I watch in frustration as she jauntily trots over to him, accidentally or on purpose trips and falls into his arms.
“Guess Dawn’s laying a claim on Ace,” Kayla observes.
“I’m not done with him yet,” I snap.
My friend's eyes widen in surprise. “Since when do you get territorial over your projects?”
“I’m not territorial,” I say, defensiveness oozing out of my pores.
A skeptical eyebrow shoots up. “It’s okay to mark Ace as your man, but be clear about it. The girls won’t make a step toward him if they know you care.”
“I don’t care,” I mumble, but Kayla doesn’t buy it.
Instead, a brilliant grin flashes across her face. “I figured you’d fall for one of your projects. I just didn’t think it’d be this one.”
“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”
Kayla laughs at me. “Why don't we test that out?” Then she pulls me to toward the table and grabs Ace. “Hey, Ace, think you can do a favor for us?”
Ace spins around, scowl on his face, trying to disentangle himself from Dawn. “What?” he asks.
Kayla rolls her eyes. “Do you have to know first? Can’t you just say, of course, Kayla, anything for you.”
“No.” He looks me over. “What the hell is wrong? Did something happen?” His scowl deepens. He literally shakes Dawn off and stomps over to me. Crouching down so we're eye level, he runs his gaze over my face.
I pat my cheeks. “What? Do I have a mark on my face?”
“You look upset.” He straightens, hands on his hips, and scans the surroundings. “Whose ass do I need to kick?”
I can’t even tell if he’s serious or joking, but whatever he's doing, he needs to stop. Ace’s unconventional brand of caring is making me feel crazy-good inside. I'm never going to be able to give him over to Dawn if he keeps this act up. Possessiveness isn't something I'm used to. “No one, sugar. Or I guess mine, because I ruined four dozen cupcakes.” I gesture toward our AO table that’s holding our famed baked items, minus 48 perfectly decorated cupcakes.
“Well, I’m not going to kick your ass, but I’ll be happy to do other things to it.” His big hand sweeps down to cup one cheek.
“Ace,” I exclaim with a scandalized look around.
“Oh, right. No PDA unless we’re in a dark corner of the patio, right?” He smirks, then gives me another squeeze before releasing me.
I try to keep the disappointed look off my face.
He chuckles darkly. Leaning close, he whispers, “I’m happy to find a private spot here.”
“At Parker Field? There’s only Porta Potties and I’d rather rut in front of the AO house than get close to you in one of those.” I shudder dramatically.
He laughs and hauls me close. Kayla clears her throat loudly before Ace can press his naughty lips against mine.
He sighs and turns to Kayla. “What's your favor?”
“Can we auction you off?”
“No.”
“Like for one date? It’d be cool. We’ll—”
“No.” His fingers dangle over the top of my boob. My skin tingles, and I swear my nipples tighten in anticipation. I try to shimmy away, but he drags me right up against his side again.
“It would only be a meal and—”
“No. Next suggestion?”
Kayla turns to me. “Bryant, how about you—”
“No,” Ace interrupts. “Bryant’s playing center for us. You guys can figure this mess out.”
He literally drags me away to the registration table. “But Ace, those are my sisters.”
“There are twenty of them. If they can’t figure out how to raise enough money to cover forty-eight cupcakes, then none of them should be allowed to graduate. What team are you playing on?”
“Can I help you?” the volunteer asks.
“Nope.” Ace rifles through the Tyvek jersey tags, plucking out mine and then his.
Mine is in a red acrylic holder and his is black.
“Oh, we’re not on the same team,” I say in disappointment.
He grabs the black badge off the table. “Hey, that's not your name,” the volunteer objects, but Ace ignores him, switching out my name for that of one Tessa Chapman.
“Ace, I don’t know who that is. We shouldn’t do this. What if she wants to be on the black team?” I tug at his arm.
“You can't do that,” the volunteer warns.
Ace ignores me. He ignores the volunteer. Instead, he spins me around and pins the badge on the back of my T-shirt. “Tough Tater Tots.”
