First Down: A Nerdy Virgin Meets a Badboy Football Player Romance

by Rae Lynn Blaise

  He sighs. "It would be easier to compare soccer to Quidditch. They're much more similar than football and Quidditch."

  That's not making me like football any more. It's almost like he's speaking Ancient Greek instead of actual English. A chaser is like the quarterback and running backs are basically beaters? But only sometimes? How utterly and completely senseless.

  My determination to lean in and see where this goes starts to fade, misgivings invading my mind. Can a serious, business-minded, intelligent reader actually spend time—enjoyable time outside the bedroom—with a jock?

  "Nope," I say. "I know all those words individually, but you put them together and they mean nothing. My eyes are glazed, can you see how glazed they are?" I point at my face, trying to make it a joke, but underneath it, I mean every word.

  He leers at me. "That's just from your second orgasm."

  What? "I haven't had a...oh..." I trail off.

  His fingers slide down my body and into my folds. He sets his mug on the side table before taking mine from me and setting it beside his. I hate to waste good coffee, but I'm much more interested in this.

  He rolls over to his side, silencing me with a passionate kiss. I open my legs and he slips half his hand inside me, pumping his fingers in and out of my already drenched pussy.

  I thread my arms around his neck, my moans spilling into his mouth, all thoughts of football and the mild headache it brought on sliding from my mind. He still tastes like me and coffee, and it mixes with the lingering taste of him, making my head spin.

  With one hand still inside me, his other pulls his shirt off me, baring me to him.

  Zach kisses down my neck, making his way with nips and licks to my breasts, covering one of my nipples with his mouth. I arch up against him, hissing at the sensations swirling through me. Heat trickles faster and faster until it's molten lava flooding through me, searing through my veins.

  He pushes me over onto my back, looming over me, his fingers still buried in my core, twisting and pumping, keeping me hovering ever on the edge. He really likes keeping me there, on the edge, teasing and torturing me into oblivion.

  Zach returns his lips to mine, ravaging me until I am certain my lips will be swollen for days. It's like he's trying to brand me, to claim me, to shove away any lingering doubts.

  And he does.

  There is no room for doubt in my mind when he touches and kisses me like this. There is no room for anything in my mind other than pure pleasure and heady desire and swirling lust. He's a fucking wizard with his hands and mouth, like he's casting twenty different charms over me at once. I'm swept away on a turbulent storm of emotions and arousal, desperate for release back to the shore.

  But Zach is too talented for that. He keeps me twisting, squirming on the bed, bringing me higher and higher with each twist of his fingers, each nibble on my nipple, each nip down my neck.

  He adds his thumb, rubbing furiously at my clit with it with each thrust inside my weeping pussy. I clutch the blankets, I clutch his back, I'm unable to stay still, unable to keep my eyes opened. Unable to figure out where to put my hands. Colored stars flare behind my closed eyelids, a bursting galaxy dancing with greens and blues and purples and pinks, like I'm racing through space, defying gravity.

  For a moment, I swear I actually float into the air from a leviosa spell, hovering above the surface of my bed. Or maybe even the immobulus charm, stiffening and freezing my limbs so I can't move. I crash back down into the mattress, breathing hard and trembling. Zach pulls his hand from me and draws me into his arms, helping to keep me grounded, keeping me from flying away.

  "You are a very talented man," I gasp once I finally have my breathing under control.

  His chest vibrates with laughter. "You are very good for my ego."

  I raise my head to meet his gorgeous blue eyes, which are still hooded with desire for me. "I don't think that's a good thing. You're a famous athlete. Your ego is probably already as swollen as Harry's Aunt Marge."

  He laughs even harder, shaking the entire bed with his mirth. "Like I said, you're good for my ego. You keep it in check."

  I lay my head back down on his chest, satisfied and smug myself. "Good."

  "So, I wanted to ask you something." He sounds more hesitant than I've ever heard him.

  "Okay." I draw the word out, nerves fluttering in my belly. What does he want? To tell me more about football, argue me into submission until I agree it's awesome?

