by Cassie James
“Okay.”
My voice is shaky but I know he’s right. We’ve been walking on eggshells together. Maybe if I just face whatever’s waiting for me across the hall, then we can all move forward.
Whatever that looks like.
I take a deep breath and take the two steps necessary to reach the other door. Victor doesn’t stop me this time.
I flick the light switch and take a few more steps into the room before my eyes adjust and I stop short.
Three big boxes sit strategically placed in the center of the room. The outer cover is pitch black, but Christmas tree decorated squares on the front, each of them numbered one through twenty-five.
“What is that?” I ask, trying to hide my disappointment. I don’t know what I was expecting, but a couple of strange looking boxes certainly wasn’t it.
“Haven’t you ever seen an advent calendar before?” Victor’s voice sounds just as amused as his face looked before. He steps up beside me, his muscles flexed as he crosses his arms and elbows me slightly.
“Yeah, never this big before.” I let my eyes seek out Cyrus who’s hanging back near the door. “Thanks, guys.”
“This isn’t a gift, Gem. Well, not exactly.” Eli’s voice draws my eye, though he ducks his head when he sees my reaction to that stupid nickname.
My face scrunches. “Ugh. Don’t call me that.”
“Sorry.” He mutters it like a naughty kid who doesn’t really mean it.
But it’s his first words that send curiosity rolling through me. I make a loop around the boxes to see the backside. Across the middle white words are stamped and covered in sparkling glitter.
Welcome to the season of giving.
It takes me another slow beat before I see what’s stamped below that. Three letters—XXX.
“Did you all…” I hesitate, giving myself a second to work up the nerve to finish my sentence, “buy me a naughty advent calendar?”
The room is silent as I read the words again. Welcome to the season of giving. The cheekiness of it is cute in a really cringey sort of way.
Mateo breaks from the group to stand next to me on the other side of the boxes. His eyes collide with Cyrus’, but Cyrus makes no move to take over. It’s almost like he’s trying to step back from playing the leader right now.
Mateo seems to take that as a green-light to finally give me an explanation.
“It’s the ultimate advent calendar. Twenty-five days of naughty fun. They’re usually for couples looking to spice things up, but in this case, we want to use it as a means of kicking things off.”
I shake my head, still totally unclear on what they’re pitching me.
“The box has twenty-five different bedroom activities. You’ll spend one date with each of us, from the first of December—tomorrow—to Christmas Day.”
“That doesn’t sound like dating. It sounds like the plot to a bad porno!” My voice is shrill, even to my own ears. But they have to be kidding. All that build-up, and all they care about is getting laid.
You knew it was too good to be true, my mind silently taunts me.
Cyrus comes tearing towards me, shoving guys right out of the way in his haste. “That is not what this is,” he growls.
“That’s what it sounds like.”
I put my hands on my hips as if making myself take up more space will be enough to show them all how serious I am. This isn’t what I thought I was signing up for.
Cyrus lets out a frustrated groan.
“Gemma.” I hate that hearing him say my name all low and sexy like that. It’s enough to throw me off balance again. “It’s not about sex. We’ll all take you on PG rated mini-golf dates if that’s what you really want.”
“Then why buy this?” I challenge.
“Because if we’ve only got one chance to impress you, we’d sure as hell like to show you what you’ve been missing.”
My mind—completely against my will—does a quick replay of the last time Colin and I had sex. Quick because it’s not that pleasant of a memory, but also because it really was just over so damn fast. He’d wanted to hurry back to work so badly that one of us didn’t even get off.
Me.
It was always me making the sacrifices.
Now I think I know why they call it a pussy because I swear everything under my panties purrs imagining what could come from this sort of arrangement.
Namely: me. I could finally cum.
I have to clear my throat several times in a row before the words stop sticking in my throat. The guys watch with amusement in their eyes but mouths unmoving as if they’re all holding their breath waiting for an answer.
“What kind of stuff is in there?” I ask, pointing towards the center box.
Cyrus’ eyes actually give away a quick flash of uncertainty. “We don’t know,” he admits.
“What if it’s something I don’t like?”
The question is more of a formality than anything. I’m so inexperienced—used to bland missionary style sex with the lights off—that I wouldn’t know what I liked or didn’t like anyway. Not without trying it.
“You can say no at any time, Gemma. You don’t have to fuck anyone or any way that you don’t want to. We would never do that to you. In fact, I’d personally kick anyone’s ass who tried otherwise.”
I know it’s not an idle threat coming from Cyrus. Just last night, he’d sent Wolfie to come rescue me when I drunkenly texted him about the guy in the bar who kept trying to hang all over me.
But still, I’m so terrified about all the ways this could go wrong. Even more so now that I see these guys all practically salivating at the idea of stripping me down.
I take several long strides away from the boxes, putting my back to them so I can try to collect myself. I’ve worked harder than I care to admit fighting back fantasies of the guys over the years. I wanted to be faithful to Colin, even mentally, despite his shortcomings.
