by Kat Kenyon
He needs to sleep, but it isn’t easy for him to go under with all the nerves and excitement, and I put him to sleep the way only a girlfriend can. When we get up, the parade and all the things that surround the game are ticking toward us.
It’s time.
We’re able to see him briefly before they dress down, where I stand with Tate, Tegs, Kris, Leslie, and Margot.
The receiving room is being used by the Warriors, and after a group talk, I say good luck to the guys I’ve watched bust their asses all season, letting the others talk to Tyler first. When it’s my turn, I wrap my arms around his waist and breathe him in.
“You are the man,” I say, smiling up at him.
He looks out at the sky, crystal clear today and cold, before curling down to wrap his arms around me. “I’m supposed to be the Cyborg today, not mortal.”
A flicker of nerves shows, making me tighten around him.
“You are…the perfect blend of man and machine.” My memory’s good, and I see it hit him, too.
“I am,” he says, and I watch as his muscles begin to flex. Fire burns in his eyes as I dig my nails into his abs.
I give him a smirk. “You do what you want.”
“And I do.” Devilish smile spreading, he gives my ass a squeeze. “And I’m looking at what I wanna do.”
“You are my man.”
His fingers slip to the back of my head, threading my hair, and tug, the bite of force setting us both off. “Yes.”
“My machine, and you will own that fucking field. You are a stadium god!”
Staring him in the eye, I see him breathe harder. His blood’s rising so hot and fast, I can practically see it burning like a wildfire in his body. The flex in my hair gets tighter, stinging and making me hot. “You own that field.” Raising my voice, I don’t care who hears me. “Now, who are you?”
Jerking me against him, he yanks my head back, kinetic energy racing between us, dark and violent. And then he smirks.
“I’m fucking yours. And I will fuck you right after this.” Lifting a brow in warning, he says, “Be ready.” Crashing his lips down on mine, he inhales me, making me see stars, then abruptly releases me and walks away.
His tall, imposing figure disappears, leaving me only slightly embarrassed, laughter and want competing for dominance because my blood’s pumping too.
He is mine.
I’m going to be there for that promised fuck.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tyler Blackman
The locker room is buzzing. Adrenaline racing, the team has a collective heartbeat slamming against the walls. My skin’s hot, muscles pumping up, and my girl’s taste is on my tongue as I try to get through my pre-game routine, the drive to the starting whistle making things fly by.
I’m not the only one. Players are ramming into each other and bleeding testosterone all over the room. Coach Mills feeds the monster with a speech meant to rev us higher.
We’re set to rip off heads and outrun a locomotive by the time we’re standing in front of the cameras, waiting to be released to run out of the tunnel. Guys scream into the camera and bounce into each other, not as part of the show, but as part of the primal release of endorphins.
We are warriors of the gridiron. We bruise and bleed for others to earn money we’ll never see. We risk brain damage and broken bones for screaming fans. We perform and execute to perfection for the disciples of the game, why? For the chance at fame? Not likely, most of us will be forgotten. For a chance to play professionally? Maybe, but that’s a pipe dream for most. Even those who play are only an injury away from it being over. No, we play because we love it.
We have to.
The crowd’s louder than anything we’ve ever heard. The wave of Blood and Iron across the stadium is stunning. There was an equal number of seats available for the opposing team, but our fans have overwhelmed the visual space, heightening the tension to the point I can almost feel it brushing the raised hairs on my arms.
Our two captains take to the field for the last time in Warriors’ uniforms, looking like the gods we are.
We win the toss and take possession, and in the moments before kickoff, the speed of the day goes from times-ten to quarter-speed. Until the whistle. Once we take the field, a surge hits me and I react to the snap like a shotgun. Pushing off the dirt, I come off the AstroTurf, slipping past their line, blasting past defenders.
I’m not the only one. Lark breaks fast inside and when McVey releases, it hits Lark dead center.
We’re on fire!
I spend several plays blocking, while McVey moves us downfield fast, no timeouts, no huddles. Their defense focuses on me, forgetting how good Lark is, and we push past the fifty-yard line in minutes.
Bad call. My man is NFL bound.
We score with a catch from one of our tight ends. It’s a brilliant play, highlighting how good McVey is at making calls and showing off how lethal we are. He’ll be drafted first round, no question.
On their possession, our defense holds. They do the job against the bigger offense.
Mike shows he’s dangerous, getting one of only three sacks on the opposing quarterback all season. But, even with that, the first quarter is a back-and-forth race for dominance.
At the end of the second quarter, I get my first score of the game and it feels so damn good! I’ve got my rhythm. I’m the explosion on the line. I’m the boom!
I find myself laughing when we line up again, and I can see I’m pissing off number fifty, who’s lined up across from me.
I don’t trash talk on the field for the most part, but watching this guy lose his shit because I’m having fun, lights up my inner dick. His look says the big man has a hard-on for me now, and he can take his best shot.
I cock my eyebrow and laugh in his face.
Damn right, bitch.
I’m off the line at the snap, aiming and blasting into his shoulder at full speed. It’s the first direct shot I’ve purposely taken the whole game. He’s solid and no joke as a defender, but he wasn’t ready. It takes him off his feet.
