by Tracey Ward
It’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re killing me,” I accuse her gruffly, reaching for her hips. Raising my hands slowly.
She puts a stop to it with her own. “Can you handle it or should I go?”
“You probably never should have come here.”
“I think we both already knew that.”
I push past her hands. She lets me. She lets me raise my palms flat across her body until I take my name, take her, in their grasp and hold them firmly. I love it when her breath slides out of place. When it hiccups in her throat and her pulse begins to fly in her neck. I love it even more when my mouth finds her peaks through the thin material of the shirt and her body goes stiff in my grasp. When she straddles my leg and grinds her warmth against my thigh. When she sighs my name like a curse.
“Trey,” she whispers, her head falling back. “Fuck, Trey.”
I pull the shirt down until we’re skin to skin. Until my tongue can circle her, suckle her, and she rides my leg more aggressively. I want those shorts off. I want her naked on my leg so I can feel her getting wet and hot and wanton. I don’t have a condom but there are so many things I want to do to this woman that don’t involve my dick. They’re all about her and the way she moans, the way she gasps and grips me like a vise as her body lights up under my hands. I won’t sleep until I’ve worn her out. Until she’s lying in my arms with swollen lips and hooded eyes, her body exhausted from tremor after tremor tearing through her.
I’ll give her all of it. All of me, everything I have. Every kiss she’ll take, every touch she’ll allow. I’ll go where she lets me, where she leads me, and I won’t miss the control. I’ll let her have the lead because I trust her to get me where I need to be. To who I need to be, and by the end of the night I know I’ll sleep like a baby because she got me there.
But until then, I’ll love her like a devil.
***
In the morning I wake up alone. I don’t know when she left, but she leaves me with something to remember her by; the tank top with my name on it. It’s draped across the pillow she slept on and when I bring it to my nose I catch her scent on it. That rich, almost masculine smell that can’t be a perfume. Maybe it’s her soap? I have no idea, but it’s addicting.
I take one last sniff of it before laying it out on the bed again. My morning wood is painful after a night of making her moan, never letting her touch me. I made it all about her, but this morning is gonna have to be about me or I’ll lose my fucking mind on the field. I shuffle my blue balls into a hot shower where I beat off to the memory of her gasps and cries. Of her sweat on her skin, salty on my lips when I kissed her. Of her heat in my hands. On my fingers, thick like cream. I grunt her name as I finish, my sight going dark on the edges.
She’s there, in the dark. Her blond hair luminescent like an angel, her smile curved like a devil.
A night with her did the trick, though. Better than any of the times with Tish or the other girls ever could. Sloane isn’t a quick fix. She’s no street drug that you find in a bind. She’s some medical grade shit that stays in my system for days like a sedative straight to my vein. I slept like the dead last night with her wrapped in my arms, and now that I’ve gotten myself sorted out, I’m stone cold centered. I’m ready to play all day with a clear head and sharpened eyes.
I make it down to the dining area minutes before the start of the team breakfast. The smell of fried pork in three different varieties is heavy in the air, along with bread and eggs. It’s important for us to get the right amount of fuel in our system at these meals because it’s the last solid food we’ll see before the game. You have to be careful. You don’t want to overload or make yourself sick but you don’t want to go into a game hungry either.
I pile my plate high with eggs and sausage, one whole wheat waffle, an apple, and a banana. I’ll probably snag another banana on the way out the door, but for now I park my ass in a chair at a table surrounded by my O-line. Fiso, Avery, Anthony, Hibbert, Lowry, Lefao, Olynyk, even Matthews, that anti-social son of a bitch. They all greet me with full mouths and dripping forks as I sit.
“You ready, rook?” Avery asks me, his signature smile on his face.
“It’s just another game, right?” I ask, shrugging my shoulders. “Same as any other.”
“Yeah, except it’s your first,” Anthony points out.
“First one that matters,” Lowry agrees around a mouthful of pancake.
Avery laughs at them, tossing a handful of cereal their way. “Leave him alone. He’s the last person we want to have jitters.”
“Are you kidding me? He’s made of ice, man,” Anthony argues. “It’s what he’s famous for.”
“Yeah, well it’s hard to be chill when everyone is blowing hot air up your ass, so back off him.”
“I’m good,” I promise Colt. “Don’t sweat it. Nothing anyone can say to rattle me today.”
Anthony leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Be real. You on something?”
“Like what?”
“Downers. Zoloft. Something.”
“Nothing,” I promise him, shaking my head. “I don’t take anything. That shit will slow your reflexes.”
“You’re just that tight, huh?”
“I must be.”
He smiles slowly, sitting back. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
There’s a prayer after breakfast. Something blessing the food to our bodies and asking for a good day on the field free of injuries. I’m not a religious guy but I bow my head and close my eyes out of respect. Any kind of luck we can get to stay injury free I’m down with participating in. After breakfast we have some time to grab our gear and get on the bus heading to the stadium. Avery told me on my first day with the team that the last thing I want to do is miss the bus. You have to get to the stadium on your own after that and everyone knows you weren’t there. Everyone knows you’re not synced with the team.
