Offense & Defense: A MMF Sports Romance

by Alexis Angel

  What the hell?

  I keep my steady pace as I close in on the dark alley, and I stop right in front of the narrow gap between two apartment buildings. I blink once, and then twice, as my eyes adjust to the dim light of the alley; in the distance, I see the woman in the red dress shouting something at a man in a dirty jacket, and I immediately realize what’s going on. I grit my teeth, ball my hands into fists, and feel a violent fire incinerating every single one of my muscles.

  And that’s when I see the glint of a blade.

  Fuck.

  I hurry down the alley just in time to see the man slapping her with the back of his hand, sending her reeling onto the ground, and I close the distance between me and him, careful enough to be as silent as possible. Even though my boots are heavy, he never hears me coming.

  Standing just two feet away from him, his back turned to me, I raise one hand up into the air and, rotating my hips, I send my knuckles into a collision trajectory with the man’s skull. Fingers meet bone in a fraction of a second, and all strength leaves the mugger’s legs, making him fall onto the ground like a discarded ragdoll.

  I prod his limp body with the tip of my boot, making sure that he’s still unconscious, and then I turn to face the woman in the red dress. She’s sitting on the pavement, fingers curled around her swollen ankle, and she’s looking at me with an expression of disbelief.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her, my eyes roaming up and down her body as I try to look for any bruises or blood.

  “I… Yes... Yes, I am,” she says, still looking up at me as if I just stumbled out from a different dimension. One where damsels in distress are rescued at the very last minute by a knight in shining armor. Except I’m everything but a knight in a shining armor, and if there’s something I hate its jumping into action at the last minute.

  “Where do you work?” I continue, doing my best not to stare at her legs. The hemline of her dress is slightly raised, showing just an hint of inner thigh, and I have to grit my teeth in order to banish all lust from my system. Which isn’t the easiest thing right now.

  “R-Rockefeller Center,” she stammers, eyeing me curiously. I guess it’s not everyday you see a guy like me stepping in like I did to save the day. “Who are you?”

  “Just a guy,” I reply flatly, and her eyes narrow slightly.

  “Just a guy,” she repeats, the words rolling over her tongue slowly. “Okay, but who are you?” She insists, her focus shifting to the muscles bulging under my black shirt.

  “No one,” I shrug, but I can tell that she won’t be happy with my answer.

  “Oh, come on!” She starts, and then she falls silent, grabbing her ankle with her two hands and groaning. “Don’t you have a name at least?” She asks me between gritted teeth, the pain stemming from her ankle carving deep lines on her face.

  “Sanders,” I reply and, deciding to put an end to this line of questioning, I let my name just hang in the air between us, silence settling in. She looks up at me, her unblinking eyes telling me that she expects me to go on, but then she just sighs heavily.

  “Well, my name’s Stacy,” she says, a strained smile showing on her lips. She rubs her ankle harder now, her skin slowly turning purple there.

  “It’s time we get out of here,” I tell her as I offer her my hand, making sure that my tone of voice leaves no doubts: this isn’t a request. “Come with me. You’ll be safe,” I continue, the words dripping out of me like ice and stone. I’ve never been one for niceties and I’m not sure if I can change that this late in life.

  She looks up at me, hesitation washing over her face, but then she finally reaches for my hand. I can tell that she’s frightened but, at the same time, the expression on her face tells me that she prefers coming with me than remain sitting in the dirty alley next to an unconscious mugger. I squeeze her small delicate fingers in mine, pulling her up to her feet, but a groan of pain makes me stop.

  “Crap, I think my ankle is --” Before she even has the time to finish her sentence, I bend over and slide one arm behind the back of her knees, the other going around her waist. I pull her up from the floor and then, shifting her weight, I place her over my shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes.

  She doesn’t protest and so, without a single word, I stroll back into midtown, the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on slung over my shoulder.

  32

  Stacy

  Oh my God.