Now there’s nothing standing in my way and the guys are practically begging for it. Their eyes hopeful that I’ll give them the answer they want. They’ve clearly talked about this, too, because everyone seems to know exactly what was going to be presented except for me.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I protest, my voice shaking.
A hand reaches for mine and gives it a gentle squeeze. I don’t even look to see who it is—no one in this room can calm the storm raging inside of me at the moment.
“What are you so afraid of?” I distinctly hear Oliver’s voice ask over the murmuring from the others.
“It seems too fast,” I admit, pointedly not looking at any of them.
The hand in mine squeezes again as Oliver’s calm, collected voice reminds me, “We’re not starting from nothing, though. You’ve been it for us since the moment you signed your contract with the team.”
I take a deep breath and remind myself about what I told Wolfie this morning. I had every intention of agreeing when we talked about it.
The only thing that’s changed is the expectation.
But if we’re safe and everyone knows what’s going on—why shouldn’t I wring a little pleasure out of men so hot you almost can’t look directly at them without sunglasses on.
I did the responsible things. I got good grades. I volunteered. I stayed close with my dad. I got my degree and got a great job straight out of college.
I even dated the safe guy—and look where that got me.
“I’ll do it,” I whisper in a hoarse voice.
“Did you say…?”
“I’ll do it!” I call out louder, loudly enough this time to make sure there’s no doubt about what I’ve said.
Loud chaos erupts across the room as the tension breaks. The guys have a million things they all want to say at once.
I made the right choice. I know I did. I would have looked back with serious regret if I’d passed over a chance like this—social norms be damned.
Still, Cyrus’ words haunt me long after the guys cheerfully take me
back to finish dinner: Everything could change tomorrow.
Eleven
Gemma
December 01
Practice is a nightmare.
I mean the guys are good. More than good. No one’s acting like a jackass and trying to kill anyone else in the scrums. Even Mateo isn’t tackling any harder than he needs to. Maybe he actually listened to me about taking it easy in the pre-season after all.
Ben’s mercifully quiet, too, instead of spending the whole practice complaining about how long it’s been since his injury took him off the field.
Okay, so practice itself is going fine, even if Coach is yelling more than usual today.
The part that’s a nightmare is being on edge waiting to see just what exactly I’ve agreed to… and whether it’s going to turn out to be a huge mistake or not. There’s no going back after today.
“Again! Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell do you all keep looking at the sidelines for? Do you know what’s not on the sidelines? The goddamn ball!”
Lars smirks in my direction, and I know my face has to be bright red. Like I’m Rudolph the Red-Cheeked Reindeer or something. Hunter takes Lars down from behind while he’s distracted, and Marty starts grumbling all over again.
“Does anyone know what the hell’s gotten into them this week?” Marty asks, staring down the line of assistant coaches and me at the end.
I press my lips together tightly and shake my head as the assistants start spouting off theories. I’m not touching this with a ten-foot pole. What in the name of all things good and Christmas am I supposed to say to him?
“Hey, sorry the guys are distracted, Coach. Turns out I told Cyrus I’d go on a date with every single one of them and now I have to pony up.”
I should have told Cara more about Cyrus’ proposal. Like the part where I decided I was going to do it. Or the part where I wasn’t just doing it as a fun getting-over-my-ex activity.
Spend twenty-five days of December with a man a day.
Every. Single. Day.
My blush burns hotter as I think about what I agreed to. A sexy advent calendar. Twenty-five days of naughty surprises. There’s a joke about being naughty or nice in there somewhere, but my stomach’s too full of butterflies and my head’s too fuzzy to focus on being funny right now.
I don’t know where the hell Cyrus got the advent calendar idea from, and I don’t think I want to know. And how the heck did he even know I’d agree in the first place?
Not that it matters how he knew, since he was obviously right. I’d even agreed to go in blind. The guys know what order they’re in, but I don’t. Cyrus said they were doing some kind of drawing or something so it would be fair.
I shift from one foot to the other as I stare across the field. The guys are huddled up and Cyrus is turning in circles with his arms over his chest as he shouts something I can’t quite make out over the wind.
I give myself half a minute of unabashed staring, practically freaking salivating over the way his muscles shift and bunch under the thin athletic shirt he’s wearing.
He turns suddenly and our eyes meet, his glower morphing into a downright filthy smirk meant just for me. My lady bits practically sing in response. I clench my thighs before anyone else hears the opening bars to Joy to the World.
I am so not ready for whatever’s coming.
I try to imagine what Cara’s going to say when I share with her that I’ve signed up to be the team’s own personal ball girl.
“The entire team?”
“Oh my god, who do you think’s going to give the best dick?”
“You have to rate them, Gemma.”
“You’re not going to walk straight until next summer, you lucky bitch.”
“This brings a whole new meaning to getting a white Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas and a Jizzy New Year!”
I bite my lip to keep from groaning. The last thing I need is for Coach to ask me what’s wrong. I’m pretty sure fucking the whole team isn’t a Kringle-approved activity.