I get there early, picking a seat near the back. I’m not surprised to find Matthews already there. His hood is up on his sweatshirt, bulged at the ears by his headphones. He nods in time with the beat. He stops only for a second to jut his chin to acknowledge me before he’s back at it, his eyes distant as always.
I can’t get a read on whether or not he’s happy to be back with the Kodiaks. Sloane and Hollis made it seem like he would be, but you’d never know it to look at him. You’d never know anything by looking at him, other than he’s breathing. He’s awake. His face gives nothing away even on the field and I wonder if I’m the real Iceman on the team or if he isn’t bound and determined to take my title.
The bus fills up slowly. It grows louder with every member; fifty-three guys total spread out over two buses. That’s not including the coaching or support staff. Over a hundred and fifty people travel with the team from managers to owners to video staff, and medical. The only ones left behind are the cheerleaders, much to Colt’s dismay.
Some of the trainers get on our bus to walk the aisles, handing out waters and asking if we need anything. They’ll look us over at the stadium, taping ankles and hands, bracing joints, but for now they’re making sure we’re comfortable. Calm. Ready.
I smile at Luxe when she wanders my way. Short and petite with long brown hair, big green eyes, and caramel skin, she can’t be any older than Sloane, probably twenty-three or twenty-four. She’s here on an internship program straight out of college. She’s certified as an athletic trainer but she has plans to be a head trainer for an NFL team. Landing this internship with the Kodiaks is a dream come true for her.
“Water?” she asks, offering me a bottle from the bag sitting heavy on her shoulder. “It’s lukewarm, just like you like it.”
I take it with a nod. “Thanks.”
“How’s the hand?”
“Solid as always.”
“Amazing how quickly you recovered from your ‘surgery’.”
I grin. “What can I say? I’m a medical mystery.”
“It
looks that way. I asked to see the x-rays from before and after the surgery, and do you know what I saw? The same x-ray, double dated. Isn’t that weird?” she asks knowingly.
“Clerical error. Happens all the time.”
She chuckles in disbelief. “Well, let me look at it before you suit up, alright? Maybe we’ll tape it just for fun. Keep ‘em guessing.”
“You got it, Luxe.”
She wanders away, handing out waters to the rest of the bus. I watch for her for a second too long, feeling strangely guilty about it after the fact. And I’m not the only one who noticed.
“I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”
I gape at Matthews, shocked to hear him speak up about anything. “Why’s that?”
“She’s from a big Hispanic family. Three brothers. All into football. All defensive lineman. They’d tear your head off if you touched her.”
“Luxe has brothers? I didn’t know that.” I frown at him. “How the hell did you know that?”
He snorts a laugh, turning away from me. “I’m quiet, not deaf, dumbass.”
October 1st
Ashford Agency
Los Angeles, CA
Trey has a stalker. Low level, unimpressive. Someone who shows up at the agency once a week asking to see him. We send her away every time with a handful of hard candies from the front desk and a polite invitation to never come back. Her name is Sandy and she’s forty-seven years old. She’s convinced she’s going to marry Trey. All the luck in the world to her on that one.
“She’s sweet,” I muse, picking a red Jolly Rancher out of the bowl on the reception desk. Sandy hates the red ones. She says they make her tongue feel heavy.
“As far as stalkers go, yeah,” Rhonda agrees vaguely. “She’s alright.”
“At least she’s not like that one guy’s, the NBA player with the hair. You know who I’m talking about?”
“Carlton.”
“That’s him. His stalker is freaky.”
“No shit. She sends dead flowers every month on the same day. Something about the moon-cycle. I don’t know.”
“Could be worse. Could be toenail clippings.”
“Shut your mouth! You’ll jinx me.” She shudders theatrically. “I’m the idiot who has to open all of these things. There was a dead bird once.”
“Bull,” I scoff.
She raises her hand. “Swear to God. Dead bird in a satin bed of sicko. Black satin. It was so depressing and disgusting.”
“Wow. I wonder if it was dead before they put—“
“Don’t!” she stops me solidly. “I can’t think about it. Everything you’re thinking, I’ve considered, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s fair.” I stand up straight from the desk, smooth my shirt over my stomach. “Speaking of crazy fans, I’ve got a new load of mail to sift through for Trey. I better get on it.”
“Does he get anything good?”
“A lot of nudes. Men and women. A lot of ass shots. There’s usually a lei involved, but it’s never very sanitary.”
“Those poor flowers.”
“It’s a shame.”
“Where is he this week?”
I crease my brow, trying to remember. “Um, Miami this week. They’ve got the Dolphins.”
“Oh that’s right,” Rhonda searches her desk, finally finding a pink sticky note. “You had me send tickets to Demarcus Sawyer and his family to go see the game.”
“Did they get them?”
“FedEx confirmed the delivery.”
“I’ll call him to make sure he has them.”
“Probably a good idea. If the guy left them on the porch they could have been snagged by someone walking by.”
“Or eaten by an alligator,” I grumble, digging for another candy. “Who knows down there.”