  What the hell just happened? What kind of movie set did this giant of a man step out from? One moment I’m mentally readying myself to feel the sharp and cold touch of a blade, and then the next he’s standing over me, ropes of coiled muscle moving under his dark shirt. Definitely, this is not how I expected my day to start. It went from good to bad, and then from bad to… Well, I don’t even know how to classify this right now.

  I’m slung over his shoulder, my limp body swaying clumsily as he walks down the sidewalk, and I don’t even know what to say. I should be embarrassed - which I am - but there’s also something very exciting about how this man dispatched a mugger with a knife using just one hand and then just picked me up like an object and began to carry me over his shoulder towards Rock Center. I mean, he did it so casually, almost as if he were picking up a duffel bag.

  I’m a bit frightened to be honest but, at the same time, I feel more secure than I’ve ever felt since I slid out of my bed this morning. There’s something about the way he’s holding me, firm and yet gentle, and I can’t help but feel a pleasant warm feeling crawling under my skin.

  Everyone moves out of the way as he walks toward Rockefeller Center, a sea of people parting before him as if he were some kind of urban Moses. No wonder, though - if I saw a man as imposing as he is walking down the street toward me with a woman slung over his shoulder and a nonchalant look on both their faces, I’d move the fuck out of the way as well.

  He strolls inside the Rockefeller Center like a man with a purpose, and I can feel everyone in the building’s hall looking at us as if we just stepped out from another dimension. Not wanting to be carried into work like a sack of flour, I push against his shoulder with both hands and, noticing it, he allows my body to slide down from his shoulder and he grabs me with his two arms, carrying me close to his chest.

  “Which floor?” He asks me with his deep rumbling voice, making his way toward one of the elevators.

  “Uh, thirty,” I mumble, looking up at him and feeling my insides clench. He’s built like a god, a veritable Apollo that stepped out from legend; but more than having a ripped physique, he has a face that must be the envy of all other men. The lines on his jaw are angular and wide, making him look almost like a superhero. And, despite his cold presence, his smart eyes betray a hint of kindness hiding somewhere deep inside of him.

  I wait as he summons the elevator - there isn’t much else I can do anyway - and I take a few deep breaths as I realize that my thong is starting to feel damp, the fabric sticking to my skin. I just can’t help myself; the touch of his hard muscles on my body, his skin on my skin… I’m only human, you know?

  He steps inside the elevator as the doors slide open and, thankfully, it’s empty. Pressing the round button with the number 30 on the control panel, he waits in silence as the doors close, and then we’re on our way, making the climb toward the studio.

  Still looking up at him, I notice that he’s flushing slightly and, reacting by instinct, my heart starts racing and I feel warm blood making its way toward my face. Has he noticed that I’m wet? Oh, God, I hope not - I’d die of embarrassment.

  And then he sniffs, almost as if he has a cold, and I bet my face has just become as red as a tomato. My thong has a thin fabric and, judging by the way he’s carrying me right now, it wouldn’t come as a surprise if he could actually smell how wet I am. Because, yeah, there’s really no other way to put it - I’m a complete wet mess, my thong completely drenched in my fluids.

  I know, I could just ask him to put me down… but I don’t want to. I feel so sa
fe in his arms, almost as if none of the bad things in the world can get to me if I have his body pressed against mine.

  Ding!, the elevator doors open suddenly and, without a word, he strolls into the Saturday Night Laughs office almost too casually. Everyone turns their heads toward us, a few jaws hanging open, and that’s when I see Samantha, my executive producer, making her way toward us like a storm.

  “What the…?” She starts, stopping a few feet away from him, her wide eyes roaming up and down the body of my savior. “Care to explain?” She asks me, arching one eyebrow at me and pushing her horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “I got mugged on the way here…” I start, realizing that my cheeks are still flushed. “You can put me down now,” I whisper, and Sanders puts me down reluctantly. I grimace as my feet touch the floor, my swollen ankle immediately complaining. “This is --”

  “Sanders,” he introduces himself, his tone of voice once again flat and emotionless.