  He clears his throat and hugs me a little tighter. "I was hoping I could convince you to come to a pre-season game this weekend." He says it all super quickly, merging his words together so it takes me a minute to decipher what he actually even said.

  Oh, gross. No. No. No. No. Nope. No, I don't want to go. I want to do a thousand other things before doing that. I'd rather wash my laundry. At least then I could listen to a book on tape. I'd rather go to Walmart and spend the four hours of my life there.

  "I don't know..." I trail off, not wanting to dampen the hope in his voice, but really, really, really not wanting to agree to attend what is sure to be hell on earth. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  "Have you ever actually been to a game?" he asks. A bit pointedly. Though he does have a point. Ugh. Dammit.

  "Well, no..." Shit. I refuse to look at him, knowing I'll crumble if I see the hope on his face.

  He brushes my hair away from me face, trying to see my expression. "They're a lot more fun in person than they are on the screen. I swear. If you hate it, I'll never ask you to come again. Just, please come. And bring an open mind."

  Still basking in the afterglow of my second orgasm, I'm unable to say no. I'm unable to dampen the mood. "Fine. I'll come."

  There goes my Saturday off.

  8

  Zach

  I grin over at Tara as we line up on the field for one of our last plays. She smiles back and shoots me a little wave from her hip. We're down by five points, and really need a touchdown. I probably shouldn't be smiling at my girl or splitting my focus. I probably also shouldn't look too happy right about now, or the next headline will be Zachary Gordon Loves to Lose. Or Zachary Gordon Smiling in the Face of a Loss. Or Zachary Gordon Too Into His new Girlfriend to Focus on the Game. Or something even worse. And that's the last damn thing I need right now. Tomorrow's headline needs to be Zachary Gordon Wins the Game. Or Zachary Gordon Breaks Record. Or at the very least, I'd rather not be mentioned at all if we don't turn this shit around and win.

  But Tara is actually here to see my pre-season game. I can't believe she's actually on the sidelines, watching me play. I'd gotten her better seats than I give my own damn parents when they can make it. Tara seemed genuinely curious, though a little on the uncertain and grudging side when I invited her—half in hope, the other half certain she'd refuse.

  If nothing else, she should at least enjoy the stadium food. Everyone likes stadium food. And I made sure to send someone to bring her the works—hot dogs, nachos, beer. But I'm sure now that she's actually here, she'll catch the excitement, the fever, the tension, the competition, the adrenaline. She'll get it, and if she does, maybe it'll erase the doubts I keep seeing pass through her eyes. She thinks she's hiding it, but I see it every single time football is even hinted at. Or any sport for that matter. I have never in my damn life met someone who hates sports so much. Plenty of people find it boring or say it just isn't their thing. But Tara? She acts like I'm a fucking serial murdering clown. It completely fucking boggles my mind.

  And if she wasn't so incredibly fucking hot and awesome, and brilliant and amazing and interesting, I'd just give up. But I'm not willing to give up on the connection we have. I remember the way she lost all nervousness and doubts when I played her body, when I touched her, when I kissed her. She writhed with abandon as I licked that gorgeous, plump pussy of hers. How amazing she'd been as she sucked my cock even though she had never done it before. I love the idea that I was her first blow job. That those beautiful red lips had never been
wrapped around another cock before they were wrapped around mine. She'll be one of my firsts too. I've never taken someone's virginity before—I’ve stayed away from virgins, not wanting the pressure or responsibility. But I'm determined to be the first cock inside that sweet, delicious pussy, regardless of the pressure and responsibility. And maybe I'll even be the last cock inside her. There's no way I'm ready to end this. Not yet. Hopefully never.

  I shake my head and smack myself on the side of my helmet, trying to knock some sense back into my brain, refusing to allow her to pull my focus from the game. I've been playing hard and strong, but our idiot quarterback has thrown four interceptions. Yet somehow we're still only down by one touchdown. Hell, we don't even need the extra point from a field goal to win this thing. But if I fuck this up, she may never get into this. And as much as I like her, I'm not going to ruin my career over a woman who can't even make up her mind about us. Who can’t figure out if she's sure she can handle my job. My passion. My love.

