by Dez Burke
Seduced by the Football Player
Copyright 2013 Dez Burke
Chapter One
Of all the ways to waste a perfectly good evening! Beth, my newspaper’s feature editor said she’d kill to take my place. Right now, I’d happily let her kill me. I can think of at least a hundred things I’d rather be doing tonight.
The hotel is fancy; I must admit. And Panther Sports have laid out a good spread, with a finger buffet and more champagne than the journalists could ever hope to drink in one night.
The cynical side of me suggests that the organizers believe drunk journalists will write about the evening more favorably. Rolling my eyes, I accept a glass from a roaming waiter. It’s only T-shirts and baseball caps, I think to myself, as I sip the slightly warm liquid.
If I’m honest, it’s not just the nature of the assignment that’s put me in such a bad mood, although that’s definitely part of it; after all, this is hardly Pulitzer prize-winning fodder.
But no, what makes this the true evening in hell is the familiar face who is now making his way onto the makeshift elevated stage. Chris Hays is wearing a tight pair of dark jeans, a blue T-shirt with the red Atlanta Eagles logo stretched across his broad chest, and the blindingly white pair of sneakers that Panther Sports have asked him to model.
At a little over six and a half feet, Chris towers above the emcee, who’s just announced him. His skin is clear and flawless, not seeming to have aged at all since the last time I saw him. His smile is wide and sincere, reaching his eyes, as he lifts a hand to the applauding crowd.
With a champagne flute still in hand, I’m unable to join in. I want to turn away; to go back to the buffet and yet I can’t bring myself to take my eyes from him. I’ve avoided watching any of his games since he turned pro, not that it’s helped.
Since he signed with the Atlanta Eagles ten months ago, he’s been just about the hottest property in the sport. With commercial contracts for everything from deodorant to soft drinks, he’s been incredibly hard to miss. When he’s not on TV, there’s a double-page spread in a magazine.
And, even after all these years, every single time I see his face, those feelings rush to the surface: Stupid, adolescent emotions that make me feel idiotic and gauche.
Even now, I can feel my cheeks turn a gentle shade of pink. For God’s sake, I tell myself, you’re not fifteen any more. And he’s just a guy, just one of billions of guys in the world, no more special than anyone else. The logical part of my brain knows all this to be true. However, the stubborn longevity of my inner teenager refuses to hear his name without sighing like a Victorian maiden.
Draining my glass, I force my stilettoed feet toward the bar for a refill, running a hand through my slightly wavy black hair as I walk.
“Refill?” the barman asks, fiddling with the bowtie around his neck, which is obviously unfamiliar to him.
“Thanks,” I nod, my eyes rebelling against my better judgment and drifting once more to the podium on which Chris stands. Casually, he smiles and poses for a phalanx of photographers. He doesn’t seem bothered by the repeated flashes that bombard his eyes, and I realize he must be used to it by now.
“He’s something, isn’t he?” the barman nudges, placing a fresh champagne glass in front of me with a subtle clink.
“Huh?” I mumble, taking a moment to register that he’s spoken. “Oh, yeah,” I add. “He’s definitely something.” As I distractedly agree, my gaze returns to Chris’s grin, the same one he’d flashed me some eight years ago.
Chapter Two
It’s strange what the brain will cling to and what it will unceremoniously dismiss. Four years of high school math and I couldn’t tell you much of what I learned in that class. However, the moment Chris Hays walked in, placing himself in the chair on my right, is seared into my memory.
All eyes were on him: the new kid. The girls, me included, were instantly attracted to this fresh-faced, muscular man, who seemed so much more mature and capable than the other boys. It was in the way he carried himself, a swagger that was just the right amount of confidence, without seeming arrogant. The guys, on the other hand, especially the jocks, eyed him warily. I think they knew, just as we girls did, that there was a new top dog on campus.
What amazed me was that, within a couple of weeks, Chris had managed to charm them all. Affable, friendly and with a surplus of smarts when it came to interacting with people, he was almost universally liked.
As I was far from universally liked, it was something that I both envied and admired. My biggest problems, it seemed to me, were that not only was I painfully shy, I was also from a lower income family from the “wrong side of the tracks.” Girls like me didn’t date the white jocks or for that matter ever fall in with the popular girl cliques either.
The ‘it’ girls at school were the cheerleaders, most of whom I found empty-headed. My few feeble attempts to fit in were perhaps, therefore, always doomed to fail. Besides, I told myself, I didn’t want to spend my evenings waving pom-poms around.
Eventually, I gave up the ridiculous idea to become friends with the popular crowd and accepted my fate as the quiet girl with glasses. I didn’t consider myself a nerd, but I was studious where most of my subjects were concerned. And, with the exception of math, I was a straight-A student. None of that really bothered me, until Chris came along.
I would have given anything for him to notice me. But, of course, he didn’t notice me. Why would he, when he could have anybody?
He noticed plenty of other girls, though: The cheerleaders, the track, volleyball and gymnastics teams. He gradually managed to work his way through most of the girls in the school. But that didn’t seem to affect Chris’s popularity. The girls hated each other, but they never turned on him.
