Scoring Off the Field

by Naima Simone

  Had she said that having someone in your life who knew you better than anyone else sometimes sucked hairy ape balls? Correction. It sucked hairy King Kong balls.

  Most people surmised her learning new vocabulary words was a hobby. No one but Dom understood the real reason and its origin.

  After hours and hours in doctors’ offices and hospitals where the only reading materials were medical magazines, she’d made figuring out the unrecognizable words a game. While her mother had weaved lies upon lies about her daughter’s health, and the doctors falsely diagnosed Tenny with ailment after ailment based on manufactured symptoms, she’d discovered what bibasilar, gastrointestinal, and abdominous meant.

  By the time Dayton, Ohio’s Child Protective Services removed Tenny from her mother’s “care,” she may have emerged with an irrational fear of hospitals, but she’d also come away with a stellar vocabulary for a ten-year-old.

  Learning new words had become a habit, a coping mechanism. And when she was stressed or nervous, she tended to spit them out more than usual. As he’d so graciously pointed out.

  “I need to get a life outside of organizing yours,” she stated. “Find my own way. Stand on my own.”

  He stared at her for several long moments. Blinked. “I have no idea what the hell that means. You been watching Dr. Phil again?”

  “Asshole.” She shoved him out of the way and jumped down, stomping across the kitchen—and away from the knives.

  “What?” Dom crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re going to tell me that doesn’t sound like the life-affirming bullshit he spouts. Maybe I should add a Texas accent to it.” He cleared his throat, and then in an exaggerated southern twang, drawled, “We teach people how to treat us.”

  “I take it back.” She scowled. “You’re not an asshole. You’re an ass-a-hole.”

  His crack of laughter bounced off the walls of his pristine kitchen. “Is that a new vocab word?”

  “Yes,” she shot back over her shoulder, marching past the gleaming pots and pans hanging from the iron rack. You can’t bash him over the head with a frying pan, she reminded herself. At least not until he saw reason. Then she might swing for the fences. “It’s a noun. Definition. When someone is so much of an asshole, they need another syllable.”

  She didn’t acknowledge his “Okay, that was a good one,” as she stormed out of the kitchen. This is what she got for trying to do the right thing. She should’ve just went with her first inclination and found a replacement on her own. Then one day, have the new person just show up. That way she could’ve avoided this whole asinine conver—

  Elegant, long fingers wrapped around her bicep and halted her halfway across one of the two dining rooms in his huge home. Strong, muscled arms banded around her waist, holding her in a gentle but implacable embrace. Helplessly, she ogled the taut skin, tanned to a burnished gold from hours of football practice under a summer sun. Even the thick vein running along his forearm had her clamping her lips shut before she submitted to the desire to run her tongue along it. Bite it.

  Her heart thumped against her rib cage, and she cursed the involuntary reaction to his touch. We’re pissed at him, she reminded the traitorous organ. But all the damn ticker did in return was pound harder when his embrace tightened and pulled her against an equally hard body.

  “Don’t go,” Dom murmured in her ear. “I’m sorry for being an ass-a-hole.”

  Since he couldn’t see her face, she risked closing her eyes and letting her lips part on a silent gasp. She concentrated on preventing a shudder from rippling through her, betraying how good his tall frame felt pressed to her smaller one. At her five-feet-five height, he towered over her, surrounded her in a wall of flesh, muscle, and warm skin. Made her feel safe even as his nearness presented a danger to her composure, her carefully constructed pretense of friendship…her sanity.

  Her stomach clenched, knots twisting and tightening until she wanted to cry “Uncle.” She should have been well acquainted with the unrelenting lust that transformed her into a human pretzel. And on one level, she was, but on the other… How could this sweet, taunting torture ever become old hat? Not when it seemed to increase, deepen, and grow hotter with each year that passed.

