by Mona Cox
Fiona Vs. Football Player
Mona Cox
Naughty Angel Publishing
Contents
Description
Also by Mona Cox
Dirty Lil’ Angels
1. Fiona
2. Danny
3. Fiona
4. Danny
5. Fiona
6. Danny
7. Fiona
8. Danny
9. Fiona
10. Danny
11. Fiona
12. Fiona
13. Fiona
14. Danny
15. Fiona
16. Danny
17. Fiona
18. Danny
19. Fiona
20. Epilogue - Fiona
Free Preview of Christine Vs. Professor
Christine
Also by Mona Cox
Dirty Lil’ Angels
Fiona Vs. Football Player
By Mona Cox
Copyright 2017 by Naughty Angel Publishing
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
Join Mona’s Moaners and receive a bonus chapter from this book!
Description
Also by Mona Cox
Alicia Vs. Billionaire
Ashley Vs. Boss
Natalie Vs. Prince
Christine Vs. Professor
Kim Vs. Stepbrother
Lisa Vs. Outlaw
Carla Vs. Cowboy
For Stacy
Dirty Lil’ Angels
Hi ladies!
If you’re like me, once you finish, you’re not going to want the story to end!
To receive exclusive sneak peeks, (before anyone else!), bonus content not seen anywhere else, giveaways, and tons more swag, visit me and my Naughty Angels on Facebook at Dirty Lil’ Angels.
We’ll make it worth your while…
:)
Alexis
1
Fiona
“Oh my God, look at that one!” Christine is waving furiously, pointing at one of the guys on the field. I place my hand over my eyes, narrowing them into slits and trying to see the man Christine is pointing to.
“Which one? There are hot guys everywhere, Chris,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. I don’t know what it is about football players, but they just look so hot and indecent. The kind of men you don’t want to tell your mom about ... but exactly the kind of men you want to climb in through your bedroom window.
To be honest, I’m not a big football fan; Christine is. When I look down at the field, I barely have any idea what’s happening. All I see are hot men running around and crashing into each other, their corded muscles rippling on impact, and that’s just fine with me.
“Look!” Christine punches my shoulder without even bothering to look down at me. She’s standing up now, pointing frantically at one of the men standing close to us in one of those wonky formations right on the 50-yard line. That’s right, we’re this close to the action, right behind the platoon of photographers snapping photos of these hot pieces of—ahem, of the players. Ashley hooked us up with tickets, just one of the perks of having a man who’s a billionaire.
“Oh, I see him!” I squeal, finally realizing who Christine is pointing to—Danny Manning, the New York Nailers quarterback. You’ve heard of him, right? He was the Nailers' first pick two years ago, and now he’s on the fast track to earning his team its first Super Bowl ring in like ten years, which totally makes sense considering he’s the hottest piece of ass in the league.
“God, just look at that…” Christine trails off, finally sitting down. Her mouth is hanging slightly opening, and I don’t even want to think about the kind of stuff she’s probably imagining right now. Not that I can blame her. There’s a lot of indecency going on inside my mind as well. But, hey, I’m single.
“Uh-uh, Chris, stop it. You already have Professor Hung just for yourself, leave a few men on the table, will you?”
“Looking isn’t sinning, that’s what my mom always said,” she simply shrugs, and I know she means it. She turned into a hopeless romantic after she started dating Anders Trask, her former college professor. He’s hot as hell and, according to the ‘rumors’ (well, we egg Christine on to tell us all the dirty details), he’s also huge; I don’t have to explain that last one, do I?
“I don’t know about your mom, Chris, but I’d be down for some sinning with Danny…” I mutter, unblinking as I watch him position himself behind the offensive line. He has just instructed his team on some play, and now he's trotted to his position, his hands on his knees as he bends over.
When the ball flies into his hands, he’s on the move. He takes two steps back, sidesteps a linebacker with a graceful movement of his hips, and then cocks his arm back. The whole stadium seems to drown in silence as the ball leaves his hands and flies in an arch. There’s a roar as the ball finds its way straight into the hands of the Nailers’ wide receiver on the other end of the field, and the whole crowd goes insane as he dives into the end zone.
I know this happened because of the gigantic screen right in front of me, but in reality, my eyes have never left Danny Manning. Sweet Jesus, just watching him is enough to make my insides clench. He moves with a powerful dexterity, the muscles in his body working in perfect symmetry. And it’s quite a thing to witness; unlike some of the other players, Manning is all built on lean muscle, his skin stretched tight over his hard muscles. And I’m only talking about the parts that I can see… Just imagine how he must look under all that gear.
That’s when I notice it; Danny Manning’s looking straight at me. His whole team is celebrating a much-needed touchdown, and he’s just standing in the middle of the field, one hand on his hip and staring straight at me. Right now, I don’t know if my blood is flowing straight to my face or to between my thighs. I just stare back at him, completely dumbfounded, and only when he looks away do I realize that I was holding my breath.