“Tough Tater Tots?”
“You want me to stop cursing? Then don’t make fun of my made up curse words.”
I clap a hand over my mouth to smother the giggles. “Yessir.”
We meet up with the rest of the team.
A shorter guy, Danny Peters according to his nametag, designates himself as quarterback. “You can’t be QB because it wouldn't be fair,” he explains to a frowning Ace.
“But I'm better than you,” Ace says flatly.
“This is a charity event. It's supposed to be for fun,” I remind him.
“It'll be fun when we win.”
Across from us, Travarius Daly waves. “What position you playing, Ace?”
My boyfriend pivots and squints at the cornerback. “What position are you playing?”
“Wide receiver.”
“Corner,” Ace says immediately.
“I guess winning isn't as important now?” I tease gently.
“Are you kidding? I'm going to wipe the floor with Travarius.” He points a finger at our quarterback. “Don't throw any interceptions.” Then he drags me over to the center. “You're going to hike the ball.”
I watch as Ace takes over, pushing people around, positioning them at various places along the line until he's satisfied with the result. Everyone listens to him, and most people seem thrilled to be taking orders.
From the sidelines, Travarius is yelling out various encouragements such as “Red's going to make the Blacks bleed today” and “Masters hasn't caught a ball since the Pee Wee leagues.” Ty Masters, standing in the wideout spot, flicks his teammate off. “Caught one last week, didn't I?”
And he had.
“You can't run fast.”
Ty shoots back, “Fast enough to catch the quarterback.”
As the banter continues between the teams, Ace marches down the line of scrimmage like a general inspecting the troops. I crouch down into the center position. When Ace reaches me, he halts and frowns. “Oh no. This isn't going to work.”
I straighten. “I know how to hike the ball.”
“Nope. No one's hands are getting that close to your sweet ass other than mine, sweetheart.” He grabs my biceps and switches me out with the boy next to me. I think he's a golfer, given his slender build and expensive haircut. “There. Perfect.” Ace gestures for Danny to come forward. “Don’t try to be a hero. Short, quick passes.” He points a long finger across the way at Will Connolly, a basketball player. “Bryant gets hurt and your dick will be in your throat.”
“JR Anderson, would you stop it? This is a friendly game for char-i-ty.” I emphasize every last syllable between gritted teeth.
He shrugs nonchalantly and slaps my butt before saying, “Take care of this. I'm going to need you in one piece later.”
Face flaming, I settle into position and prepare to block Will, who grins madly at me. “Don't worry, Bryant. I'll make sure none of your bruises show.”
“Will, the day a basketball player beats me at football is the day my daddy disowns me,” I declare.
Danny calls for the ball and the game is on. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I don’t recall the past three Foamball Classics being so…intense. It’s always been competitive. You can’t pit athletes, regardless of their sport, against each other and not expect a high level of play. But the football players are taking it to another level. Even with the no-tackling rule in place, there’s a lot of bumping and
pushing and hands to the face and that’s just between Travarius and Ace. There’s a huge battle happening downfield, and after the first quarter, I take myself out so I can watch.
“Is it me or is Ace incredible at the corner position?” Kayla offers me a smashed cupcake, which I accept gratefully. She’s one of the few AOs that knows much about the game.
“He’s got a good football sense, as my daddy would say. He always seems to know where the ball is. I think he can read the eyes of his opposing player better than anyone else.” I crumple the empty wrapper in my hand. Kayla takes it from me and sticks it into a bag by her side.
“Whatever it is, he’s good. In fact, I’m worried that if Travarius doesn’t catch a ball, he’s going to throw a punch in the end zone,” she jokes. “Although, maybe that’s not so bad. I kinda wish that it was summer and we were playing shirts versus skins and one of them just accidentally tore the shorts off the other.”
I laugh. “Do we throw Jell-O on them as well?”
“No,” she corrects, “oil. Do you remember those pictures on the internet of the Turkish wrestlers? Next year, our charity event should just be these athletes grappling in the middle of a big oil pit.”