  If we win, maybe she'll really see the draw. See past the violence and boring moments and realize football isn't so bad.

  But it'll be a catastrophe if I make myself look like an ass out here when she's watching. And the rest of the team will denounce her as bad luck and she'll never be able to come back. It's going to be bad enough when they find out she hates the sport. They may want to ban her just for that. Even on the slight chance that she'll want to come to another game, I have to make this look exciting to her. I really don't want to keep this part of my life separate from her. That's no way to have a relationship. Oh for fuck's sake, I'm sounding like a love-struck teen girl. First, she turned me into a horny fourteen-year-old boy, and now I'm one of those Twi-hard girls.

  Get your fucking head in the game, Gordon.

  I return my focus to the field, letting the familiar sounds and smells keep me grounded, pushing all thoughts of Tara from my head. The sun beats down on us, Fall has been slow to come this year. I'm soaked in sweat and thinking longingly of a blue Gatorade. I shake it off. Soon, we'll be playing in snow, so I need to enjoy the good weather while we still have it.

  The quarterback yells out the play the coach signaled and we adjust accordingly. My pulse begins to race and pound as we wait for the whistle to shriek through the air. I always love this part. Right before the snap, the tension thick and drawn out. It's one of the best rushes I've ever experienced. I almost feel high on it, on not knowing how the play will turn out. Not knowing if we'll make first down on this one. It's thrilling as hell. Something I never get tired of.

  The play seems ordinary. Almost boring. On third-and-eight at the Denver 49-yard line, our Broncos offense is in full hiccup. As we all scramble for our positions, I look over my shoulder at the quarterback and I can see immediately that he's in trouble. He's surrounded, and even more are coming for him. Shit. I push myself harder, trying to get through the mass of bodies in my way. The quarterback meets my eyes, desperation and determination at war on his face and he flips the ball to me, a play we've run a thousand times, running a check down to the left. But I'm not even halfway to my spot yet, only about a quarter of the way down my route.

  I turn my body to accept the ball, praying to God I don't fumble. Don't fumble. Don't fumble. Do not fucking fumble the ball, Gordon.

  I catch the pass near midfield, not as smooth of a catch as I'd like, but still damn near miraculous. I tuck the ball into the crook of my arm, keeping it close and safe and I race in the direction of the end zone. I break a push tackle at the forty-eight yard line. They almost take me down, but somehow I keep my feet under me. I shake off a flailing arm punch at the forty-six, wincing at the bruise I'm sure to have tomorrow.

  First down.

  A first down that is now a potential touchdown. I keep pushing myself, my cleats sinking into the turf on the thirty-four yard line. I cut across the field from left to right, covering more ground than I ever have before.

  I lope towards the end zone, a convoy of my teammates at my back, there to protect me. The Broncos and coaches on the sidelines scream at me to keep going. I don't allow myself to look in the direction Tara is seated. I smell dirt, grass, and chalk.

  I give six players from the other team an opportunity to tackle me, reaching for me with gloved fingers, their cleats pounding into the turf as they chase me. But I fly away and jerk and bend away from their grasps with ease. My teammates take care of the rest.

  Until I reach the fucking goal line. A few break past my teammates and they're on me. Body after body after body piles on top of me, finally bringing me to the ground, digging me and my face into the grass and dirt. I try to buck them off me while keeping a tight hold on the ball, praying it's over the line. I think it made it over the line even if all of me didn't. It made it over. I'm sure it did. It totally made it over. It did. Right? Please, please, please let it have made it over.

  The ref and my teammates finally yank the huge-ass giants off me. I don't move, staying completely and utterly still so they don't accuse me of cheating or try to call a foul. I'm too nervous to even look. Please, please, please, please let the football gods hear me. Two refs bend down, reaching for my arm, checking the ball against the line.