  Not when his every embrace and touch screamed of sibling love, and she wanted those soft brushes of his knuckle across her cheek, those tender kisses to her forehead, those strong hugs to brand her with passion. A passion he seemed to reserve for other taller, slimmer, more sophisticated, less sisterly women. Not for shorter, curvier—okay, pudgier—socially awkward, sibling-like women…in other words, her.

  No, for her, he would never feel that kind of desire.

  Memories flooded her.

  Drunk dialing him after her first fraternity party. Him picking her up from the frat house and driving her to his home. Her, confessing to him how she’d been approached by one of the guys there, but she didn’t want any of them… She just wanted him. That she’d been in love with him for so long and none of those “boys” could compare. The terrible morning after when he’d prepared breakfast, then sat her down and explained how they could never be more than friends. How their relationship was too important, too valuable to damage it with sex. The horrible, humiliating pity in his eyes as she’d tried to brush off her admission as shit-faced ramblings.

  God, she’d never forget that pity.

  At the time, her younger self had placed the blame on Tara, the cold-hearted bitch who’d damn near destroyed him—and his fledgling football career—the year before. But now, with distance, she could accept that Dom just didn’t see—or want—her as more than a friend. The truth hurt like hell, but there it was.

  Over the years, she’d managed to lock away those feelings—well, maybe shut the door on them. And for periods of time, she’d been successful, going out on the occasional date, hanging out with friends, managing to convince herself that she’d moved on. That she no longer carried a torch like an Olympic relay runner. But then, inevitably, there would come occasions like these. When Dom would affectionately cuddle or touch her. When his innocent, friendly behavior cracked open that door again, just enough for her feelings to flood back in.

  It was a painful, embarrassing cycle.

  And after bumping into his latest one-night stand as she did the walk of shame out of his house, she’d decided it was time to end it, once and for all. Inhaling, she extricated herself from his arms even as her body yelled, WTF? Making sure her we’re-just-buddies mask was firmly in place, she pivoted to face him, arms crossed over her chest. As if the gesture could protect her heart from any more of his unintended and completely oblivious damage.

  “Look at it from my point of view, Tenny,” he said, spreading his hands, palms up. “All this time, I thought you were happy working with me. You’ve never said otherwise. Never even hinted you were discontented. And now, out of the blue, you’re telling me I suck as an employer and you’re out. How the hell do you expect me to react?”

  “I never said you suck,” she grumbled, guilt worming its way through her. Which was ridiculous. Somehow she doubted, “Hey, I’m quitting because I need to get a life instead of standing around and having my heart torn out of my chest every time you bang a girl like a snare drum” would go down very well. “And how do I expect you to react? I don’t know, disappointed, yes. But also happy for me. Everything isn’t about you, Dom.”

  “Now you’re just making me sound like a self-absorbed shithead.” He gripped the back of his neck, and the muscles in his arm flexed as he squeezed the strong column.

  The hem of his T-shirt rose, gifting her with a glimpse of the broken pocket watch tattoo on his lower stomach, the wicked sharp cut of his hip bones, and that tantalizing V that she’d followed with her tongue during many late-night fantasies… Swallowing a groan, she mentally slapped a palm to her forehead. Focus, damn it.

  Clearing her throat, she glanced away from him, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug. “If the stink fits…”

 
; Chuckling, he closed the small distance between them, and grasping her shoulders, pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She briefly closed her eyes, savoring the touch of his lips to her skin. Even the light caress had her thighs pressing together and a longing for more tumbling through her like a furious riptide. So easily he dragged her under his scent, his power…him.

  Even if she’d experienced a moment of indecision about her choice to leave, this overwhelming yearning for everything he couldn’t—wouldn’t—give her cemented her reasons.

  “I am happy for you.” She snorted and felt his lips curve in a smile. “Okay, I’m trying to be. I never claimed I wasn’t a selfish bastard. If anyone knows that, you do.”

  Not selfish, just a tad bit controlling. Fine, a ton controlling. But like he understood her quirks for vocabulary and cooking, she got where his need originated. Even though his path through Dayton’s foster care system had ended with adoption while hers had not, they’d both emerged from the same system with scars.