And I had to admit, he was honest about it. He made no secret of the fact he liked to surf the dating pool. As far as I’m aware, he never promised exclusivity to any one of them. So, secretly I kept hoping that one day it would be my turn. But in truth, I didn’t need to be taken out to dinner, or a movie. I would have been satisfied with just a word or two from him. All I ever got, however, was that one smile on the very first day I saw him.
Chapter Three
As far as I can tell, things haven’t changed. Chris has an arm wrapped around a young woman’s waist; I’m not sure whether she’s here with the press or with Panther Sports, but whoever she is, she’s gladly being tugged to his side. The pair pose for another wave of camera flashes.
Gradually, he begins to step down from the small platform, into a circle made for him by a huddle of reporters. I should be over there, I know that. If I don’t get some quotes or some semblance of an article, I won’t have a job in the morning.
Reluctantly, I begin to move, my feet dragging unwillingly, as I become aware that my third glass of champagne has made the edges of the world a little fuzzy.
Staying somewhere near the back of the crowd, I listen to the fatuous questions being asked.
“So, Chris how are things in Atlanta?”
“Have you got a girlfriend, Chris?”
“Are those sneakers comfortable?”
Chris made no attempt to answer any of them. Instead, he smiled genially and waited for the journalists’ excitement to fade.
Sure enough, the hubbub slowly died, and a relative quiet fell over them. One eager young woman, who looked as though she were still an undergrad, held her hand up patiently.
“Yes?” Chris’s deep voice encouraged, as his eyes found her.
“Mr. Hays, could you tell us if the rumors of you and the Hollywood actress are true?”
Chris’s grin grew wider, his perfect, dazzling teeth on display as he audibly chuckled. “We
ll, that’s not the sort of thing a gentleman discusses,” he pointed out, as he stroked a self-congratulatory hand down the length of his torso.
While part of me saw him for the egotistical, arrogant pig that years of adulation had made him, an annoyingly resilient part continues to turn to mush in his presence. I can see he’s having the same effect on the girl who asked the question. Her eyelids are fluttering bashfully.
“James,” Chris says, suddenly changing the focus of his attention and finding a middle-aged man standing directly to my right.
I have no idea who this James is, but because Chris is familiar with him, I assume he’s a sports reporter and wonder what cardinal sin he committed to be sent here.
“Great game on Sunday,” James nods. “Are you looking forward to the Raiders game this weekend?”
“Always,” Chris responds, tilting his head. “They’re a good team,” he nods thoughtfully. “But we’re better.”
Chuckles from the assembled crowd rise up, but I glance to my right and note that James isn’t laughing. A Raiders fan or just thoroughly depressed by his current assignment, I can’t tell.
What I quickly discover is that this press conference, such as it is, is not going to provide me with anything to contribute to an article of substance. But, before I have time to walk away Chris calls a halt.
“I believe our hosts have a few more people to introduce,” he states warmly. “But, in the meantime, why don’t you enjoy the food,” he suggests.
I remain motionless, watching Chris, as he leads the young female journalist to one side of the spacious ballroom. Placing his large palm on the wall by her head, he leans down to speak to her. His words are far too quiet for me to hear and my lip reading, sadly, isn’t good enough to make out what he’s saying. I can take a good guess at the honeyed words he’s dripping in her ear, though. Her exaggerated giggling leaves me in little doubt of her response, too.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, turning away, as I realize I’m reliving high school all over again. There will always be someone prettier, someone blonder and someone more popular. And now, even though I’m only twenty three, there is someone younger. After all this time of being the invisible woman, why the hell do I let myself get weak-kneed around him? And why am I letting all those old securities and feeling like I’m not good enough rush to the surface again?
“I must need my head examined,” I sigh, shaking my head wearily.
With a deep breath, my eyes move from the throng surrounding the buffet table to the clear path to the double doors that cries ‘freedom!’ It would be so easy to leave. To get out of here, never look back and, finally, put Chris Hays behind me. With an internal ‘fuck this’, I’m in motion. For the first time this evening, I’m moving with purpose.
Except, as I reach the double doors and stretch my hand out to push one of them open, an arm is suddenly thrust in my way.
“Going somewhere?”
Stunned by the obstruction and the question, my eyes slowly move up his muscular forearm to the blue sleeve of his T-shirt, broad shoulder and finally his face. “I…umm…” I mutter, trying to find my voice.
“We haven’t had a chance to catch up, Jasmine,” he points out.
“Wh…” I weakly breathe. “You remember me?” I manage to blurt.
His lips quirk in a half-smile as he lowers his arm. Slipping both hands into the pockets of his pants, he leans on the doorframe to his right. “Of course I remember you,” he nods.
‘Don’t fall for it,’ I remind myself silently. “Well,” I sigh aloud, recovering my senses just enough to project an air of indifferent confidence. “Then, I’m sure you’ll remember that we don’t have much to catch up on. After all, we moved in very different circles, didn’t we?” I smile sardonically, my hand resuming its mission to push the door open.
With lightening reflexives, Chris’s fingers fly from his pocket and grasp my wrist. “What’s the rush?” he chuckles good humouredly.
