by S. J. Bishop
I reached out blindly and managed to find the handle at the same moment that Ted’s hands found the bottom of my shirt and tugged it over my head. His hands were hot against my bare skin, and his fingers lingered on my bra, as if waiting for permission to unclasp it.
I responded by grabbing his belt buckle and moaning at the thick promise pressing against his pants.
“It’s all yours, baby,” he said, snapping my bra open with a practiced flick of his fingers and nodding his appreciation as my breasts sprang free.
“Fuck, those are nice,” he said. I should have been alarmed by his crass appraisal of my breasts, but I wasn’t. I wanted him. Badly.
I tugged at his shirt, but he was too tall and had to help me slide it off. Oh. God. This was the Body Issue come to life. His abs rippled across his torso; his pecs were sprinkled with dark blond hair that I immediately reached out and ran my fingers through.
After that, there was no time for looking, no time for thought. His hand came up, hot on my breasts, his fingers sweeping across the nipple so that I bowed against his touch.
“God, touch me like that again,” I cried.
“As the lady commands.” Ted’s head bent down and took the sensitive nipple into his mouth, backing me toward the bed until it hit my knees and I all but collapsed on top of it.
Ted followed, careful with my head, resting me against the pillows before proceeding to worship my body.
His mouth was everywhere, his hands working at the buttons of my jeans and holding my hips up as he slid them down my legs. There was no appreciation of my blue thong that went with the jeans; I was bared to the air, bared to Ted.
He wasted no time. His mouth came down on me: hot.
“Fuck!” I cried as his tongue slid between my lips and feasted there.
Oh my god, oh my god! He seemed to know exactly where to touch me, exactly what to do to get me close to the edge. His tongue laved my clit. One hand palmed my breast; the other slid in between my legs and delved deep.
“You,” I chanted, tugging at his hair. “I want you.”
I wasn’t a “tease-me” kind of girl. I wanted whatever he was packing inside those gray pants.
He laughed and stood up. As he slid his pants down his thighs, my mouth went dry. Oh god. Thank god I was wet.
Ted came back down, his mouth meeting mine hungrily and his tongue thrusting in as the thick head of his cock rubbed against my lips.
I tilted my hips up, whimpering for fulfillment. I was burning with need, aching, with my climax just a thrust away.
Ted entered me slowly, so slowly that I began to buck against him.
“No, baby,” said Ted, nipping my ear. “We do this gentle.” Inch by inch by inch.
I was keening, sobbing by the time he was inside of me. And he was laughing against my ear. “Don’t worry, baby; I’ll take care of you.”
He began to move out slowly and then in again, in deep, flexing thrusts that seemed to reach my very core. I cried out at the sensations streaming through me, and he did it again. I wrapped my legs around his waist, desperate to hold him to me, to savor him deep inside of me. But he didn’t let me. He reared up on his arms and grabbed one of my legs, hooking it over his shoulder.
Then he began to ride me. Hard. He thrust forward with such intensity that my orgasm shattered across my senses, searing through my skull and making me momentarily blind to anything but the sensation of the orgasm.
I screamed as he kept up the rhythm, pushing me onward, faster and faster, extending the orgasm until it seemed to double back on itself and build even greater momentum.
“Oh god, oh god!” I was chanting, gripping his hair and pulling his head down toward mine. He kissed me again, shifting and hitting another spot with such intensity that I screamed as I climaxed again, harder this time.
I could feel him then, stiffening in my arms and pulling out at the last moment to spill himself onto my sheets.
14
Ted
“You’re being a goddamn idiot.”
My father was his usual positive self. Not for the first time in our now ten-minute-long conversation, I had the brilliant hindsight that I shouldn’t have answered this call. There was no pleasing my Dad. I’d hoped he wanted to talk about the game a few nights ago, or maybe talk about Mom’s upcoming birthday, or maybe just check in to see how I was doing.
Of course not. What had I been thinking? Dad wanted to ridicule me about how I was handling the whole “Erin” thing.
“I really don’t think I’m being…”
“No, you don’t think, Ted. You didn’t think when you signed onto the Patriots, and you didn’t think when you walked into that girl’s hospital room! She was a distraction then, and she’s a distraction now!”
“I don’t know how you can actually say that,” I argued, “considering that, in order to be a distraction, she would had to have somehow kept me from playing my game effectively. I promise you, that hasn’t happened…”
“But it will happen. I know you. You’re weak where women are concerned. Way more interested in following your dick than following common sense. Your brother thinks that’s why you moved to Boston. He thinks you ran out of bimbos in Cleveland.”
Okay. Now I was getting mad.
“So,” I said, dryly. “You’ve expressed your fatherly concern over my commitment to my career. I assure you, I am taking my playing very seriously. Is there anything else we need to talk about?”
“I just don’t understand how you could be such an idiot. She’s talking to the press, for god’s sake!” my father continued. Talking to the press? What the hell was he going on about? What was she saying to the press?
“I’m going to go now,” I said.
“Of course you are,” said my father snidely, but he hung up the phone first. Fucker.
