wrong. Just to show myself that I really did try, I flip the lamp on for emphasis, like I’m going to be reading, or watching TV, or not thinking about havin
g sex with my best friend (lie).

  “That’s okay. I skipped my carbs today, Miss Real Girlfriend. I think I’ll just feast on you.”

  Real girlfriend? Don’t dwell on it. He’d say anything to get into your panties right now.

  “Who said it’s carbs and not protein?” I blab. I should shut up. Note to self: don’t try to flirt with him when he is about to go down on you. You can’t think straight.

  “Even better. No such thing as too much protein in an athlete’s diet. Better go down there. Maybe even come back for a second serving later tonight.” He cups my face with one hand and twists my head around so he can kiss me. Our tongues find each other and do a happy dance together. My nipples tighten and pucker from the heat between my legs and the chilly breeze of the room and he twists one of them between his fingers. Then he lets go and slides under my blanket, where I can’t see him.

  Sage throws my legs open and settles between them. He doesn’t say anything at first, and my self-consciousness kicks in. I know my pussy is perfectly normal. Waxed—every part tucked in like a virgin rose right before blooming—smooth to a fault and pink. Everything is where it should be. So why is he not saying anything? Maybe he is suffocating under the blanket. I should check how he is doing. This is one obituary I wouldn’t want to make.

  ‘Died between my legs from lack of oxygen on the same day I had a tuna melt for lunch…’

  Oh, God. I forgot about the tuna melt.

  “Sage?” I murmur, scooting upward. He pins me down by my hipbones in one, swift movement, throwing my legs even wider.

  “Shut up,” he says from under the blanket, this mammoth of a man shifting beneath the soft fabric. “JoJo? I think we need to break up our fake relationship.”

  My eyes flare and my cheeks flush red. “Why?”

  “Because I just fell in love. I’m talking love at first sight. Your pussy is just so darn pretty, I wanna marry it. Can I marry your pussy? The rest of your body can stay single, I swear.”

  I laugh and playfully swat what I’m guessing is his head—or his shoulder, both are super hard and round.

  “If you love her so much, you should give her some TLC. Show her how you really feel,” I encourage, biting my lower lip on a smile.

  “Can I kiss her? Or does she not kiss on a first date?”

  “She definitely does. She’s a little hussy.”

  I feel his tongue flattening against the base of my pussy, right next to my crack, and tremble at the sudden wet and warm sensation. Oh, God.

  “Call her a hussy one more time, and I’m kicking you out of this ménage.”

  “You can’t do that. I’m attached to her.” This is getting ridiculous. But also so much fun. Sage uses his fingers to open me wide and plunges his tongue into me, penetrating me with his tongue all the way in, and I moan loudly and clutch his head under the blanket. “Holy hell!”

  “Fuck, she’s an even better kisser than you,” Sage says. I swat his head again as he starts working me relentlessly under the cover. Thrusting his tongue into me, in and out, all while using his thumb to rub my clit in delicious circles that make me want to shed happy tears.

  “Yes, that’s it. Oh, Sage. Oh, Sage. Oh…”

  I’m getting close, and he knows it, because he pins my thighs to the bed, not letting me deny him access to my most sensitive part. Since his hands are now busy, he uses the tip of his straight nose to rub my clit in circles as he continues to fuck me with his tongue.

  “Take back what you said.” His voice is dark and serious, so far away from the best friend I know and love. And yet, this voice is no longer strange to me. This is how my lover sounds. The man I want to sleep with, and do very unfriendly, yet nice things to.

  “A…about what?” I stutter on my own carnal desire.

  “About your pussy being a hussy. She’s not a fucking hussy. She opens up and sings, but just for me. She’s a slut, but just for me. She’s a fucking horny maniac—for. No. One. But. Me. Yeah?”

  Jesus H, his dirty talk game is strong. I nod to myself, swallowing, feeling the hot wave of a climax washing over me, starting from the crown of my head and moving down like a wave to the rest of my body. I’m quivering, shaking like a leaf.

  After I come, he glides up in one smooth movement, reappearing from under the blanket. His face is flushed pink, and his lips are glistening with my arousal. Aaaand…he looks like that boy I fell in love with again. So vulnerable and broken and unbelievably youthful. It messes with my head, and I wonder if he feels the same. Like he is treading on a tightrope between familiarity and grown-up games. Like our hearts are connected in an invisible thread, and every time one of us tugs, the other one feels.

  “Tell me she is mine,” he whispers. I blink. It takes me a second to realize that he is talking about my pussy. Again. I grin.