Boom!
I’m away and down the field before he can regain his legs. McVey launches a Hail Mary I shouldn’t catch. It’s too far above my head, probably meant to be an incomplete, but I jump and stretch out my hand, catching it.
On the way down, I get blasted in the ribs from the side, but I stretch out to gain yardage, hitting every part of my body. Hard.
It takes a moment to breathe, but when I do, it’s all good. I wanted their best shot, and I practically laugh, thinking, Is that all you got?
When I look up, the ball’s in the end zone, ref’s hands are up.
I cackle as the half ends, deep in my fucked-up happy place. This may be the most fun I’ve had playing ball since I was a kid. The violence runs high on each clash, and it jacks me up. I feel everything…and it feels good.
When the second half starts, I play violently happy. The opposing team is brutal, and I take it all. They want to kill us, kill me, as my line gives me every opportunity to score I could want, but they can’t stop us as we mix up the defender’s targets too much to track.
As the end of the game runs down, we’re up one touchdown. Lining up, number fifty glares as I smile and laugh. I know he’s sick of me. My smile widens as my fingers clench the air, my palms stinging from passes that feel like they could break bone. Cleats dig in.
Feels good.
“Motherfucker, what the hell are you laughing at?” he yells, his frustration getting the best of him.
I’m in your head, bitch!
I think for a second about whether I should taunt him or tell him the truth.
Fuck it.
“I’m a walk-on, man! I’m a freshman walk-on, playing in a bowl! Wouldn’t you be happy?” I laugh again.
His face shifts as several players on his team look at me and then him. His lips press together and then he puffs out a breath.
“Bitch!” He laughs. The snap goes off and I bl
ast at his shoulder again. He’s ready this time. I have to push, spin off, and break. Within seconds McVey’s pass hits me square in the chest.
This is fucking awesome!
Ten yards under my feet, and I’m taken down from behind. Which would be fine, except someone tries to strip the ball, ripping at my hand. As I land, my hand twists under me and I hit the ground at an odd angle, the ball gripped tight.
The pain is excruciating, lightning ripping up from my fist to my shoulder to my brain.
I know it’s broken. There’s no question in my mind. When the guy who hit me rolls off, I leave the ball on the ground and use my good hand and legs to get up. I can’t move my hand and have to turn to the sideline to signal I’m coming out. A hand slap on my shoulder pad. Number fifty’s looking at my hand.
“I heard something snap, man. You okay?”
I give him a grimacing smile. “I’ll be fine.”
I know it’s not. I can’t move three fingers. It’s an odd mixture of stabbing pain and growing numbness. I want to keep playing, but wide receivers can’t play with an unworking hand. I’m waved off field.
I’m going to miss the last part of the bowl game. I know it’s only the last couple minutes, but they’re my fucking minutes.
Standing on the sidelines, I watch as we finish. I refuse to leave, even when the staff yells at me to get moving.
Coach Mills understands. I won’t leave my team. Instead, the team doctor looks at my hand while I watch our defense give up a field goal, but not a touchdown, in the last seconds of the game.
I can’t be mad. The Warriors take the Rose Bowl.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rayne Mathews
The message to trail him to the hospital worries me, but since he stayed on the sidelines, I’m not scared. It has to be something pretty bad for him to come off the field at all, but if he was in danger, they’d have removed him. Something they’ve done before.
By the time I get through traffic and to the hospital, he’s already been taken in to be prepped for surgery. The X-rays show several fractures, and my man is not a happy camper, but he isn’t mad. Calm determination fills question after question at the doctor, who says they have to move fast before vascular damage occurs from the swelling.
He’ll be under for several hours while they put pins and a plate in. He’ll have recovery time that’ll make him miserable, and he’ll spend party time in the hospital instead of with the boys, but the surgeon says he’ll be okay.
Leslie runs through the doors ready to kill him for staying on the field. The surgeon tells her Tyler’s hand is in bad shape, but they’ve fixed worse, so it’ll be good as new.
“Fine. Do it,” he says, cutting off his mom’s distress. I hold his other hand while he says it. As soon as he does, we look at each other and smile. He’ll heal.
Moments later, he’s gone to be put under. With Leslie’s money and connections, he has the best people taking care of him. It’s what keeps me calm as I walk out to wait in the lobby with his mom and aunt.
It doesn’t take long before Leslie’s pacing back and forth, making calls and tearing up. She’s freaking out and doesn’t want anyone to see, and Margot is worse than useless at calming her down. Within twenty minutes only a couple of the football staff are waiting with us because Leslie makes everyone else leave.
While we count down the seconds, and when she’s not staring silently into space, Margot starts saying things that upset Leslie. Thoughtless condemnation about the sport, about letting him play, speculation if the surgery will work, if his hand will function. She’s a malignant force in the waiting room, draining the hopeful attitude we need.
Leslie tries to ignore her, but after a couple hours, it seems to finally get to her. She slumps to the chair next to mine. “What’s taking so long?” she asks, attempting to whisper.