  “Sanders, yeah. He saved me.”

  “Uh-huh, of course he did,” Samantha whispers, her eyes lustfully tracing the contour of Sander’s bulging biceps. I feel a thorn of jealousy inside my heart, but I just shrug it off. “Come into my office, I’ll get the doctor so that he can take a look at your ankle…” She finally says, her eyes focusing on the purple swell on my right foot.

  “Yeah,” I nod. “Uh, Sanders… Thank you…” I say, feeling like a complete idiot as Samantha grabs my hands and drags me toward her office at the far end of the floor..

  “No need,” he says, an hint of a smile on his hard mouth. “You go on, I’ll just wait here,” he then adds, and he just stands there. It’s no use arguing with him. I sigh and I let Samantha guide me into her office.

  33

  Sanders

  I keep guard outside of the Saturday Night Laughs’ main office, standing by the door to the reception with my hands behind my back. The minutes go by painfully slow, and I use all that time to replay inside my head everything that happened up to this point. How it felt when I picked her up from the ground, her delicate body in my arms, the soft swell of her breasts against my shoulder and --

  “What are you still doing here?” I hear Stacy’s voice, and I turn on my heel to face her. She’s still wearing that tight fitting red dress, the fabric of it clinging to the lovely curves of her body.

  “I told you I’d wait,” I simply tell her, and she opens her mouth to say something but then quiets down, looking for the right words. “I’m going to wait until you’re done so that I can take you home,” I continue then, and I notice her cheeks reddening.

  “I’m actually going home for the day, but you don’t need to --”

  “I do,” I cut her short, bending over to pick her up from the floor once more. She takes one step back, though, a smile taking over her face.

  “No need for that,” she chuckles, raising her right foot up from the floor and waving it in front of me. There are thick bandages around her ankle, the purple bruises hidden from sight. “The doctor patched me up. I can walk.”

  “I’m still going to protect you,” I continue, and she looks at me in such a way that I can almost see the gears inside her head turning as she looks for a suitable answer.

  “Okay,” she finally breathes out, and I try to force myself to smile. It probably comes out as a frown, judging by the way she looks at me, but no matter. Smiling isn’t really one of my strengths.

  We make our way out of Rockefeller Center in a few minutes, stepping out into the sun, and that’s when she starts to talk.

  “So, uh… You must be military, right? I mean… You look the part, I guess.” Here we go, the inevitable interrogation.

  “Ex-SEAL,” I merely shrug. “I served in Afghanistan and Iraq, back when the war was still at its high-point.”

  “And, uh, have you adapted to being a civilian again?” She asks, and I know she’s struggling to keep the conversation going.

  “It’s okay,” I shrug again, having no idea what I should tell her. I might know how to do a lot of things, but verbally spar with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen isn’t one of these things.

  “Well, I’m a singer,” she continues as we turn a corner, passing a few feet away from the alleyway where I rescued her from being stabbed.

  “Okay.”

  “Uh… I’m the Saturday Night Laughs singer. You know, the studio you were in just now… You’ve probably seen me on TV.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Do you not watch Saturday Night Laughs?” she asks, her voice curious.

  “No,” I say to her question.

  “Well what kind of TV do you watch?” she asks, pressing on.

  “Usually, I read,” I respond tersely.

  “Christ, you really aren’t one for words, are you?” She sighs, and I notice a note of frustration in her voice. I stop walking then and turn to her, once again forcing my lips to curl into a smile.

  “I don’t like to talk, I prefer to do,” I say, and she flushes again, her slightly parted lips almost like an invitation. I fight against the urge to just take her into my arms and crush my mouth against hers, and so I just start walking down the street again, the steady click of her high-heels following after me.