  “Is Sage Junior mine?” I reach beneath us to cup his hard-on. He is butt naked under the covers, and I want to see and taste everything.

  “He is yours. I am yours. We’re both yours. If…” Pause. Beat of silence. Visible swallow. “If you’ll have us.”

  He sounds serious. So, so serious. But I know him well enough to recognize that Sage is a total people-pleaser and cocky to a fault. I have to remind myself that he’ll say whatever it is I want to hear and breeze through it without thinking about the consequences to get what he wants. Truth be told, he’s never had a serious girlfriend and never brought the same girl to our apartment twice. I remind myself, therefore, that this is a game. A game that will end come May, and with it, our whole relationship will never be the same again. Sage will get drafted somewhere exotic and will become filthy rich, and I’ll continue my small-town life here in Louisiana. The probability of it all slams into my chest all at once, like a cold bucket of ice.

  This is all temporary.

  The reality is, he wants a fake girlfriend until May, because after May, he’ll be gone to Boston or California, making a career. He just wants some kind of girlfriend experience before he goes so he doesn’t feel like he’s missing out.

  He will use me.

  And will dump me.

  He. Will. Forget. About. Me.

  And every time I witness him visiting his mama across the road, on Christmas or Thanksgiving, I’ll remember being a notch on his miles-long belt.

  I swallow, the back of my eyeballs stinging with unshed tears.

  “Simon Cowell,” I croak, my voice barely audible. His eyebrows drop into a shocked frown, his lips parting in disbelief.

  “JoJo?”

  “Simon Cowell,” I repeat, raising my shaky voice an octave. “Please get off,” I add.

  He rolls off of me, propping his head on his forearm and watching me. My heart stutters as I scurry to the edge of the bed, throw my nightgown on, suddenly forgetting about being tired and hungry and happy, and pad my way to the kitchen.

  Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.

  In the kitchen, I open the freezer and take out the Cherry Garcia Ben and Jerry’s. This is Sage we’re talking about, not Brandon. He is totally worth the calories. I prop my lower body against the counter, shoving spoonfuls of ice cream down my throat, not even bothering to taste it. My back is to the hallway so I don’t see him. But I feel him. His big steps. His commanding body. The heat rolling off his muscular frame.

  “What the fuck was that all about, JoJo?” he asks behind me. He doesn’t sound pissed off at all. Just sad and…disappointed. God, the idea of disappointing him after everything we’ve been through is nothing short of agonizing. We promised each other so much, and kept good on those promises. I don’t want this to change. I don’t want us to change.

  “I can’t be your fake girlfriend anymore.”

  “But…”

  I turn around and meet his gaze, my vision slicing right through all the pain that’s swimming in his blues. I don’t want to see it. Facing it will undo every logical decision I need to make right now. He is wearing a tight pair of black boxers, an Adonis wit
h a sculpted face, asking for his mortal friend to play a game only the gods can win.

  “Simon Cowell,” I say one last time. “Let go, Sage.”

  He shakes his head, turns around, and walks away, doing exactly as I tell him to.

  Chapter 6

  Sage

  The next day, I do the unthinkable—the un-fucking-doable, and push a teammate to the ground because he stretched too close to me. Yep, I shit you not. Quarterbacks usually try to protect their hands and arms, not shove them into other footballers’ personal space to start a fight.

  “What the fuck is your problem?!” Michael asks, throwing his helmet to the grass and shoving my chest. I’m just looking for an excuse to rearrange some random dipshit’s face, so this is all the invitation I need to get in his personal space and growl, “You’ve been asking for this, motherfucker!”

  I’m about to throw a punch—knowing that it’s going to put me in a very bad spot, knowing that scouters are roaming the training area, knowing that I could be flushing my whole future down the toilet—when I feel a big hand yanking me away from Michael. Tom and Dre are pushing Michael in the other direction while Mark is hugging my midsection and dragging me to the other end of the field. Lines of mud are forming beneath my feet. I’ve always been an aggressive player. Comes with the territory of being a huge-ass kid with a shit ton of issues. I was actually supposed to be an O-Liner. But it so happened that my first coach said I was too intelligent not to be a quarterback and forced me into the position. Today, I’m feeling especially confrontational. The kind of asshole that needs to be thrown inside the octagon or ring with Conor McGregor and Floyd Mayweather and can still come out of there unscathed.

  “Are you trying to shit all over your future?” Mark bares his teeth, slamming me against the wall of the sports auditorium. I shrug, taking off my helmet and running my paw through my long-ish hair. I normally ask Jolie to cut it for me, but I’ve been too busy trying to get in her pants lately to ask her to take care of that shit.