by Lane Hart
“Wow,” I mutter in surprise at yet another kindness from Quinton when it comes to children, first visiting the sick kids in the pediatric unit of the hospital and now responding personally to his fans. It’s surprisingly…sweet. I can’t help but wonder if becoming a father is the reason he’s making such an effort. And, holy shit, he has a lot of fans. Maybe it’s finally time for me to see him in his element, to figure out why so many people love him.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go to the game,” I reluctantly agree.
“Yay!” Kelsey cheers. “Oh, and I forgot to mention Quinton left each of us one of his jerseys. Well, they’re not his, but the women’s versions, you know? I’m so excited. We might get to be on television!”
“Settle down, girl. It’s just a football game,” I tease her, even if I’m getting somewhat excited too.
“Let’s get changed, pack up Brady’s bag, and then we’ll be ready to leave.”
The stadium is already packed when we get there, even though it’s still forty-five minutes until kickoff. I have to admit that the family suite is impressive. There are rows and rows of free food and drinks at the buffet, and everyone’s incredibly nice when they come over to meet Quinton’s son for the first time.
Once the game starts, most of the group heads outside to the seats. Since the sun is shining down on the stadium, unobstructed by clouds and the temperature is seventy degrees, mild for October, Kelsey and I bundle Brady in a warm, fleece blanket and take him outside too.
The crowd below us and above us in the stands are shouting and cheering loudly for their team when the announcer starts introducing the players. When the booming voice gets to Quinton’s name, he rushes out of the smoky, fire blazing tunnel to the applause of thousands of fans. It’s the first time I actually realize just how famous the giant man is. A glance around the bleachers shows that everyone in this stadium loves him. Many of the fans are wearing his number eighteen jersey too.
And yeah, I feel sort of special sitting in the team’s family section wearing a jersey provided by the man on the field himself. There may be dozens of other big, strong players down there with him, but Quinton is…different. His presence is impossible to overlook.
“This is so awesome!” Kelsey exclaims after the kickoff.
I’m not too familiar with football, but I do know which one is the quarterback position, and it’s not Quinton.
“Wait. Why isn’t Quinton playing?” Kelsey asks, voicing my same question.
“No clue,” I mutter, glancing to the sideline where Quinton looks tense and frustrated, holding his helmet down by his side.
Everyone in the box with us is whispering, asking the same thing. The backup quarterback isn’t terrible, but he rarely throws during the first quarter, handing off the ball to the running back on most plays.
Finally, in the second quarter, Quinton pulls on his helmet and jogs onto the field for the first time. The entire stadium erupts into deafening cheers.
After the huddle, Quinton stands tall and proud in his uniform, gold pants and a navy jersey over shoulder pads, looking powerful and confident as he shouts words I don’t understand and his teammates move around to follow his orders. The ball snaps, and then Quinton’s dropping back, looking down the field for a receiver. He throws the ball with the force of a bullet leaving a gun. It spirals in a perfect arch through the air and lands right in his teammate’s hands.
Wow.
Quinton’s so…commanding and sexy out there. I watch in awe as he continues to lead his team down the field and score a touchdown, the Wildcats taking the lead after neither team was able to score in the first quarter. The Wildcats' female kicker then adds six more points with two field goals before halftime.
During the break, Kelsey and I take turns holding Brady so that we can each grab a bite to eat ourselves before the game starts back up.
Kelsey’s holding Brady when Quinton enters the game for the first time in the third quarter. I find myself holding my breath every time the ball is snapped until he throws it or hands it off to the running back, since there are several times when a defensive player breaks through the line and nearly takes him down.
And then, at the beginning of the fourth quarter, a Shark player spins around to avoid a block and plows into the front of Quinton. The ball barely leaves his hand before Quinton’s slammed backward to the ground. He was sacked once in the first half, but he got up, brushed the grass off and kept going.
This time, though, Quinton doesn’t move after the other man climbs off of him and celebrates his brutality.