I squeeze her hand. “They’re making sure all the ligaments, tendons, muscles, and blood vessels are attached and in working order. It’s okay. He’ll be fine,” I say with confidence.
“Don’t say that,” Margot snaps from across the room, dropping her magazine in her lap. “You can’t promise that.” She glares at me and tries to shift, looking uncomfortable in her CU jersey.
She’s been snippy since we met, but she’s not even trying for civility now.
“I may not be in there, but the surgeon was confident he would be fine.” He’ll be fine. I know he will.
“Young lady—” Margot starts to harangue me.
“Margot, stop. She’s right, I’m panicking over nothing. They said this would take hours and it’s taking hours. I need to calm down. Hell, I teach people how to breathe through this kind of stuff for a living.”
Leslie exhales a hissing breath, closing her eyes. I watch as she methodically breathes in and out, almost humming under her breath.
“That crap you play with is ridiculous.”
Margot’s snide comment sets off a nasty energy that crackles. The two of them look at each other, a power play going on between them that I want no part of. This is exactly what he didn’t want to be around, and I don’t blame him.
I stand and walk to get hot chocolate from the vending machine down the hall, avoiding their anger. When I get back, the two are sitting calmly, not talking. They stay silent, making the minutes endless.
Finally, the head surgeon comes out to let us know the operation was a success. His hand is fine, and he’ll regain full use with no problem. We have to wait a little longer for him to get into recovery before we’re allowed to see him and when we do, he’s still groggy.
Even after surgery, he looks massive and healthy while lying under a thin blanket. His face is pensive as he watches us walk in. Leslie goes quickly and kisses his forehead and starts to cry. She’s fussing and stressed, picking at the blanket and staring at the IV in his arm. I can tell it upsets him because he’s not sure if he should be worried.
Frustrated with her, I step around her while she hovers in panic and meet him straight in the eye, sliding a finger down the forearm of his injured hand, and smile.
“Hi.”
I watch as relief crosses his face.
“Baby.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tyler Blackman
Getting rid of my mom was a trick. I know she cares, but after two days, I wanted to kill her. After they released me, Mom demanded I stay with her in a hotel where she could take care of me, as though I’m an invalid. She claimed to want family time, but it annoyed me. Her smothering concern and irritability made me roll my eyes so many times I got caught. I shouldn’t have had to explain why Rayne needed to stay with me, but it took overnight for her to get it, and Rayne wouldn’t stay unwanted. She acted panicked that I’d be maimed, or that I’d hurt myself hugging Rayne, not that it stopped her from hugging me.
The person I needed was kept out of my arms the first night and the next because Mom made her feel bad. I don’t know where Mom’s problem came from, but I didn’t care. It took a call to Granddad to get her to back up and off.
My hand hurts, no question, but it’s getting better. I don’t need the painkillers they gave me, relying on ibuprofen. I already started physical therapy, and with classes starting that might have been an issue, but without practice, I’ve got time.
Time.
Time for a lot of things that I care about. The most important is Rayne. The one who let me know that everything was going to be okay with a single smile. When I woke up and got mobbed by Mom, it made my stomach hurt. I was sure she wouldn’t act like I was dying unless something went wrong. Rayne’s blue eyes were what made it okay, letting me know things were fine in a split second. I could feel her silent words wash through me, making it better. Only the person who owns you can do that.
I never did see Dad. Mom called him to let him know how bad it was, then again to let him know when I went into surgery. He never bothered to show. A day later, I got a message asking if I’d be able to play next year.
My coaches didn’t even ask that first. And my teammates just keep trying to get me drunk. Dad, he wants to know if my football career is over.
It’d be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic, considering Blackman Construction put out a press release about my performance, and he’s started posting on his personal social media about the injury and how hard I’m working. It doesn’t bother me as much as it would have though. Rayne’s been taking care of me, so I’m good.
“Hey, Tegs and Tate wanna know if we wanna go to dinner. They’re downstairs and heading out for sushi?” Rayne calls from the bathroom after finishing up a shower. I spent the afternoon letting her ride me, making for a relaxed and happy day.
“Sounds good,” I call back, pushing up off her bed, the cast on my hand protecting it against the pressure. It’s not like we’re planning anything except getting dirty again, and we’ll still do that when we get back.
I hear her tell the others, and then she comes out, blonde hair slicked back in a ponytail. Her tiny pink boy shorts are the only thing she’s wearing, showing off her body.
“Keep looking at me like that and we’ll starve,” she quips, rolling her eyes.
I give her a lecherous grin. “Nah, I’ll eat you.”
She shakes her head and digs in her drawers, slipping on a bra, shadowed cleavage begging to be fucked. It takes a lot more effort not to slip down her panties and do what I really want than it does to work out in the morning.
After we’re dressed, we head out. On the way to my truck, I tuck her under my arm. It’s a short walk to the parking lot, but long enough that we recognize the stream of students returning to campus from break. I huff into her hair because chances are, I’m going to lose my sweet parking spot, and I say so. She just laughs when I hold up my cast and remind her I’m handicapped.
I tickle her as we walk around my passenger side where I open the door. She wiggles under my hand, then stops short.