I struggle for a moment to pull my hand from his grip, but he refuses to relent. Quickly realizing I’m never going to win a battle of strength against him, I relax. “This isn’t really my idea of a good time,” I explain.
“Not really mine either,” he says. “How about we go for a walk?”
“A walk?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” he shrugs, his fingers finally slipping from my wrist. “Why not?”
Suddenly, with his vice-like grip gone, I miss his touch. I feel bereft without the warmth of his firm hand. “Umm,” I mutter, staring at my pale wrist. “Okay,” I agree, still more focused on my arm than his proposition.
“Great,” he smiles, pushing the door wide and gesturing for me to precede him.
I let him lead me through a corridor, wanting to impress him with something witty or interesting, but knowing that the moment I open my mouth I’ll make a fool of myself. The fact that he doesn’t seem in the mood to talk either is making it slightly easier to bear the awkward silence, but only slightly.
“You want to come in here for a sec?” he eventually says, tilting his head towards a door that he’s already opening.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Just a room Panther Sports arranged for me, somewhere to change and stuff,” he shrugs. “It’s quieter.”
Is this leading where I think it’s leading? “Look, Chris,” I begin, shaking my head. “I’m-”
“Hey,” he interrupts, holding his hands up and mimicking surrender. “There’s no pressure,” he states calmly. “I just wanted to catch up in a quiet place where we won’t be disturbed.”
There is less than a second’s hesitation, before I nod my agreement and step across the threshold. I’m still not entirely sure he’s intentions are platonic. However, there’s a slow spread of heat between my thighs that renders me completely unable to turn around and go home.
The room is much smaller than I would have imaged. A leather couch sits along the length of one wall, with a small coffee table on which sits a couple of magazines and a newspaper. A dressing table is opposite it, with a mirror and a wooden chair.
“This is how Panther Sports treats its stars?” I ask, my eyebrows lifting in surprise. “No couch?” I add, turning to look at him.
He lifts both shoulders. “I haven’t even spent five minutes in here,” he points out. “So, it’s no big deal.”
This in itself is a surprise to me. It flies in the face of the big celebrity sportsmen; the arrogant ‘star’ I thought he’d become. “Oh,” is all I can find to say in response.
“So how have you been since high school?” he offers. “You look great,” he adds, his eyes moving up and down the length of my body with what looks a lot like appreciation.
“Well,” I say on an exhalation of air. “No more glasses,” I point out.
His head lilts to one side, as he examines my face. “I never minded the glasses,” he shrugs.
Creasing my brow, I wonder whether he’s being serious. The man is such a talented bullshitter, it’s impossible to tell. “You never said anything at the time,” I respond quietly.
“Like you said,” he sighs, taking a step toward me. “We moved in different circles.”
I hum a humorless laugh in reply. “I must have been the only girl at school you didn’t sleep with,” I told him frankly, champagne and years of feeling cast aside suddenly making me bold.
For the briefest of moments, surprise flashes over his face. “I didn’t…” he shook his head. “I did more than my fair share of dating, and there were a few that I…” he pauses, trying to find a different word, before changing tack. “I didn’t have sex with anywhere near all of them.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” I tell him with a smile.
“It matters to me,” he insists. “What you think matters to me,” he says, taking another step toward me.
He is now so close, I can feel the soft caress of his breath against my face.
“Why?” I ask, swallowing a large lump in my throat and try
ing to stop the trembling in the back of my left knee.
“I always had a bit of a thing for you,” he says, his voice now no more than a whisper. “I just felt that you didn’t like me,” he eventually finishes.
“What?” I scoff incredulously.
“You were so smart,” he murmurs, his face tilting down to mine.
Suddenly, my whole world has become very small. All I can see is his face, his deep blue eyes; his full lips. The smell of cedar from his aftershave, coupled with a vague hint of mint, which I guess is from a shower gel, and an earthy masculinity is enclosing me. I want to say something. I want to tell him that my recollection of high school is quite different. However, my brain, vocal chords and mouth are refusing to work in conjunction. So, my lips part helplessly, only to close once more.
Before I can try again, his mouth is pressed against mine in a tender, somewhat hesitant kiss. Thankfully, I don’t have to tell my body to respond. My lips are already moving beneath his, returning the kiss with a similar sense of explorative wariness.
Tipping his head back all too soon, Chris peers down at me, making me feel incredibly small. “You know, I used to dream about you,” he says, his lips still tantalizingly close.
“Really?” I manage to ask, my voice weak and hoarse.
He nods almost imperceptibly. “I still do sometimes,” he admits.
I feel his deep voice resonating through my whole body. Sparks of heat are shooting between my legs and I reflexively clench my thighs in a bid to quell some of the restlessness. If at any point, I’d kidded myself that I had any control of the situation, I was now completely disabused of that presumption.
If my life depended on it, I could not walk away from him now. I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted his hands on my body. It was much more than desire, it was a burning need. My teenage fantasies and yearnings were nothing in comparison.
Unable to articulate any of this, I do the only thing I can and quickly close the gap between our faces. No longer wary, I throw caution to the wind, as my tongue ventures from the confines of my mouth and begins to trace his bottom lip.
