Red Card

by Liz Crowe

  Alicia frowned, about to reject the idea of alcohol, then shrugged. Mel could stand a night without it, but she was an adult and could regulate herself. Besides, she wanted to relive those hours with Metin, when they’d practically gotten naked in the elevator on the way up to his room before crashing into his suite, not even making it anywhere near the bed for their first hard and dirty encounter. Her fingers curled into fists, still feeling the texture of the wallpaper when he had yanked her dress up and fucked her from behind while teasing a monster orgasm from her with his fingers.

  “Fine, but please do not ask me if I’m seeing him again. Because I’m not.”

  “Good. I don’t like him. I told you that. But I am willing to bet he was some kinda hot ’n nasty in the sack, am I right?”

  “All that. And a bag of chips.”

  “Perfect. Spill it.”

  Chapter Four

  Metin Sevim sat in yet another nightclub, watching the bodies writhe and whirl around him. “Where are we?” he yelled into the ear of the man to his left.

  He honestly could not remember. The whole “friendlies” exposition tour thing came out of nowhere, and he’d been so pissed off at the managers at Real, he’d leapt at the chance to leave, probably out of pique and too quickly. But with his signature on the dotted line and an apoplectic agent chirping in his ear, here he was… in….

  “Birmingham,” the guy barked before standing and dragging a thin, barely-dressed black woman to her feet and heading to the dance floor.

  “Birmingham.” Metin rolled the odd-sounding word around in his mouth like ice cubes. “Oh, right. Michigan,” he said, a little louder.

  The woman to his right glanced over her bare shoulder, her crystal-clear body language telling him what he could do to her, anytime, anywhere. His skin crawled at the thought of being between her scrawny thighs. He hated it when women thought they had to resemble lollipops—with too-thin bodies and gigantic out-of-proportion heads—to be attractive. And so far, the American females he’d encountered were ten times worse than the women in Spain.

  Metin loved curves, soft lines, and womanly beauty in an actual form as opposed to the stick figures around him. He shut his eyes at the thought of Alicia, and he had to shift away from the woman still sitting, waiting for him to dance with her or to fuck her, neither of which he wanted.

  He had read about Alicia, as he’d said. But nothing prepared him for his violent reaction when he met her. She was everything he loved about women—sassy, smart, strong in mind and body. With more raw passion than he could have imagined or conjured for himself.

  Smiling, he ran a hand down his face as his skin prickled with memory. He’d give a million Euro to get his hands on her again. But he’d picked up the vibe she threw loud and clear in the early morning hours after their energetic, loud, perfect session in his suite, right over the heads of his team and her father. Not that she’d had a qualm about the act. But the way she’d seemed to panic and run out later—that spoke volumes. And Metin was nothing if not a reader of the writing on the wall. He’d had his fun; now she was out of his life.

  The whiskey burned a pleasant heat-pain combination down his throat as he ignored the walking-stick woman until she flounced off in a skinny-girl huff. With a sigh, he plucked his phone out of his shirt pocket. Staring at it, willing it to buzz with communication from her, he sank down in the chair.

  Clutching the drink in one hand and cursing himself in advance, he hit the search function and found “Alicia,” typed out a quick message, and hit send before he lost his nerve. He glared at the dance floor, his mood darkening ever further. He did not need to chase a woman who didn’t want him. He had women who’d gladly rush to his side and do whatever the hell he wanted on every continent. Not to mention the supermodel back in Madrid—technically his girlfriend. Graciella. No Last Name because that was passé.

  Alicia.

  He closed his eyes.

  Goddamned bitch. She had nerve, getting under his skin. And that sister of hers, with her holier-than-thou, excuse-me-I’m-divorced-with-kids attitude making him show his inner chauvinist. Nope, the whole thing stank of potential disaster, no matter how perfect Alicia had felt, her lips, or her tongue or…. Fuck.

  Embarrassed at himself and the whole stupid American tour nose-thumbing game he was playing with Real, Metin rattled the cubes in his glass.