“Oh. My. GOD!” Christine yelps, grabbing my arm and shaking me. “He was looking at you! Danny Manning was looking at you!”
“He was,” I smile, suddenly feeling light headed. My eyes follow him as he sets up another play. “Look at him, Chris. He looks so… So… So fuckable!” I cry out, that warmness between my thighs turning into an uncomfortable wet feeling.
“Totally,” Christine agrees as Danny runs close to the sidelines, just a few feet away from us. “How big do you think he is?”
“I don’t know… But I wouldn’t mind finding out.” He runs past us again, and I turn my neck, following after him and devouring him with my eyes. By now, I completely forgot about the game. I don’t even know who’s winning—and who cares, really?
“You know, Chris,” I say, turning to her and looking away from Danny for the first time in a long while. “I’d totally fuck him if I had the chan--” The words get lost in my throat as I hear a few of the photographers close to us crying out. I turn to see what all the commotion is about, and I do it just in time to see a tall Nailers player crashing through the line of photographers and stumbling toward us, the ball clutched tight to his chest.
It’s Danny Manning, and I’m right in his way.
2
Danny
Three passing touchdowns in fewer than thirty minutes. I’m on fire, baby.
“Alright, guys,” I tell the team as they form a circle around me. “We’re gonna go with a flag play. Get me the ball and I’ll throw it far and wide. Just make sure you catch it,” I tell Anderson
, the wide receiver, rapping my knuckles against his helmet. He grunts in response and then we’re back in formation.
By the time the balls gets to my hands, I’m ready to go. I take two steps back and, watching one of the Miami MILFs’ linebackers rush toward me, I sidestep him. I scan the field quickly and, the moment I see Anderson closing in on the end zone, I draw my arm back and just shoot the ball in an arch. I can feel everyone's eyes in this stadium following the ball’s trajectory, but a fraction of a second before it left my hands I already knew where it was going to land: right where Anderson is now. I smile as he grabs the ball and makes a run for it. There’s nothing the MILFs' defense can do now; by the time Anderson is a few feet away from the end zone, he jumps forward and crashes after the line.
Touchdown! And now that makes it four passing touchdowns in fewer than thirty minutes. Yeah, this year I’m going to smash every single team on my road to victory, and I won’t stop until I’m carrying this year’s Super Bowl trophy in my arms. What? I’m not being cocky; I just live to win, babe, whether you like it or not.
I start to run toward the end zone, ready to join in as my whole team celebrates another six points, when I notice something out of the corner of my eye. There are two girls sitting by the 50-yard line, close to the reporters, and the blonde one is looking straight at me. Has she even seen the touchdown? She’s probably the only person in the whole stadium paying zero attention to the game.
Her eyes find mine and, in a fraction of a second, her whole face turns comically red. She looks cute, actually—bright eyes and an easy smile, not a trace of those faux high-maintenance qualities I’m so tired of. She looks like the perfect girl next door.
Okay, fuck. Enough of this. I have a game to win, I can’t be thinking of women right now. I turn my attention away from her and head down the field, mentally gearing up for the next play as our kicker snags one more point by kicking the ball between the uprights. But when I walk past the girls I can’t help but overhear a few snippets of their conversation, and they’re sure as hell not talking about football. Did I hear the word fuckable?
I try to keep my head in the game for the next plays, but that girl has made a home out of my mind and I can’t focus right now. I’ve already made a fumble, and that’s my first one in the entire season. Fuck. And these two girls keep on talking about everything except the game. Now that my brain has been tuned to their voices, it seems that I can’t stop myself from hearing what they’re saying.
“How big do you think he is?” I hear the blonde girl’s friend ask, and I’m pretty sure they’re talking about me. Momentarily forgetting where I am, I turn my eyes toward the girls and that’s when someone screams my name; I turn just in time to see the ball flying toward me, and I somehow manage to catch it. Except it’s too late now; two of the MILFs' linebackers are already coming toward me, one coming from the right and the other from the left, and they’re more than ready to steamroll me. Lucky for me, my body acts on muscle memory alone, and I take a fast step back; then I make a quick turn to the right, and the linebackers crash against each other.
There’s a loud ooh and then a relieved aah coming from the crowd, and I jump back into action. It’s time to finish off these pussies for good. I start running down the field as fast as I can, trying to see a clear line of pass while trying to survive a whole team that wants to stomp me down. I’m running past the 50-yard-line, just a few feet away from the sidelines, when I notice that Anderson's open on the far end of the field. I cock my arm, ready to make another glorious winning pass, when a bright voice shoots a hole in my concentration.
“I’d totally fuck him if I had the chance,” I hear her say, and I instinctively know it’s that blonde girl from before. Fuck, I lost the moment and Anderson is down on the ground now. And to top it all, there’s a lineman headed straight for me, and another two blocking my path to the right. When I hear one of the MILFs' players coming from the right, completely blindsiding me, I try and pivot to the left to avoid a sack.