  “Just…” He tunneled his fingers through his hair, shoving the thick strands out of his face. “My contract is up at the end of the season. You know how it is, always competing for your spot. I’ve been doing fine, but I also need to fucking kill it this season to get re-signed.”

  She scoffed, offended on his behalf that the front office would even consider replacing him. He was a damn god on the field. “They wouldn’t get rid of you.”

  His pinched her chin. “If only you owned the team,” he teased. “All of my focus has to be on football, Tenny. I can’t worry about what’s going on behind the scenes, and if you’re not there having my back, I will. I get you want to leave…” He frowned. “Okay, I don’t get that. But can you at least stay through the season?”

  She stared at him, resolve wavering. Dom had been her rock for the past fourteen years. He wasn’t asking for much considering all that he’d given her—protection, security, a college education, a job…hope. And in the grand scheme of things, what were six more months? She could hold off…

  No. She knew herself, knew her weakness. And it was Dom. The longer she stayed, the more excuses she would find to remain as his PA, in an apartment ten minutes away from him. Eventually, she would convince herself this half life she’d been living wasn’t so bad. That she didn’t need love or independence or a family of her own. For the first time since she’d walked into that foster home and laid eyes on him standing in the doorway of a tiny living room, she was strong enough, determined enough—hell, desperate enough—to walk away from him.

  And in her soul, she understood that if she didn’t do it now, she never would.

  “You’ll be fine,” she assured him, stepping back and breaking his hold on her. She should’ve built up an immunity to his touch through the years, but no such luck. Louis Pasteur couldn’t invent an inoculation for Dominic Anderson. “And I’ll make sure my replacement has Teflon skin, knows all your likes, dislikes, and annoying habits. I won’t leave you hanging.”

  “Tenny,” he began, but she cut him off with a hard shake of her head that was as much for him as it was a reminder to herself.

  “Dom, this is happening. I won’t be working for you at the end of the month.”

  After a long moment, he nodded. “All right then.”

  The placid reply had suspicion crawling through her. Tilting her head, she narrowed her gaze on him. And a whole lot of oh shit sprinted through her at his composed expression…and the determined glint in his eyes.

  She sighed.

  This hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped.

  At. All.

  Chapter Two

  Dom strode off the practice field, removing his helmet. Behind him, the defense still continued to run the new plays Coach Declan and their defensive coordinator had outlined in their team meeting that morning. In just four days, they would meet the Steelers and their explosive offense at home on CenturyLink Field. If the Warriors had a chance of winning, the defense had to be on their game. So did the offense, for that matter. They had to be better than good, better than prepared. They had to be on their shit.

  So did he.

  Squinting, Dom could just see the special teams running their drills on the second of the practice fields of the Norman B. Rice Athletic Center. The complex, located in Redmond, lay about twenty minutes outside of Seattle. Though they and Washington’s other professional football team both played at CenturyLink Field, the Warriors practiced at the athletic center built for them about five years ago. Smaller than the Seahawks’ Virginia Mason Athletic Center, the property boasted an indoor facility, administrative space for the team’s front office, two outdoor fields, a training area, several meeting rooms, and a full-service and staffed cafeteria. And it was Dom’s home away from home.

  Swiping a hand over his damp hair and face, he grabbed one of the water bottles on the sideline and dropped to one of the benches. After several gulps, he planted his elbows on his knees and surveyed the drills on the field. He didn’t glance to the side when a large body settled beside him. Zephirin Black, one of the greatest tight ends in the league and Dom’s other best friend, studied the plays beside him in silence.

  “The defensive line isn’t on their stance quick enough. They’re not coming off the ball at the snap,” Dom observed.

  “No,” Zeph agreed. “And the linebackers are reacting to the pass first instead of to the run. They’ll get it together, though. Coach Yancie will get them right.” After several moments, he said in that quiet, calm way of his, “I heard Tenny quit as your PA.”

