by Erin Hayes
“I’ve got to go see them,” I muttered, handing Winston’s leash to Ash as I stood up. The entire room stilled, as if to see what I would do.
Then again, I could imagine Uncle Dusty throwing his scotch against the window when the Hammers lost. He had been weird, lovable, and eccentric, but there was also a fierce pride in him that we Hartes all had.
Which was what I was reacting to right now.
“Just...keep doing what you do,” I told everyone, including the bewildered executive board. I couldn’t remember their names to save my life, but I also didn’t care what they thought of me.
I cared about Andre. I spun on my heel to leave. Four minutes didn’t leave me very long to get down there.
“Can I have your drink?” Ash called after me. Without turning around, I just waved her question away. She’d drink it and get really drunk. I’d deal with that later.
I could hear Winston howl after me as the door shut. Everyone probably thought I was crazy.
I didn’t care.
I ran to the elevators, past the other corporate boxes. There must have been as many people up here as there were in the stadium—the boxes all seemed to be full. Through the windows in the door, I could see people turning around to look at me.
I didn’t give a damn.
I slowed as I reached the elevator and flashed my badge that said I was the team owner to the doorman, someone I didn’t recognize. I’d introduced myself in the past to as much of the company as I could, but there were still those who didn’t know who I was.
And they never believed that I was their boss until I flashed this damn badge.
“Which floor, Ms. Harte?” he asked, hitting the button for the elevator.
“Just take me to the field,” I said, panic rising within me as I waited.
“The field?”
“Yes. I need to see my team.”
My team. Who was losing badly.
The elevator arrived, and I practically leaped into it, scaring the operator inside. It was the longest elevator ride of my life, as I drummed my hands against my thighs.
“Come on, come on, come on.”
The operator watched me warily, but I didn’t care. As soon as those doors opened onto the ground floor, I ran out, somehow miraculously not tripping on my high heel shoes. For some reason, I thought I could dress all professional for this first game. Because I knew that there would be eyes on me.
There would be eyes all right.
I couldn’t believe how busy the stadium was behind the scenes. When the Hammers practiced earlier, there was barely anyone in these hallways.
Not true for a game, apparently.
“Is that Madison Harte?”
Hearing my name threw me out from my mission long enough to turn my head toward the unfamiliar voice.
A woman wearing a white linen shirt and a black pencil skirt stepped forward. “It is you! The new owner of the Yellowhammers!” she cried triumphantly, and I wondered who the hell this was and why she knew me.
Then I noticed the press badge around her neck a split second before she thrust a microphone in my face. I blinked in surprise as a camera turned in my direction, along with a whole bunch of other reporters noticing that I was alive.
“Ms. Harte,” the reporter said, giving me a fake smile, “how do you feel about the Hammers suffering such a humiliating loss?”
I blinked, taken aback by her frank language. “The game’s not over yet.”
Apparently, everyone around me thought this was hysterical, because they burst out laughing.
“But, seriously, Ms. Harte,” the reporter said. “How do you think this reflects on you as team owner? After all, it’s the first game under your ownership.”
I gnawed on my bottom lip, trying to think of an appropriate response on the fly, when my whole body was screaming to get out on that field for my team. For once, I wasn’t going to have an opinion on something. “No comment.”
I tried pushing my way past her, but she and the cameraman blocked my path. “Really?” she asked. “You have no comment about the abysmal performance of the Hammers?”
She was trying to get a rise out of me.
“No comment,” I said through gritted teeth. I was about to lose my cool. Not that I had much to begin with.
“But, Ms. Harte—” I tried to step around her more forcefully, but that damn microphone popped back in my face, and I almost bumped into the cameraman. “Ms. Harte, surely you would have thought that the Hammers would have done better under your ownership than your uncle’s?”
“Fuck off,” I told her, giving her a glare.
That did the trick, amazingly enough. She blinked and stepped back—I must have looked murderous in that moment—giving me enough room to push past her and out onto the field.
I’d have to deal with that later.
What a fucking disaster.
I pushed it from my mind as I ran down the hallway and out to the field and into the lights bearing down on everyone on the ground level. Like everywhere else, it had a completely different feel than on any other day. From here, the field looked packed. There were so many people along the sidelines, and everything had a shiny professional sheen to it. Everyone was wearing uniforms. More press huddled along with them, and people ran about to talk to each other. Photographers with super long lenses snapped shots and video cameras recorded.
And that didn’t include the teams playing on the field.
The sound was deafening, and I couldn’t pick out any one sound. The announcer, the crowd, and everything jumbled together into something that rattled me to my core.
How the hell could anyone play in this?
I glanced up at the jumbotron.
Two minutes left. I know I had left the owner’s box more than two minutes ago. Note to self: the time on the countdown clock did not match real time. I could live with that. It gave me the time to run down here before the game ended.
It gave me the time to support my team.