“Oh, crap!” I hear one of the photographers cry out, but by then it’s already too late. I step off of the field, crashing through the line and the photographers, and stumbling my way off of the field like a raging tornado. I’m heading straight to that blonde girl and her friend, but I can’t stop my trajectory now. Step out of the way, ladies—incoming.
They jump out of their seats just in time; I crash on my back, right against where they were sitting, the ball still pressed tight against my chest. The seat under me seems like it’s broken now but, on the bright side, it seems like I got out of this in one piece.
I take a deep breath, ready to go back to the field, when my eyes find that blonde girl. She’s staring at me, her mouth hanging open as if she still hasn’t processed that I almost crashed into her.
Well, fuck it, I might have ruined the play, but I’m not going to ruin this: still lying down on the ruins of the broken seats, I flash her my game-winning smile.
“Danny Manning, nice to meet you.”
3
Fiona
Holy crap, what the hell just happened?
One moment, I’m fantasizing about having Danny Manning between the sheets, and the next he literally crashes down on the place I’m sitting. I know I’m wet right now, but I never realized my pussy could summon hot guys like that. Now that’s a super power I don’t mind having.
“Danny Manning, nice to meet you,” he says with a grin, still sprawled over the seats with the ball in his hand, and I almost pass out. Someone pinch me; is this really happening?
“Fiona… Fiona Barnett,” I manage to say, looking at him in disbelief. Still with that smile on his face, he slowly goes up to his feet and starts ambling back to the field. When he walks past me he winks, and my knees start buckling. Around us, the photographers are going crazy, taking pictures of Danny as he keeps on smiling, acting as if he didn’t almost kill me just a few seconds ago.
When I go back to my seat—now a broken mess of twisted plastic—Christine is looking at me as if I have two heads.
“What?” I ask her. “Is it something on my face? My makeup?”
“Girl … Your makeup’s fine. But, holy shit, he talked to you. He actually talked to you.”
“I know…” I merely say, hardly believing that one of the most famous athletes in the US—no, in the world!—just introduced himself to me on live television. Now he’s back on the field, and I bet that he has already forgotten about me. I mean, he’s Danny Manning; women throw themselves at his feet every time he steps outside his home. And I’m just Fiona, a normal girl trying to make her mark on the world as a lawyer. Well, as a Law student actually, but whatever. Details, details.
“Holy crap!” Christine cries out, her eyes focused on what’s happening on the field. I follow her gaze just in time to see Danny sprinting down the sidelines, zigzagging between the Miami MILFs’ defense as quickly and easily as a hot knife cutting through butter. Now, I don’t know much about football, but I don’t think a quarterback is supposed to be rushing down the field. Still, that’s what Danny’s doing, and he seems hell bent of sprinting all the way down to the end zone.
“He’s not gonna make it,” Christine breathes out, grabbing my hand so tightly she might break a finger or two. In front of Danny is what looks like a giant, at least 7 feet high and weighing about a billion pounds. Danny’s just a few feet away from him, and at the speed he’s going there’s no way he’s going to avoid being tackled. Except that’s exactly what he does; as the lineman throws himself forward to grab Danny by the waist, he crouches and then jumps, his legs working as coils to send him flying over the Miami MILFs’ giant. Somersaulting over the lineman, he somehow manages to land on his feet right in the end zone.
Everyone goes nuts.
The photographers are acting all crazy, and the roar that comes from the crowd behind us is deafening. Even Christine’s on her feet, screaming as loud as she can and clapping her hands. I figure Danny’s touchdown is going to
be a viral hit on YouTube the moment the game’s over, which is just a formality by now, really, the scoreboard makes that pretty clear. With only ten minutes to go on the clock, the MILFs are down 27 points.
The game ends with one more perfect pass from Danny, leading to another touchdown for the Nailers with seconds on the clock. When the referee finally stops the game (or shall I say the massacre?), some of the Nailers’ players start doing laps around the field, carrying Danny on their shoulders like he’s the second coming of Christ. There’s going to be a lot of money to be made selling Danny Manning jerseys tonight, that’s for sure.
“We should leave now if we want to beat the traffic,” I tell Christine, but she’s still staring at Danny’s victory lap, her eyes suddenly widening so much her eyes almost jump from their orbits.
“Fiona …” she whispers, raising one finger and pointing behind me. I turn on my heels, my eyes following the direction of her finger, and I can barely believe what I’m seeing. Danny’s jogging across the field, a grin on his face, and he’s coming straight toward us.
My legs grow weak, and the urge to simply run away takes over me. But I'm frozen in place, watching my mouth hanging open as Danny strolls toward me, an army of reporters trailing after him, and at least a dozen cameras transmitting the whole thing live.
“Fiona,” he says the moment he gets close enough. The reporters surround us both, recording the whole thing and snapping pictures, and I feel like I’m some kind of movie star in the middle of one important scene. “Can I have your number?”