  The phone vibrated against his chest. Yanking it out, he smiled at her response.

  Why do you think I want your help?

  He quickly responded. I heard about Susan. Susan Franklin, Alicia’s biggest rival for the spots on the best teams, had been signed to the Lady Red Bulls in Chicago. A plum spot, and one he knew damn good and well Alicia wanted.

  Fuck you, flashed her succinct reply. Leave me alone.

  No, I won’t. I want to show you something.

  I’ve seen it, thanks. It was impressive. There, you happy now?

  Metin grinned so wide he thought his head might split in two. He had to see her again, and if it meant getting her on the practice pitch as an excuse, so be it. Yes, I am happy at how impressive I am. But seriously, Alicia, meet me at the training center tomorrow. Come dressed to play.

  Right. Play you.

  Yes, but I am not going to kiss you again. So you can let go of that fantasy. He shivered in the overheated room, already picturing doing exactly that and more with the gorgeous woman.

  Promises.

  Nine a.m. See you there.

  He had no reason to believe she would show. Typically, he could throw one glance at a woman and she’d be putty in his hands. But something told him this woman would be the opposite of that. While they had enjoyed a very hot few hours on the spur of the moment, and he would not be averse to more of the same, he was determined to get to know Alicia… better. He shook his head. Any number of females would drop naked at his feet if he wanted them to. Why did he concern himself so much with one who was obviously unattainable—and potentially difficult? He smiled again at her response.

  Whatever. Maybe.

  He didn’t reply. Tucking the device back in his pocket, he stood, stretched, and caught the eye of his teammate in the process of dry-humping the skinny girl out on the dance floor. He nodded, indicating his intent to depart. The guy waved at him, showing his intent to stay.

  For the first time in as long as he remembered—at least as long as he’d played professional soccer—Metin left a club alone. The warm spring air outside smelled inviting with a touch of perfume shooting a bolt of homesickness through him so sharp he had to lean against a small flowering tree.

  Alicia. He would help her but in the process had every intention of getting her back in his bed again. A tiny voice tickled the edges of his consciousness—he wanted more than that. But one step at a time was how it had to go. He held up a hand, and one of the taxis broke rank and pulled to the curb.

  Chapter Five

  “You’re doing what with him?” Mel demanded the next morning over the cacophony of boys arguing at the breakfast table.

  Alicia frowned and smacked Tanner’s hand away from the cookie jar. Her head whirled from lack of sleep and excitement. She was going to see him again. Metin. The man who had rocked her world so hard before she ran out on him like a scared little girl—he wanted to see her again. Disapproval radiated off her sister like heat waves from asphalt.

  “We’re working out. That’s all. He leaves again in a couple of days and said he had some advice about my form… or something… you know.” The heat crept up her neck and she cursed her true blonde complexion that betrayed her every time to her sister’s vigilant gaze.

  “Boys, cut the crap. I mean it.” Mel plunked plates of eggs and toast in front of her sons then pointed the spatula at her. “Your form. Seriously, Alicia, you said you wouldn’t do this again. Not with him. He’s….”

  Anger gripped her throat at Mel’s bossiness, surprising her as did the words next out of her mouth. “You’re just jealous.”

 
Her nephew Zach made an ominous Jaws-themed noise around his food. Tanner joined in. Mel glared at them before yanking her into the laundry room.

  “Don’t be such a bitch. I am not jealous. I don’t like him, and I made that clear. He’s a… a man-boy, playing a game you love, and something in you won’t let that go. This is only me, your older sister, telling you not to see him again. It can only be bad—for you.”

  She pulled her arm out of Mel’s grip. The anger continued to roil, and she said things even she couldn’t believe. “You don’t care about me. You don’t want me to be with anyone because you aren’t. That way we can sit around here and feel sorry for ourselves together or some stupid shit. Well, here’s a news flash, Mel. I am not you. I have no intention of getting myself knocked up and having to marry a guy who’s a douchebag.”