  Dom scowled. “How the hell did you—wait, let me guess. Ronin.”

  Zeph shrugged.

  Ronin Palamo was also their friend—and the biggest gossip on the team. The man should write a damn blog, for godsakes.

  “So it’s true?” his friend pressed, tipping his own water bottle to his mouth for a deep gulp.

  “Yeah.” Still frowning, he stared off into the distance, no longer seeing the players on the field. “She said she needs her own life. Whatever the fuck that means.”

  Like yesterday, when Tenny had dropped her announcement, a bruising band tightened around his chest—the same tension that invaded him when he stood on the sidelines during a game, watching it go to hell and unable to do anything about it. The tension that squeezed the breath from his lungs when his adoptive mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and he could do nothing to help her as she endured debilitating chemotherapy treatments.

  A loss of control. Utter helplessness. The bitter flavor of failure.

  He’d had too much of the first two in his life and vowed not to condone the third.

  Unwillingly, he glanced across the field and watched Colton Jensen, the twenty-four-year-old backup quarterback for the Warriors, throw the football back and forth while the quarterback coach looked on. The guy had a great arm. Not as good as Dom’s…yet. A lot could happen in a season—a bad run of games, an injury, subpar performances. On any given Sunday, Colton could be the new starting quarterback, and it could be Dom watching from the sidelines. And with his current contract ending at the end of the season, the Powers That Be might decide to take a chance on a younger player with potential to be great rather than stick with a quarterback who was sliding toward thirty, an expiration date for some football players.

  The thought—the pressure—had been keeping him up at night lately. He had to eat, drink, breathe and sleep football to prove he was worthy enough.

  He couldn’t afford to have any distractions.

  Which was why he needed Tennyson in his corner, having his back.

  She’d said, “I need my own life.” He’d heard, “I’m leaving you.” The thought had been—how had she put it?—anathema to him. And not just because he would be losing an excellent personal assistant.

  Yes, she made his life run better than his Aston Martin DB11. But more than his PA, she was his friend. His best friend. The person who knew him longest and better than anyone, even Zeph a
nd Ronin. And they’d seen each other’s dicks.

  Though his brain demanded he stopped acting like a pussy, the primitive, instinctive part of him roared in denial and anger. Because that part knew he was losing her, no matter how Tenny worded her resignation.

  “I’m guessing it means exactly what she said,” Zeph said, continuing the discussion Dom wanted no part of. “Tenny has two degrees. It’s kind of unrealistic to believe she would use them to arrange your life, buy gifts for your girlfriends, and order your groceries for the rest of her life.”

  “One, I don’t have girlfriends, and two, I’ve never asked her to do any of that.”

  “What about when she bought that diamond bracelet for the actress? The one in that superhero flick?” Zeph countered.

  “It was a present to thank her for the last-minute tickets to the premiere of her film,” Dom argued.

  The other man stared at him for several seconds. “You fucked her, though.”

  “Shut up,” Dom grumbled.

  Snorting, Zeph shook his head. “You have to let her go, bruh.”

  “Let who go where?” Ronin plopped down on the other side of Zeph, his dark hair scraped back into one of those man buns. Although, he had to admit, his friend pulled it off where most men just looked pretentious and damn dumb. Might be because Ronin wore it for expedience and not fashion. Dom silently snickered. Not that the wide receiver was known for his style—unless you called ripped jeans, washed-out T-shirts, and scuffed-up boots fashion. On the football field, Ronin was a beast. But off? The man was the very definition of laid-back.

  “Tennyson and off on her own,” Zeph supplied.

  “Oh, right,” Ronin said. “I completely agree. Like my sisters are ever fond of telling me, ‘It’s hard to get dick with The Hulk breathing down their necks.’” He scowled. “They might have a point. Because the thought of any motherfucker putting his dirty hands on any of my sisters does make me want to go smash.”