  I notice a few people turning their heads toward us - or, if I’m to be more precise, toward Stacy - and I scan the street sharply, assessing everyone and everything. This is what I do: I protect. It’s carved deep in my body and mind, etched in my DNA. Ever since these long days and nights on arid and foreign wastelands, a potential threat lurking behind every corner, I’ve learned to never let my guard down. A one second distraction and that could be the end of you. You just never know, so that’s why I’m always ready.

  Always.

  “Are you sure you can walk?” I ask Stacy, noticing that she’s walking more slowly now, a barely noticeable limp taking over her movements.

  “Yes, I can walk,” she breathes out, but she laces her arm on mine all the same, supporting herself. I purse my lips as I feel the touch of her warm skin on my forearm, her closeness poking at the dormant beast inside of me. “We’re close now, anyway,” she continues, huddling close to me, almost as if she needs to feel my body pressed against hers.

  “So, since you don’t like to talk that much, what do you like to do then?” She asks me, and I know that, somewhere in her question, there’s a trap set up for me.

  “Rescue defenseless singers?” I say, turning to her with another forced smile.

  “Is that your line? It’s a rather weak one,” she replies, smiling back at me. I let my eyes wander to her full lips, their crimson color almost too hypnotizing.

  “I don’t have any lines. I don’t need any lines,” I whisper, this time a shadow of a smile on my lips. I just stare into her eyes, feeling my heart turn into a high powered machine gun inside my chest.

  She stops right in front of the door to her apartment building, looking back at me in complete silence, and I feel the atmosphere around us crackle with electricity. There’s something about her that shuts down my brain… I feel my cock starting to twitch inside my jeans, and that’s when I decide it’s time for me to leave.

  I slide my arm out from hers, and I’m about to turn on my heels to leave when her voice reaches me, her words like the perfect trap.

  “Wanna come upstairs?”

  She’s dangerous, no doubt about it.

  And I love dangerous.

  34

  Stacy

  I take one deep breath, trying to hush that incessant whisper inside my head. Don’t do it, that insidious voice goes, you barely know him!

  But he’s so fucking hoooooot, another voice starts, and I let a slight smile creep up on my lips. I’m not too big on cursing, but fucking hot pretty much describes him. And, hell, the way he’s looking at me right now is enough for my thong to melt. Whatever. At least he won’t be sniffing at it then.

  “Wanna come upstairs?” I find myself saying, the words slipping
out from between my lips before I can stop them. He just looks at me with a blank expression, and I feel embarrassment taking over me. Oh, crap, I must look like a fool right now. “To, uh, make sure I’m safe, I mean,” I add, trying to save some face.

  His lips curl upward with a slowness that I never even thought to be possible, and a barely noticeable smile shows up on his face. He really has a problem with smiling, that much is for sure. Serious and sullen, that’s Sanders. But, then again, what else would I expect from a combat-hardened ex-SEAL?

  “Alright,” he nods, opening the door to my apartment building and stepping to the side, waiting for me to go in first - like a true gentleman. We step inside the elevator and, by the time the doors close in on us, I realize that I’m breathing hard, my thong damp once more. Seriously, what’s up with him? There’s something out of the ordinary about him… I mean, all it takes is for me to stand a few inches away from him and I start to become a puddle.

  Because he’s hooooot, that manic voice inside of me laughs once more, and I bite down on my lower lip as I look at him. The fabric of his dark shirt is stretched thin over the bulging muscles on his arms and shoulders, and I can’t even start to imagine the layer of rock hard abs he probably has covering his stomach.

  Before I know it, my eyes have wandered down to his jeans, and I can’t stop myself from imagining exactly what he’s hiding in there. Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m acting like a horny teenager! What the hell’s wrong with me?

  “Here we are,” he says politely as the elevator’s door open. We get out at the same time and, after fishing my keys from inside my purse, I walk toward the door to my apartment, slide the key into its lock and turn it. He pushes the door open for me, his fingers brushing against mine, and my heart becomes so tight inside my chest that I feel lightheaded.