Both of us fall silent as we contemplate that delightful scene. “Are we being sexist by objectifying these men?” I ask.
“Yup. Don’t care.”
We share a grin. At halftime, Ace comes over and throws his big body next to mine. “I’m thirsty. What do you have?”
Wordlessly, I hand him a Gatorade, which he drinks in about five gulps. I take way too much pleasure watching his throat muscles work. My eyes drift downward. The sweat has plastered his T-shirt to his skin, showing off those toned pectorals and abs. Lower still, I can see a tiny bit of his happy trail where the shirt hem rides above the low waistband of his shorts.
Beside me, I hear a heavy sigh of appreciation. Kayla’s enjoying the scene, too. I tug down Ace’s shirt to hide that sliver of skin and turn to glare at my friend.
“I was merely appreciating the scenery,” she says angelically.
Ace snorts.
I’d have retorted something rude, but Dawn saves me by gliding up to us. “Ace, now that you’ve played a half, can you come and—”
“No.” He crushes the empty plastic bottle in his hand and whips it about fifteen feet where it falls perfectly within the open trash container. Then he leans forward and plants a hard, hungry kiss against my mouth. “Time for round two.”
And with that, he jogs back onto the field where he starts barking orders again.
“You still have a lot of work to do to turn that boy from a sow’s ear into a silk purse,” Dawn declares and stomps back to the AO table.
“She’s not wrong,” Kayla muses. “Ace is an asshole.”
“But he’s my asshole,” I say, eyes glued to his tight behind.
Kayla smirks. “That sounds pretty territorial.”
“Shut up, Kayla.”
She laughs for a long time after that.
23
Bryant
Renegades 12-0
“Bryant, this is Alan Machman, coach of the New York Cobras.” Daddy extends his hand toward a stern-faced man in his sixties. Coach Machman has the stiff bearing of a military man, the height of a current football player and the gut of a former one. I surmise he spends too much time guzzling soda and eating stadium food.
He shakes my hand with a firm grip, which I appreciate. “Young lady.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
My daddy places a hand on my shoulder. “Bryant's my right-hand woman. I wouldn't get anything done around here if it weren't for her.”
“We all need a Bryant in our lives.” Coach gives me a small nod. “How’s the team look tonight?”
“We’re going to win,” I declare, but soften the boast with a qualification. “But I’d say that if we were down twenty and there were only two minutes left in the game.”
This pulls a grin from the stoic coach.
“That’s the right attitude. You’ve got a lot of good talent on this team.” He directs the last statement to Daddy.
“We do our best to get them NFL ready,” Daddy agrees, surveying the starters who are stretching on the field, warming up for the game.
I wonder who Coach is examining today. Neither he nor Daddy gives anything away as the conversation takes a bland turn to the unseasonably warm late November evening and how Coach Machman loves New York but doesn't appreciate the cold winters.
“Will you be watching from the field or upstairs?” Most scouts like to be on the field, but coaches and owners like the box suites. As for me, I'll take the sidelines any day. Up in those boxes, you're too far away from the action.
“The field, I think, as long as your dad doesn't mind.” He looks to Daddy for approval.
“You're welcome wherever you like. Maybe you can give me some tips.”
“Not likely. I think you have a better record than I do.”
Daddy waves off the compliment. “Not on the same level, Machman, but I’m proud of my boys. They’ll show you a good game tonight.”
“Are you here to look at anyone in particular?” It's sort of a rude question, but I can't help but ask it, even if I’m getting the side-eye from my father.
“Well, I'd love to draft Ty, but I'm afraid he's not going to be around by the time our pick is on the clock.”
“Quarterback, then?” I ask brightly. “Because Ace Anderson is really good, isn’t he, Daddy? I mean, I swear we haven’t had such a talented man behind center in such a long time. He’s got great instincts.”
“We have Oliver Graham,” Coach Machman reminds me. “He won us a Super Bowl a couple of years ago. It’s too bad Anderson won’t think about shifting to a different position.”