  They glared at each other. Mel’s dark eyes swam with tears. Alicia sucked in a breath and cursed herself. But the whole holier-than-thou act over a guy she only planned to play some soccer with pissed her off.

  That… and something else, of course. Something she refused to acknowledge until Mel slapped her so hard, her neck popped. Alicia stood, openmouthed, shocked by her sister’s reaction.

  “Well, if that’s your final answer,” she muttered marching into the kitchen and grabbing a water bottle.

  “At least you can learn from me,” Mel said softly as Alicia headed for the door “That guy is no better than Scott. I can tell. If anything, he’s worse. A prima donna, fuck-everything-that-moves superstar. You will have no excuse for getting hurt because at least you’ll know up front exactly what kind of a douchebag he is.”

  “God, I am not doing anything but playing soccer with him. Soccer, Mel. That’s all. Relax already.” But she didn’t look back. She did not want to see her sister’s face and admit the woman was probably right—that a guy like Metin Sevim should be avoided at all costs. And not only had she let him fuck her the first night she met him, now she planned to let him “help her” on the pitch?

  Jesus, you are pitiful. You shouldn’t go. But she backed out of her father’s garage and pointed her car toward downtown Detroit anyway, unable to stop herself.

  “It’s your hips that are the problem.”

  Alicia started at the sound of his now-familiar, sing-song accent. She’d been kicking a line of balls into the net, one after the other for about fifteen minutes since she’d been early in her haste to get the hell out of her house and away from her sister’s violent disapproval.

  Taking a breath, she crossed her arms and studied him. Metin wore a pair of dark blue soccer shorts, plain heather-gray shirt, and cleats, as easily as he’d worn the dress pants and crisp cotton shirt the night she’d met him—the night you fucked him, you mean.

  He stood, loose-limbed, at ease in his element. His teeth glowed against his dark skin. The eyes she had melted into not forty-eight hours ago shone with something she couldn’t identify—happiness? Sarcasm? Lust? Who knew? Hoping to hide her frustration, she bent down to tie her laces tighter so he couldn’t see her face flush when her gaze hit the front of his shorts.

  She rose, determined to resist the take-me-now aura the guy threw her way. He probably didn’t even realize he did it. Not anymore. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s wrong with my hips?”

  “Come at me.”

  She blinked, confused. “Um, huh?”

  “Attack, make like you want to score. You know? Like you do in games?”

  “Oh, right.” Dropping the ball tucked under her arm, she glanced over his shoulder at her target. He let her, trotting backward a few steps, then made for the ball. She feinted, maintaining possession before dribbling a few more feet.

  He came out of nowhere as she was about to make her final scoring charge, stripping her of the ball and sending her crashing to the turf.

  “Ow. Shit,” she muttered, getting to her feet, a familiar, angry competitiveness stripping all the horniness right out of her head. “I still don’t get what….”

  “Do it again.” He kicked the ball toward her, harder than necessary, but she stopped it and placed her cleat on top contemplating a different strategy.

  Shifting to the side, she danced past him, using all the speed she could muster, and made straight for the goal. And there he was again, taking the damn ball away from her as if she were a rookie.

  She tried to shield it, putting her back to him and sensing every inch of his warm, perfect physique against her skin. Forcing herself to focus, she landed a hard elbow to his midsection and escaped his trap then traveled down the field alone, turning on all her motors, no longer hearing anything, way into her zone.

  And then, the damn man appeared in front of her again, batting the ball between her legs and taking off in the other direction, hand to his side where she’d nailed him.

  “God damn it, Metin. What is your point? You’re a pro. I’m an unemployed college graduate. You’re a man. I’m not. You make money at this, and I never will. What the hell are you trying to prove?” Her legs hurt from her workout the day before and she could barely catch her breath. She was, in a word, miserable. But the sight of him a few yards away, messing with the soccer ball while he stared at her, brought visions of tackling him, holding him down, and kissing him right to the front of her overheated brain.