Everyone in the crowd gasps in concern, and some of us get to our feet.
The medical staff runs out onto the field to check on Quinton as the jumbotron keeps replaying the vicious hit over and over again.
When Quinton finally sits up, the entire stadium blows out the breath they were holding and applauds in relief.
Thank God!
I’m not sure what happened to him, but it’s a good sign that he’s sitting up and talking. A few more minutes pass, and the men pull Quinton to his feet, helping him stagger off the field and back through the tunnel to the locker room.
“Oh my God, that was scary,” Kelsey says, clutching at my upper arm with her free hand, Brady gripped in her other arm.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask her.
“I don’t know. I hope so,” she answers.
“Should we try to go down there?” I ask.
“I don’t think it’s that easy, Callie. Security will never let us through,” she tells me.
“Come on,” a tall, older gentleman with whitish-blond hair says to us. “I can take you to the locker rooms.”
“You can?” I ask him skeptically.
“Yeah, my daughter’s Roxy Benson,” he says proudly with a smile. “So I’m on the list to get through security.”
“Okay, great. Thank you,” I tell him as we follow him through the stadium toward an elevator.
We go down the many levels, and when the elevator doors open, again we’re immediately greeted by stadium security guards dressed in all black.
“They’re with me,” the man says, showing the pass around his neck. “This is Quinton Dunn’s son. These ladies are his guests from the family suite.”
The two guards look at each other silently for a few seconds before one nods.
“Let’s see your tickets, and we’ll let you through this time, but Mr. Dunn needs to get them passes.”
“Thanks,” I tell him while showing him my and Kelsey’s tickets, since her hands are still full with Brady.
After that checkpoint, we face two more that Roxy’s father talks us through before we finally make it to the training room. Through the glass wall of windows, we can see Quinton sitting on a padded table while an army of men and women gather around him.
“Thank you, Mr. Benson,” I tell Roxy’s dad. “We’ll wait for him here. I know you want to get back up there to watch your daughter.”
“Good luck, ladies. Here’s hoping the best for our QB,” he says before starting back to the elevator.
Kelsey and I watch and wait as the attendants shine a light into Quinton’s eyes, feel around his head and talk to him for several minutes. A few of the staff trickles out of the room; and when there’s only one remaining, he shakes his head and says something to Quinton that causes the giant man to pick up the helmet sitting next to him and throw it across the room where it slams into the wall.
I guess the news wasn’t what Quinton wanted to hear.
“Do you think…you think we should come back later?” Kelsey asks. “He looks upset.”
“Um, let me go in first and talk to him,” I suggest, handing her Brady’s diaper bag. I know Quinton wouldn’t hurt us or anyone else, but if he’s gonna cuss and yell in anger, I would rather it be at me instead of Kelsey and Brady, who might get upset.
Once the last doctor leaves Quinton alone, I ease into the room where Quinton’s still sitting on the edge of the table, his head hanging sadly.
“Hey,” I say with my approach.
Quinton’s head whips around, and his eyes widen in surprise when he sees me. “What are you…how did you get down here?” he asks, holding a hand up to the back of his damp, sweaty head as if it still hurts.
“Oh, um, Roxy Benson’s dad helped me, Kelsey and Brady get through security. Is that okay?” I ask since he didn’t sound all that happy to see me
“Yeah, whatever. It’s fine,” he answers.
“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping closer to examine him myself.
“Fucking concussion protocol. I’m out the rest of the game,” he mutters.
“You’ve got a concussion?” I ask, wringing my hands in concern.
“I only blacked out for a few seconds,” he replies.
“Concussions are serious, Quinton,” I tell him. “You can’t risk getting another one so soon.”
“Whatever,” he grumbles. “I’m just so fucking frustrated and tired and…and horny.”
Did he just say he’s horny?
Wow, okay. Why does that cause a flutter down below?
“Sex is probably considered strenuous activity,” I tell him, because I want to discourage him from engaging in casual sex with a stranger.