“Well, that’s because Ace’s a quarterback,” I insist. “If he wants to play quarterback, then no one should be forcing him otherwise.”
“Bryant!” Daddy admonishes. “It’s not up for you to say what a player’s willing to do.” He gives me a sharp glare before turning the charm spigot in Machman’s direction. “If you’ve got some thoughts about Anderson being draftable, I’d like to talk to you about him, along with a couple other players.”
Machman shifts his eyes toward me and then back to Daddy. I clasp my hands anxiously and wait to hear what Coach has to say, but he remains maddeningly close-mouthed.
“Well?” I demand, as if I have the right. “What do you think?”
The silence stretches out awkwardly until Daddy clears his throat.
“Why don't you go check with the official to see if we're on time?” It’s not a suggestion; it’s a softly worded order. Machman isn’t going to talk while I’m there offering inappropriate assessments.
I swallow the lump of embarrassment that has formed in my throat. “Sure. I’ll go right now.”
Cheeks aflame, I make my way down the field. I pass Knox Masters, former third pick in the draft and current potential defensive rookie of the year. He’s watching the warmup routine with intense interest.
I pause to check in on him. “Can I get you anything, Knox?”
He doesn't take his eyes off his brother as he answers. “Nah, I'm good. It feels weird to be on this side of the field.”
“Divided loyalties are never fun, but since you're standing on Renegade territory, we'll expect you to cheer for us.”
Knox's lips curve up in a wry smile. “Today, I can do that.”
“And when our team plays the Western State Warriors in the championship, which team’s jersey will you be wearing?” It bugs me how Ace was treated at his former team. They’d pushed him out like he was used trash when he’d been part of two championships.
Knox grimaces. “I’m hoping it all works out in the playoffs, and I’m not forced to make hard decisions.”
“Your twin's a Renegade, and the quarterback who helped deliver you two championships are counting on your support. I'm sure you'll do the right thing.” I g
ive him a thin smile as I leave. Outside of the home tunnel, I grab a student trainer. “See that boy right there?” I point to Knox, whose attention is back on the field.
“Yeah?”
“If he starts cheering for the other side, move him.”
“How're we going to do that?” the student squawks. “He has a pass.”
“After the first quarter, escort him up to the box. We’re not having any bad juju on the sidelines. Not if I have anything to do with it. And most of all, keep him away from Ace.”
Ace doesn't need to hear anything but positive things tonight. These past weeks have flown by, and with each win, I keep waiting for him to lose an ounce of his intensity, but he doesn’t. If anything, as we draw closer to the end of the season, Ace becomes hyper-focused.
And each time I think I should draw back, I find new excuses to stick with him. I can’t ruin his concentration on the game. The team needs this Ace. He’s not ready. He’s still short, abrupt, and terse with nearly everyone. Everyone, but me. With me, he’s sweet as sugared tea. He showers me with attention. The patience he doesn’t have for anyone else comes out in the bedroom, where he’ll spend hours kissing me, stroking me, loving me.
His pre-game rituals include sneaking into my bedroom to screw me senseless. He said the sex calms his nerves. I probably need it more than him.
Right now, though, I need a shot of bourbon to calm my nerves, and I know right where to find one. Daddy keeps a big bottle of Kentucky whiskey behind his collection of five signed Bear Bryant biographies.
That’s where Daddy finds me when the team comes in from warm-ups.
“Pour me a finger or three,” he orders.
I do as he tells me. “Conference championships are the very devil,” I say. My own jangling nerves require the use of two hands to avoid spilling any of the expensive amber liquid.
Daddy takes the glass from me and drinks it down in two gulps. “Want to tell me what in the tarnation went on there in front of Coach Machman?”
“I don’t know.” I hang my head. “Suffering from foot and mouth disease. I’m anxious to help Ace.”
Daddy places the glass back on the desk and tips my head up. “Ace is a grown man. As much as I love your help around here, these boys have to make their own decisions. You can’t be interfering with someone else’s decisions without their say-so.”
Downed (Gridiron #3) Page 20