I sat there, my anger eating at me for a while. My dad and I had never had a good relationship. I had been just a kid when he’d retired from the NFL and had turned his attention toward making his sons tiny versions of himself. When he hadn’t been making motivational speeches to Fortune 500 companies, he’d been dragging my brother and I into the backyard to practice passing and tackling.
Bruce Schneider had been inducted into the hall of fame as a quarterback, and he’d pushed both of his sons into the sport as well. My older brother Rob was a Heisman winner and would absolutely make the Hall of Fame as a running back, despite leaving the league last year after a torn ACL. There was a lot of pressure on me to match the family achievements, to do as well as my brother had. I tried to let that pressure roll off my back. Despite my father’s insistence that I play, I’ve always enjoyed football. Besides, I was after the one thing that neither my father nor my brother had ever accomplished: a Super Bowl win.
It was why I’d given up my salary with the Browns. I was after the ring.
I was also half certain that my dad was being hard on me because he wanted the win for me as well. But he had the wrong end of the stick. I wasn’t going to be distracted by Erin Duvall.
In fact, I’d had to put her on the backburner and refocus on football. I’d stayed the night at her place and had slept terribly. We’d been awkward the next morning when I’d had to wake up early to get to practice. But I’d promised her I’d call. That had been three days ago. I hadn’t had a chance to reach out to her since. Okay. Maybe I had, but I wasn’t sure what I was going to say.
Truth be told, I was worried that she’d be a distraction. I was having a hard time not thinking about her and not thinking about my past. And I wasn’t typically one to live in the past.
High school had been good enough, but senior year had been a real buzz kill. My dad had been extremely hard on me, dragging me to this college and that one, trying to make sure I got a good scholarship and that I went to a school where I’d see playing time. He’d never thought I was as good as I was. Scouts had been after me since sophomore year, but he’d convinced himself it was because of his fame, not my own talent.
I’d been angry that year over it. To top it off, Erin – who I’d been nuts about – had broken up with me in March with little-to-no explanation as to why.
I’d gone into a depressive tailspin, and I was lucky I’d graduated. That was what my dad had been talking about when he’d said he was worried about me ‘getting distracted.’ Erin hadn’t kept me from playing football, but my grades had tanked, and I’d almost had my scholarship to Notre Dame rescinded.
And trust me, I remembered that. In fact, lying in Erin’s bed, holding her and gently stroking her hair, I’d remembered a lot of things: how nuts I’d been about her, how tumultuous our relationship had been, and how unexpected and painful that breakup had been. So I’d made the conscious decision to put a bit of distance between us. At least until I figured out what the hell I wanted from her. Was I looking to revenge-bone my ex? Was I looking for a fling? Did I want something more?
So, days had passed, and I’d said nothing to her. Did it matter that several times in the last few days, I’d picked up my phone and typed out a message, only to refuse to send it? Did it matter that I’d made the conscious decision to not do any of the talk shows about the kiss?
Erin was still trying to heal. She didn’t need that shit, and neither did I.
But what the hell was my dad talking about when he’d said she was talking to reporters? What the fuck did she have to say to reporters?
I flipped open my laptop and googled Erin Duvall. Her image was the first thing that came up – her face battered and bruised from when she’d walked out of the hospital. Underneath it was the most recent news story. A clip from CNN that looked to have been filmed outside of some office building. I clicked on it.
“So, rumor has it that Ted Schneider took you out on a date?”
The reporter shoved the microphone in Erin’s face, and Erin blinked owlishly at the woman and stared at the camera, a bit put off.
“Did you guys have a nice time?”
“He was nice,” said Erin. “He wanted to apologize about the whole thing. I think he felt badly that the incident took away from some of the attention he was trying to bring to Brigham and Women’s and the great work they’re doing…”
Shit. I stared at her, blinking. She’d turned that question right around and made me look like a fucking pro. What the hell had my dad been going off about?
I don’t think the reporter had expected Erin’s response because the woman stared at Erin as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard her correctly.
“Would you go out with him again?” the reporter pressed, regaining her equilibrium. Erin stared at the woman as if she were stupid.
“You know, I really have a lot I have to focus on now,” she said, sounding apologetic. “You might be in a coma, but life goes on, you know? I better get back to it…” And she edged away from the camera, nodding at the woman politely.
Fuck. I really was a dick. I picked up my phone and stared at it, thinking back to that idiot seventeen-year-old who’d leaned against his girlfriend’s locker, only to have her dump him. I’d been confident that, if I had told Erin how I’d felt about her earlier, she’d have never dumped me. Part of me had wanted to tell her right then and there, had wanted to sputter over her half-assed explanations as to why she was ending the relationship: but I love you.
That old feeling of shame crept back in. But I hadn’t told her. I have a mantra: if you make me feel bad about me, I don’t need you in my life. I’d felt like shit after the breakup with Erin, so I hadn’t spoken to her again after that.
We were both older now, and the sex had been fucking phenomenal. I wouldn’t mind doing it again. What was I so afraid of?
15
Erin
“Still nothing?” asked Ilsa, stopping by my cube where I was staring at the blank screen of my phone.