I really should have insisted on at least knowing the order. That way I could prepare myself for what I was getting—because let’s be real, fooling around with shy Ben is going to be worlds different from getting railed by Eli, and my poor vagina should be prepared if she’s going to take a beating.
Getting railed?
Who even are you right now, Gemma? Who says shit like that?
Heat curls in my belly at the sudden filthy image of Eli bending me over my desk as he gives it to me hard and dirty.
And that’s it.
I can’t keep standing here pretending like this isn’t making me absolutely crazy.
“I’m gonna head back inside. I’ve got some paperwork to clean up before practice ends and the guys flood my office.”
There’s a dirty little voice in the back of my mind that makes a joke about the guys filling my box, and I fight the urge to groan again. When did the voice in my head start to sound like Cara? And has she always been such a dirty freaking pervert?
Marty grunts, and I take that as my cue to leave. I nod as I pass him and try not to focus on the fact that my skin tingles as I scurry toward the complex. I don’t have to turn around to know that several pairs of eyes follow me all the way into the building.
No, Coach’s shouting does that just fine.
“I’m sorry, is the ball shoved down the back of Gemma’s goddamn pants? Eyes on the field now, or you’re all running suicides before we’re done for the day!”
My stomach is instantly in knots when I hear the doors at the end of the hall bang open against the walls. The distinct sound of the team entering the complex reaches me, and my nerves still feel raw.
Am I really ready for something like this?
I’ve been pacing, but I freeze for a moment now as I listen to them coming steadily closer. I drop my head back to stare at the ceiling. The tension in my body is so thick I’m positive it’s seeping from my pores and clogging the air around me. I wasn’t even this nervous when I interviewed for my position with the Storms.
“Everything’s going to be fine. You can handle this,” I mutter to myself as the sounds fade out from the other side of my closed door. I take a deep breath and try to chill out.
This isn’t that big a deal. I can totally handle it.
It isn’t like I’m going to start catching feelings overnight. I start to pace again as I continue my pep talk to myself. “These guys are your friends. It doesn’t have to be weird.”
I stop by my office window overlooking the practice field. Not a single guy hangs back today, and I wonder if they’re as weirdly nervous about this as I am or if they just don’t want to spend more time than necessary in the weather.
Clouds are rolling in, promising yet another wet evening.
If day one ever shows up, you’re going to have a wet evening, too.
I shake the perverted inner-Cara from my head and consider picking up my phone and giving the real life Cara a call. It’s too late for her to talk me out of it, but she might at least have a few words of encouragement for me.
Because right now, all I’m thinking about is the fact that I’ve signed myself up for twenty-five friends-with-benefits who all look like they probably fuck as well as they play. I shake my arms out and turn back toward the front of my office.
My heart stutters to a stop before picking up again in double-time. Isaac’s standing silently in the now-open doorway, shoulder propped against the frame as his wet hair drips onto his almost too tight white t-shirt.
Have they even been inside five minutes? He must’ve showered in record time. My eyes drift toward his leg as worry twists my gut. Did he twinge his hamstring again? We rehabbed the crap out of it near the end of last season after he tore it. It shouldn’t still be bothering him.
“Hey, do you need me? You played well today—didn’t look like your leg was bothering you.”
He runs a hand through his still-dripping hair and offers me a devil-ma
y-care sort of smirk that has me shifting where I’m standing as my thighs clench. Good lord, are my panties soaked in hellfire?
“Nah, my leg’s fine, Gemma.”
“Okay…” I say slowly as his grin stretches wider, and he straightens the t-shirt that’s sticking to his damp skin.
It’s odd seeing him like this, haphazard and barely put together. Isaac always looks good, and he’s the type of guy who knows it. Of all the Storms, he’s the one I’d peg as most likely to sign an underwear modeling contract.
Not that he couldn’t model anything else—the dude’s fashion sense is next freaking level—I just like the idea of seeing him stretched across billboards in nothing but a tight-ass pair of boxer briefs.
“It’s the first.”
“Yeah.” I nod, trying to wrack my brain for some kind of appointment I maybe forgot about. My eyes glance at his leg again before working their way up his taut body from bottom to top. He quirks an eyebrow as my gaze lands on his face, and I feel that new perpetual blush lighting up my face all over again.
“Gemma,” he says my name slowly, the syllables rolling off his tongue in a fucking purr as he stares me down across the distance of the office. “I drew the first.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
Well, shit.
Isaac, the could-be underwear model is the first of my twenty-five men of Christmas. My mouth goes as dry as the Sahara—probably so all the moisture in my body can go elsewhere. Like, uh, my sweaty palms.
I have no idea what to say.
“Uhm…” Super eloquent, Gemma.
I must hesitate too long because a dark look crosses his face. Isaac runs a hand through his hair before grunting and stepping into the room. The door snaps closed with a loud click, and I run my palms down the front of my jeans.
Crap.
“You okay?” he asks, his coffee-colored eyes flashing concern in the low lighting of the office. I shrug as what feels like a horde of eggnog-drunk Christmas elves break into song and dance in my belly.