I saw which side my team was on, with Coach Mack glaring at the team from the sidelines. He wore a microphone around his head, and there were several other men dressed similarly to him, part of his coaching team. The rest of the players—all of whom I could recognize by now—sat on the bench, looking downright depressed.
Probably thinking that they would have to deal with another season of humiliation and losses.
It broke my heart.
I jogged over to the team, flashing my badge to security and anyone who looked like they could question my being there. Luckily, I managed to dodge the press on my way to the Hammers’ side.
Not-so-luckily, Coach Mack noticed me.
He pulled off the microphone as he stalked over to me. “What the Sam-heck are you doing here?” he hissed to me.
Saying “Sam-heck” and refusing to say “hell” almost made me laugh out loud. Oh, he was going to love what I said to that reporter.
“I’m here to support my team,” I told him blithely. I slowed to a stop near the bench and waved to Andre, who was on the field in between plays.
“You’re distracting my team,” Mack said to me.
I gave him an answering glare, refusing to back down. “They were losing horribly before I got down here, so you can’t use that excuse. I want them to know that I’m here for them. And I am your boss. So back the Sam-hell off.”
That had the desired effect, and he blinked and stepped backward. I went to the far side of the bench, out of his way, but visible enough for my team to see that I was here.
I was here for them. I was going through this as much as they were.
My stomach in knots, I watched, waiting for the game to finally end.
Fifteen
I paced back and forth along the edge of the field, my heels sinking into…whatever that was on the ground. Not dirt. Tundra? No. That was the frozen stuff.
“Turf!” I suddenly remembered from the flash cards. “Astroturf!”
From his position a few f
eet away, Coach Mack didn’t say anything, but he turned another vicious glare on me when I blurted out the word. I didn’t care. He could fuck off, too.
How could the last two minutes take so damn long?
Out on the field, the guy in black and white—the referee, I remembered—yelled something unintelligible, one of the players from the other team threw the ball an incredibly long way, some ugly buzzer sounded, and the game was over.
We’d just gotten creamed. And not in a good way.
I almost snickered to myself at my private dirty joke, but I felt too awful for my team to find anything very funny right now.
With the game over, the crowd streamed out. Some of the players, including Andre and Rodney, spoke with reporters, and their expressions said that they weren’t happy with the results. Everything seemed to be moving quickly—from the clean-up crews to everyone finishing up.
There was an overall feeling of defeat.
I stood by while they all gathered around Coach Mack, and I didn’t interrupt that. I really wasn’t here to distract the team, whether he believed that or not.
He said a few grim words, and then they all headed toward the locker room. Not a celebration by any stretch of the imagination. Andre waited for me to catch up and walk with him. Clancy shot us a glance but continued ahead. Rodney, however, lingered for a moment more, his eyes questioning me, before he gave a slight shake of his head and jogged off to the locker room.
I’d have to deal with them later. Right now, my mind was on one thing.
“Come upstairs to the owner’s box,” I said.
Andre stared at me blankly.
“Once you’ve showered and changed. I want to talk to you. In fact, I’ll just wait for you down here.”
He nodded before jogging in after his team to the locker room. I watched him for a long moment, appreciating his ass in those yellow stretchy pants, before pulling out my phone. I texted Ash, hoping that she wasn’t waiting around for me.
Me: Go ahead and take Winston back to the hotel. I have a few things to finish up here.
It didn’t even take a minute for her reply to come back.
Ashley: By finishing up, you mean finishing OFF. ;)
I hated that she was pretty bang on. She knew me way too well.
It didn’t take long for Andre to change—even though he was the last one in the dressing room, he was the first one out. By that point, I was pretty much the only one left on the field. I think after such a crushing defeat, everyone was trying to get home and get this out of their head.
“Where is everyone else?” I asked, looking around him.
“Coach Mack called a meeting.”
“Shouldn’t you be there?”
He grinned ruefully. “You told me to be here, and you outrank him.”
“Very true.” I returned his grin and took his hand, tugging him toward the elevator.
“I feel terrible about you guys losing,” I murmured when we were about halfway down the hall. He turned a surprised glance my way.
“None of us think you’re excited about it,” he assured me. To my surprise, the elevator attendant was still on duty. After telling him to the go to the executive level, he pressed the button, and Andre and I stood in silence, waiting for the elevator to arrive. When it did, we stepped in, aided by another attendant.
As he pressed the appropriate level, I couldn’t hold in my questions any more.
“Are you okay?” I asked my quarterback.
He shrugged. “As okay as I ever am after we lose.”
“Crap. Is that apathy I hear in your voice?”
“No. I’m just tired.”
I let the comment go. He had, after all, just finished a stressful game.
“How are you?” he asked, his big hand resting on my lower back.
My mouth twisted up. “Well, I told a reporter to fuck off earlier.”
A snort from the elevator attendant drew my attention, but as I watched, he fought down his desire to laugh.
Good. He might need that skill if he was going to keep working for me. As I stepped out of the elevator, I turned to speak to him. “You can go home now. It’s been a long night.”
“But my manager…”
“Can come talk to me if he or she has a problem with it.”