“Oh,” I lied, “I was just checking the time.” I set my phone down and took a look, instead, at the documents in the project folder that was in front of me.
After two days at home, I’d gotten monstrously bored. I’d forgotten that I didn’t splurge for cable, and staring at my computer screen had hurt my head.
So three days after I’d slept with Ted, I went in to Beezeness. And fuck, there was a lot to do.
Loretta really didn’t expect me to begin work until next Monday, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want me ready to work when Monday rolled around. I’d spend the last four hours going back over the accounts I’d been working on, going back over memos I had written and content we had published on our website. The writing wasn’t familiar to me, nor were the projects. I’d had to run around the office floor getting people to explain certain things. I had a killer headache.
At lunch, James had asked me about Ted, leading our friends to inquire over the date afterwards. I told them, leaving out only the most gritty details. I knew I’d made the whole encounter sound fun, not super draining and emotional, because Loretta had called me into her office not an hour later and told me I should write a series of articles about dating a football player.
She was certain it would bring a ton of traffic to our website. “And it could give us the numbers boost we need before we go back to the investors!”
I told her I’d consider it. Truth be told, I was excited to have that kind of a project. I’d been wanting to write real content for the site for a while, but I hadn’t been given the chance. The most I’d been allowed to write were top ten listicles and blog posts.
Loretta had pitched a few ideas to me, but I couldn’t see myself writing “How I Snagged a Date with Football’s Most Eligible Bachelor” or “How to Date a Football Player.” Blech.
I told her, too, that before I wrote about my night with Ted, I would have to get Ted’s permission. Loretta nodded and said, “Of course.” But I think we could both see how transparent that was: I was looking for another reason to talk to him.
“Do you think he will call?” asked Ilsa, stepping into my cube and leaning against my desk. Despite her relatively Swedish name, Ilsa was Indian and wore her long black hair in waves down to her waist. She twirled a strand of it now between her fingers.
I shrugged, trying to look like I didn’t care. I didn’t, really. Sex with Ted hadn’t been emotional – okay, that was a lie, it had been very emotional! But sex with Ted shouldn’t have been emotional. It clearly hadn’t been emotional for him. And I hadn’t thought too much about the emotions of the situation either – until the morning after.
I still couldn’t remember anything about my past with him, but my emotions had kicked into gear like muscle memory. I felt wounded and needy and entirely like a teenager. It was throwing me off big time.
“To be honest,” I said, staring up at Ilsa, “I have bigger things on my mind.” That was a lie. But I was getting sick of everyone assuming (correctly) that all I was thinking about was Ted.
“Of course you do,” said Ilsa. “Sorry.” She left me alone.
I was walking to the T, later, when Casey called me.
“Hey, girl. How’s the headache?” she asked.
“I only had to take two Aleve today,” I affirmed, smiling. At least there was one person in my life who cared about something other than my relationship – or lack thereof – with Ted (two, if I counted the check in James had given me during lunch today).
“That’s good news. I saw you on TV this afternoon!”
“Yeah. I got bombarded by a reporter on my way to lunch. I was meeting with James, actually. I didn’t make it.”
“He told me,” said Casey, sounding sympathetic. “Still no word from dickhead Ted?”
“No word,” I affirmed. “I’m not expecting one.”
“That just doesn’t make any sense to me,” said Casey.
I shrugged and realized she couldn’t see it. “To be honest, it doesn’t make much sense to me either.”
“You know what’s making me curious?” said Casey. “Why did you break up with him? It’s not like he broke up with you, right? You broke up with him.”
“That’s what he said.”
“I wonder why you did it. Were you cheating on him?”
Shit, I hoped not. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t remember high school, but I know who I am, I think. I’m not a cheater.”
“So, that might not be it. Well. It will remain a mystery unless you two meet up again.”
“I was thinking about calling him.”
There was silence on the phone, and then Casey said, carefully. “Why?”
I told her about Loretta’s article and needing to get his permission. Casey sighed. “Sounds pretty weak to me,” she said.
“Yeah. To me, too. But I’m going to do it anyway.”
“Okay, Erin. Do what you have to do. Are we seeing you for dinner this Friday? James will drive.”
“Yeah,” I confirmed.
“Okay. Talk to you later then.” Casey hung up.
Taking a deep breath, I stopped before going into park station, sat down on one of the benches in front of the tourism office, and dialed Ted’s number.
He was probably at practice. No way was he going to pick up.
“Hello.”
Fuck.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” Ted replied. Silence descended. Well, fuck, this was awkward.
“Listen, I ah… you know I work for Beezeness, right?”
“I know that, yes,” said Ted, sounding careful.
“My boss wants me to write content about our ‘date’ the other night. I told her I wasn’t going to unless you okayed the whole thing.”
“What do these articles entail?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Would you want to discuss them over dinner?”
Was he asking me out? Really? After not calling for a few days? My silence must have spoken volumes because Ted cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I haven’t called. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to; it’s just…complicated.”
“Complicated,” I repeated. My heart was sinking into my chest, some weird emotional muscle memory, no doubt. I had a feeling that my high school relationship with Ted might have included a lot of anxiety.