I get what I’m looking for, a green apple, and disappear down the hall. Demarcus is a sore subject for me. When he came stateside right after the Draft I went out to Florida to see him. He was happy to be home but unhappy about the idea of going back. So unhappy he decided not to. He quit the Canadian league. Quit football altogether. It’s a huge change for him, but one I was hoping he’d be good with in the long run. Unfortunately he was only home a week when his girlfriend broke up with him. Two kill blows in one month isn’t healthy for anybody. He called me drunk and despondent in the middle of the night rambling about how his career was over and I had every right to drop him. Why wouldn’t I? Everyone else was. Broke my heart.
I told him to sober up and we’d see what was what in the morning. Since then I’ve been more active reaching out to endorsements than I probably should be, looking for someone stateside to pick him up. It’s put me on Brad’s radar, not somewhere I want to be, but I have to do it for Demarcus. He deserves every effort I can give him.
Three hours later and I’m almost to the bottom of the bag of fan mail Trey has accrued. Last week he came into the office on delivery day and saw the stack. It blew his mind how big it was. He offered to take care of it himself but I told him that’s my job, let me do it. Then we made out in my office for an hour and he went home smiling like the cat that ate the canary while I spent the better part of the day trying to remember when the hell he unsnapped my bra. The man is a magician in every sense of the word.
We’re idiots. We shouldn’t be doing any of the things we’re doing, but put us in a room together and shit just happens. He shows up at my house late in the night and doesn’t leave until dawn. Some nights we have sex. Some nights we have a lot of sex. And some nights we lay together until the sun peeks in through the window, sending him away.
“I have to go,” he always whispers.
“Stay.”
“What will you give me?”
I always lie, “Everything.”
He never stays. He unlaces his fingers from mine, kisses me softly, and disappears without a word. I think he knows I’m lying. We both do. We’re both holding something back, something too big, too real, to give to anyone, but I say it because I want to. Because I wish I was stronger than I am.
Those nights leave me the most raw. The most emotional afterward. I don’t know what to make of them other than joy. I’m left with a swelling in my chest that comes from being close to him and stays with me for days after. That redoubles when he messages me. That threatens to burst me wide open when he sends me pictures of himself sleeping in hotels across the country.
He’s always alone when he leaves. He’s only here when he stays.
I’m not dense. I know what this is. I know what I feel even though I’ve never felt it before. It’s exactly what we call it when we say it without saying it. When I tell him to love me slowly. When he asks me to love him faster. We say these things and we know what they mean, but they can’t be what they are. We can’t be what we are, so we pretend that we’re not. We pretend that every kiss isn’t stolen. Every touch isn’t taboo. Every smile isn’t loaded with a million questions and problems that will come bursting out in a wave of confusion the second this eggshell cocoon of ours is broken.
I can hear the clock ticking. I can see the egg cracking.
Still, I don’t stop.
I check the clock as I open the next letter. It’s getting late. This is the last one I’ll read tonight. I want to be home when Trey calls from his room in Miami.
My hands freeze, the letter pinched between them pulled taught with my anger. My amazement.
“What the actual fuck?” I growl at it angrily, reading it again.
Trey,
I reached out to you and you ignored me. We’re family. How could you do that? How could you turn your back on family, huh? Guess you’ve already forgotten where you came from.
Hopefully you haven’t forgotten your last lay. Tish. She sends her love. Hers and the love of the baby you made her abort. I know all about it, man. And if you don’t make this right between us, the whole world is gonna know about it too. About how Prince Charming is a baby killer. Just ask her. She’s r
eady to talk. She’s kept your secret long enough.
Maybe now you’ll write me back.
David
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe the amount of bullshit piled inside such a small letter. It’s impressive. It’s ballsy.
It’s a dumb fuckin’ move.
I smash my finger down on the intercom. “Carey!” I bark at the assistant I have to share with six other agents. “Get in here! Now!”
I don’t wait for her to answer before I disconnect the line. I stare at the letter as I wait, collecting my thoughts. Forming my plan.
Just as Carey comes running into my office I pick up my cell, checking the time. Trey’s flight will have landed. He should be heading to his hotel. I dial his number, putting the phone to my ear and giving Carey the ‘wait a minute’ finger.
He answers on the second ring.
“Business or pleasure?” he asks briskly.
“Business.”
“Damn.”
“I need to ask you about that guy, David. The cousin who contacted you before.”
“Yeah. I asked my mom about him. She said we’re not related, remember?”
“I remember, but the thing is, he’s back.”
Trey groans. “Oh God. Great. How much does he want?”
“He hasn’t said yet. I think he’s waiting to talk to you before he sets his price.”
“Price for what?”
“Blackmail.”
Carey’s eyes go wide as she smartly shuts the door behind her.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Trey asks quietly, his voice going muffled. He’s hiding his phone in his hands or his coat to keep people from hearing.
“I wish I was. I got a letter from him today. He’s threatening to tell a story about you. One I’m going to ask you about the legitimacy of strictly out of necessity. Do you understand me?”