  “Once more.” The soccer ball smacked the back of her legs so hard she yelped. “That’s your fucking yellow card for the elbow. One more and you’ll sit.”

  “Ass,” she said, quietly. Then taking a deep breath, she ran straight at him. He let her, all the while watching her feet. “Look out, little boy, I might hurt you again.” A surge of energy readied her to prove something to him and all the coaches who’d been rejecting her for the last few weeks. I’m on top of this.

  Metin faked left, giving her a clear shot. She matched with her own turnaround fake, drawing him close, then spun him so he was behind her. But as she prepared to kick, he grabbed her, digging his fingers into her hips. His white-hot palms burned through the thin fabric of her shorts. Squealing with surprise, she stumbled.

  “No one will sign you if you don’t stop projecting every damn move with these,” he declared, pressing against her from behind.

  She swallowed hard as the scene from the hotel played in a loop, the sounds of their breathing, her moans as he smacked her ass and pounded into her and she let him, unable to stop herself.

  “They are… perfect… but you have got to stop giving the defense a clear message with them. You are too easy to read. You need some fake moves and ones that don’t involve fancy footwork, so much as upper and lower body movement that will draw your man one way while you go another. Right now, all an opposing team has to do is watch a few films of your games and they read you like a damn book. Now,” he released her, leaving her shivering with lust, “watch me.”

  Biting her lip, she kept her face blank and did that, marveling as he put on a show of drawing her off every single time she came at him before burying the ball into the net. Every single goddamned time.

  “Shit, stop, I get it.” Putting her hands on her knees, she tried to catch her breath. Six out of the ten times he faked her out and she’d land on the turf. Her knees stung, one of her hips felt broken when he’d moved so fast she landed on it with all her weight and speed. Tears threatened, but she would not let them fall. Bastard was not going to make her cry, not here, not now.

  Metin loved putting Alicia through her paces, showing her how she must unlearn all her bad habits if she had any hope of getting signed to a pro team. He was a true soccer geek—when not playing, he watched, keeping televisions tuned to soccer nearly twenty-four-seven. He truly enjoyed professional women on the field, their finesse born of slightly less strength and aggression, more about pure skill with the ball.

  Alicia possessed the skills and stamina, had proven to be one of the best, but she remained a one-trick pony. She needed a few more of those tricks under her belt or she’d be standing around moping when the signing period ende
d for the new women’s league. The more he played and taught her, the more at ease he became.

  The walking hard-on he’d sustained since getting up that morning at the thought of being around her again had thrown him for a while. Grabbing her hips might have been a bad idea. But he couldn’t think of another way to show her what he meant. Rubbing against her, whispering, even though technically talking about soccer, had not helped his condition.

  But he didn’t care. Considering how dangerously close to tossing the girl over his shoulder and carrying her off, to Spain or even to Turkey with him he felt at that second. Her sassy attitude only turned him on more. There she stood, glowing with sweat, breathing heavily, with her soaked shirt pressed to her amazing body.

  He blinked to clear the vision of her dressed all in white, smiling up at him as he held her close and vowed to love her forever, in front of his entire, enormous family. Then to make matters worse, she peeled off her shirt revealing a perfect, strong torso covered only by a dark sports bra.

  His cock got so hard so fast, he stumbled, angry and nearly blind with desire to lick the sweat from her neck. She used that moment to come at him, shove him down on his ass, and break for the goal, planting a solid ball into the upper left corner. He sat, observing her movements, willing his body soft, and smiled when she laughed and jumped up in the air.

  “See what I mean?” he asked.

  “I’ll never admit it to you, but yeah.” She trotted up beside him. He stared at her calves, stretched out a hand to feel one. “Hey,” she protested, stepping away. “Cut it out. No more of that. Remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.” He rose to his feet slowly. “But I propose we change the parameters a bit.” She frowned, but when he took her hand and put it to his lips, she didn’t protest.

  “I don’t like you, Metin. You’re a pompous, know-it-all playboy who gets paid millions of dollars to play a game I want to play for a few thousand.”