“What are you? A doctor now?” he snaps at me.
“No, I’m just the concerned aunt of your son,” I tell him. “Remember him? Brady would probably like to grow up and get to know his father without any brain damage getting in the way.”
“I hate how you’re always right and shit,” Quinton says, his speech slightly slurred before he jumps down from the table and immediately careens hard to the left. I reach out to grab his side, mostly just to hold him against the table since he easily has more than a hundred pounds on me. “Why did you yank the rug out from under me?” he looks down and asks.
“You’re dizzy,” I assure him since I’m not sure if he’s joking or serious. “Sit here until I can find some trainers to help get you to the parking lot. I’ll send Kelsey out with Brady to get him buckled in and come to the curb to pick us up.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “I can play.”
“You’re not fine, and you’re not gonna play,” I tell him, smacking my palms against his chest when he tries to move forward. It’s about as effective as stopping Superman from going somewhere. “Quinton! Sit your ass down!” I order.
“Fine, I’ll sit,” he agrees while still standing with my hands pressed against the eighteen on his jersey.
“Good.”
“If you’ll flash me.”
“What?” I exclaim. “Flash you? No way,” I tell him with a shake of my head, removing my hands from him.
“Come on, Callie. Show me those titties. Just a quick peek,” he slurs while reaching for the bottom of my jersey. Or his jersey that I’m wearing. Whatever. He’s delusional if he thinks I’m gonna flash him in this fishbowl of a room with windows all around. Not that I would flash him in any other room either…
“I’m going to find the trainers,” I tell him.
“They’re back on the field with my team, where I should be,” he declares, pushing me aside to walk past me.
Shit.
I grab his arm to stop him, but Quinton just drags me along as he staggers to the door. There’s no way I can possibly restrain him on my own, and he definitely can’t go back out into the stadium alone, or he might fall and bust his head again.
“Dammit, Quinton. Fine! Fine, I’ll flash you. But you have to sit your ass down on that table and wait for the trainers to come back,” I tell him, jerking on his arm and pointing a finger to the place where he can lay down in case he starts getting light headed.
“Okay,” he agrees with a lazy grin before he stumbles back to the table and hops up on it, his legs so long they almost touch the ground. Almost. But his grass-stained cleats are about two inches from the floor, so they swing back and forth like an excited boy. “Let me see,” he urges.
Oh, my God. Am I really gonna do this?
“Do you promise to sit there until the trainers come back?” I ask.
“Yep,” he agrees.
Glancing around the glass windows, there’s one security guard in sight along with Kelsey, who’s looking at me wide-eyed in concern while bouncing Brady on her shoulder. My back will be to them both when I raise my shirt, so that’s something at least.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Here goes…”
“Wait,” Quinton interrupts. “Let me do it.”
“Do what?” I ask.
“Lift your shirt.”
Ugh. This man-boy is such a pain in my ass. But he does have a concussion, and the odds are he won’t even remember this in a few hours.
“Okay, but it has to be quick. Three seconds.”
“Five,” he counters.
“This is not a negotiation. Three or nothing.”
“Agreed. But I count them,” he replies.
With a resolute nod, I finally close the distance between us until I’m standing in the V of Quinton’s spread thighs. I give a quick glance over my shoulder to check for witnesses, and it’s still just one guard and Kelsey watching us. So, I do the only thing I can think of. I point at an imaginary person behind them before I say to him, “Go.”
Quinton doesn’t waste any time. His big fingers clench both sides of my jersey and jerk the material up past my breasts so that it’s thankfully blocking my face, so I don’t have to watch him staring at them.
“Mmm. Nice, Callie,” Quinton mutters sending shivers down my arms. “Very nice. I like the navy blue lace. All it needs is a yellow bow, and it would be the team colors.”
“That’s three seconds,” I warn him.
“Oh, I forgot to count. My bad,” he replies. “One Mississippi.”
“Quinton!” I warn, trying to take a step back, but he doesn’t let go of the jersey.