“Thank you, Ms. Harte.” The doors started to close, and the attendant gave me a little salute as he headed back down to clock out.
In the suite, part of me wondered why I wasn’t staying here instead of my hotel—it was honestly nicer, and if it’d had a bed anywhere, I would have moved immediately.
Let’s be honest. Even a sofa long enough to accommodate me would have prompted me to pack my bags and save the money.
But the suite mostly had tall chairs set up at a bar running the length of the glass windows.
Earlier, I’d been so impressed with the owner’s suite that I had searched online to see what other owners’ suites were like.
I was a little sad that mine didn’t really hold a candle to the one in Dallas.
Oh, well.
I didn’t own the Dallas team, and Dallas didn’t have three players who wanted me.
But before I could do anything about that, I needed to figure out how to bring them together. How to make them a true team.
Starting with Andre.
As soon as I was sure everyone had left the owner’s suite—including kicking out some of the staff that I was sure would talk—I locked the door, then turned around and threw my arms around him. “I want you. Now. Here. Where no one else will interrupt.”
“What about Rodney and Clancy?” he whispered against my lips. “I thought you—”
I shook my head. “They’re not here. It’s just us right now.”
And then he claimed my mouth with his.
As the lights in the stadium clicked off one after another, Andre ran his forefinger along the side of my breast. Even though the touch was through my shirt, at the feel of his heat against me, goose bumps popped up along my arms. My nipples tightened, and my breath caught.
He was utterly silent, watching me intently as he slipped one arm behind my shoulders, his own broad form blocking out the light behind him. The heat of his lips slanting across mine sent chills racing down my spine. He teased my mouth open with his tongue, deepening the kiss as he unbuttoned the top of my shirt.
Andre pulled away long enough to brush strands of hair from my face and stare into my eyes. “This okay?” he asked softly.
“Oh, yes,” I murmured, standing up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck and pull him back down into another kiss.
When he had the shirt open, he slipped his hand up along my stomach, cupping my breasts for a moment before pulling the cup of my bra out of his way.
He swept a fingertip across my nipple, and it pebbled under his touch. With a groan, Andre skimmed his mouth down the side of my neck, dropping small kisses along the way until he reached the hollow just below my collarbone. When he sucked lightly on that spot, I whimpered.
Placing his hands on my waist, he lifted me up. “Isn’t this where we left off?” he whispered.
“Please,” I whispered, not even sure why I said it—but at that one word, Andre moved to one of the tall chairs and sat with me on his lap, bringing his mouth back to mine for another soul-deep, tongue-tangling kiss.
Andre was big—enormous—all over. I could feel him hard against me, and with small inarticulate noises, I wiggled a little.
Shifting enough to free one hand, he pulled a condom out of his jeans pocket. He set it on the chair next to us, then stood up and sat me on the chair, pulling a small table over to lean against as he dropped his hand down between my legs.
Gently, he parted my lips as he hiked up my skirt and pulled my panties aside. I whimpered, knowing what was coming next, and Andre smiled. With one deft motion, he licked me, sliding up my slit and ending at my clit.
He gripped my ass both to support me and to pull me closer.
&nb
sp; “Oh, god. Andre,” I moaned as his tongue flickered across my clit. “This feels so good.”
His mouth worked faster, sucking and licking as I trembled all over. He circled my clit until I could hardly breathe, but he didn’t stop until I was grasping at his shoulders and squirming as I screamed his name, my orgasm ripping through me.
As the spine-melting pulsing orgasm faded away, I tugged Andre’s hand to get him back up. He sat in the chair next to me. At the last second, I grabbed the condom out of his way.
I was torn. I wanted him inside me, now, but I also wanted to taste him.
Next time, I promised myself. His cock jumped under my touch as I unrolled the condom over him.
Slinging one leg over him, I balanced on the railing of the chair. I slid down onto him, the sheer size of him forcing me to move slowly to accommodate him, stretching me until my eyes rolled back in my head and I groaned in something between pleasure and pain.
As I settled him into me, I could feel the head of his cock pressing against the most intimate part of me—deeper than anyone had ever penetrated before.
I closed my eyes to concentrate.
Even when I had pulled all of him in, the base of his shaft pressing against me and every inch of his cock buried inside me, I pulled my own legs further apart, as if I could sink down against him even further.
Leaning my hands against his chest and using my feet on the chair as leverage, I lifted myself up high. Finally, I opened my eyes to catch his gaze with my own, and slid down him, faster this time.
Andre rested his hands against my hips without really holding on, letting his palms slide up and down as I moved against him.
I held my breath, taking in the intent expression on his face, even as I felt my own orgasm building again. I wanted to feel guilty—after all, I had barely touched him at all. But I didn’t think he cared.
My eyelids closed, and all I could do was repeat “yes,” over and over, even as I met him, thrust for thrust, as he pumped into me. I pulsed around him, loosening to pull him into the deepest part of me, then tightening around his cock.