  My heart pounds and the moment stretches out into eternity. Just figure it the fuck out already. Damn. They exchange nods over the top of my still prone body and stand to their full height. One of them raises his hands into the air his arms bent at the elbows and says the magic word.

  "Touchdown."

  I get to my feet leaving the ball there right past the line, and then I'm in the end zone, almost shoved back to the ground by my excited teammates. I'm in the fucking end zone and my teammates are surrounding me, slapping me on the back. The stadium roars, worshiping me, loving me.

  We hurry back into position, readying for the field goal our kicker has never missed, not wanting to be penalized for celebrating too much because we aren't allowed to do that anymore. Apparently, it's bad form. Though we have way more leeway than college ball. The little bit we just did would have carried heavy penalization back when I was in college. Which is such fucking bullshit. It's not like we'd go over and dance in a circle around the losers on the other team, making fun of them for sucking so hard. Well, not all the time anyway. Maybe occasionally. But most of the time, we'd just celebrate together. Antonio Brown recently got flagged for twerking. Apparently the third pelvic thrust was one too many.

  Half the time I can't even keep up with what we're still allowed to do. I think the discount double check is fine and maybe even the Pee Wee Herman dance, which frankly should be outlawed. And the hippo dance, which is my personal favorite. At least we're still allowed to do the Tim Tebow kneel and the military salute.

  But nowadays, almost any sort of prolonged and exuberant celebration is unsportsmanlike. It is just so fucking stupid. I just pulled off a damn near miracle and I could be penalized for twerking to honor it.

  I'm not the fastest running back. Not by far. But somehow, in eleven seconds, I just fucking covered fifty-one yards before I was brought down to the ground. It took a huge pile of them to get me on my face.

  It was the single best play of my career.

  It all happened so fast, I can still barely wrap my head around it as we huddle back up. My adrenaline pumps strong through me. We just pulled ahead with that touchdown.

  With only two minutes left in the fourth quarter, barring a major fuck-up, I just won the game.

  Our kicker kicks the field goal right down the center like it’s no big deal. It was beautiful, but not unexpected. We have a damn fine kicker this year. He got started in soccer and then a football coach in high school snapped him up.

  The next play, I'm still caught in a frenzy I don't want to escape from. I've never been this in tune with my team or the field or my own self before. I'm on fucking fire. There's something deep in the pit of me that wants to come out and shine. For once, I actually feel like I deserve the comparison to Emmitt Smith.

  The r
est of the game passes in a blur of crashing bodies and grunts, and sweat and blood and tears, and it is so damn glorious and perfect and beautiful.

  And we win. We fucking win. And this time, we can celebrate how we want and with all the glee we can muster. I search for Tara through the confetti whirling through the air and the mass of football players and reporters trying to shove microphones in my face between us. She's looking around her in wonder, a little like she's watching some strange culture in a tiny third world country.

  After slapping my teammates around a bit and giving the reporters their required sound bites, I run straight for my gorgeous girl. She actually looks a little excited—her eyes are bright and glowing, her cheeks are flushed, she's on her feet clapping, and possibly even has a proud grin on her face. Does she finally realize that maybe she can enjoy this after all?

  I reach over and pluck her from her seat and throw her over my shoulder, feeling the laughter shaking her as I trot out of the stadium carrying her away as my trophy, grinning at the whoops and roars and whistles chasing after us.

  9

  Tara

  My stomach aches from laughter and from having Zach's humongous shoulders digging into it and bouncing me up and down. I can't believe he did that. It'll be all over the Internet by tonight. Hell, it's probably already online. I was sort of hoping to keep out of the media, away from the insane attention athletes garner. There are much more important things going on in the world than sports for crying out loud. You know, people dying, wars being waged, politicians using our country like a rope in tug of war.

  Zach finally sets me down back on my feet outside the locker room. "Sorry, you can't come inside. I'll be quick though and then I'll drive you home."

  "I can't believe you did that!" I put a hand to my head as all of the blood rushes back down through my body, making me dizzy.

  He grins, completely incorrigible. "What?"