“Two Mississippi.”
“Three Mississippi,” I huff and then jerk away from him, and he finally drops the jersey.
Chapter Twenty
Quinton
Callie let me look at her tits.
I’m not sure why that amuses me so much, especially since I’m sitting in the fucking training room alone with her while my teammates are out on the field playing without me. I should be thinking about them, not how perfectly round and full Callie’s tits were or how sexy the navy blue lace was, so sheer that I could see a hint of her pink nipples through it.
Like a juvenile boy with a Playboy magazine, my dick’s hard from just looking at a pair of titties. Maybe I hit my head on the ground harder than I remembered.
“My head hurts,” I tell Callie, rubbing my temple as a distraction from wondering how my team is doing and how Warren, my backup, is playing. Please let him hold this shit together.
“Sorry,” she says with a frown. “I don’t know if you can have headache medicine or not. Maybe I can get you some ice?”
“No. There’s only one thing I need,” I tell her seriously. “A soft place to lay my head. I know of just the spot, too. Why don’t you hop up here so I can cozy up to your pillows?” I tease her, my grin breaking through despite trying to hide it.
“Oh grow up,” Callie huffs.
“Something’s growing, all right,” I tell her, waggling my eyebrows.
“I’m gonna regret flashing you for the rest of my life, aren’t I?” she asked. “Should’ve known better than to give in to the whims of the crippled.”
“Hey! I’m not crippled, just concussed. And I’ve had worse.”
“Concussions are dangerous, Quinton,” Callie replies.
“I know,” I agree with a nod. “If I had just hurt my ankle, you wouldn’t have flashed me, would you?”
“We’re never gonna talk about that again,” Callie tells me through gritted teeth.
“Okay, fine. No more talking about it,” I agree. “Doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking about them.” Closing my eyes, I start fondling an imaginary pair of Callie’s tits in the air in front o
f me before I bring my mouth down so I can flick my tongue over where one of her nipples would be.
“Jesus. He’s worse than I thought,” the voice I recognize as Lathan’s says, causing my eyes to open and my hands to let go of the phantom boobs.
“Final score?” I ask anxiously, watching his face for the answer. I groan when he winces. “How bad?”
“The D was no joke. Warren got sacked. Twice,” Lathan fills us in.
“But we were up by thirteen!” I exclaim.
“And he fumbled both times. The defense ran it back for a touchdown on the first one, and then our defense couldn’t stop the Shark’s offense when they recovered the second turnover at the twenty-yard line. Final score 14 to 13.”
“Fuck!” I shout, wishing I had my worthless helmet to throw again.
“It wasn’t your fault, man,” Lathan says. “If you had been out there, you might have fumbled too.”
“I don’t fumble!” I yell in response. “One, I’ve only had one fumble in the last three years!”
“Watch and see. The Sharks defense is gonna be the best in the league this year,” Lathan argues. “You just need to take it easy and be ready for next week’s away game.”
“If you or some of the other guys can help walk him out, I’ll make sure he goes home and rests,” Callie tells Lathan.
“I can walk on my own, woman!” I shout at her.
“No, he can’t. He’s dizzy and…and talking crazy. Don’t believe anything he says,” she whispers to Lathan.
“Don’t listen to her! She’s just regretting letting me see her boobs. Go ahead and show, Lathan, Callie. He’s never seen a woman’s breasts before.”
“Knee him in the balls, Callie. Go ahead, he deserves it,” Lathan mutters while glaring at me.
“Not in front of my son,” I warn. “Wait. Where’s my son?” I ask, looking through the glass to where Kelsey was just standing with Brady. Now there are tons of people crowded around, reporters, cameras and some fans.
When I glance back in question at Callie, she’s looking at Lathan.
“Kelsey took Brady to get the car, remember?” Callie meets my eyes and asks softly. The hesitant look on her face is uncharacteristic of the usually feisty woman. “They came in to see you; then left about ten or fifteen minutes ago.”
