Kicking Reality

by Kat T. Masen

  She was perfect in every fucking way.

  And I hated that.

  Yesterday had me weak. Coach drilled me for sloppy defending and even I knew something was off. I needed a release and it began with an innocent text that ended up with her rubbing her clit and coming for me.

  I came three fucking times watching that video. My dick was red, raw, and stinging like a muthafucker with how hard I rubbed it out. I had never seen such a beautiful sight: wet, bare, and perfectly pink.

  I wanted to call her and hear her voice, but I held back, reminding myself that we were having fun. Playing this dangerous game of not wanting to be caught and standing on the ledge playing with fucking fire.

  But all of it, everything, began to eat away at me.

  I couldn’t curb my jealously when I saw an image of her on Instagram with Wesley, posted by Farrah Beaumont referring to their lunch date and how happily in love they were. I recall the moment vividly: punching the lamp beside me and seeing it smash to the ground in a million pieces. I didn’t expect to experience that type of jealousy yet I did and there was no cure but to forget she even existed.

  Ash was pumped that I agreed to go out on a double date. The nurse he set me up with was a friend of Alessandra’s, a woman named Georgia. She was pretty, long legs and firm ass. Small tits but it didn’t matter. I fucked her once with my red-raw dick and ended up having to pull out when the rubber got uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have done it—I just needed someone else to make me forget about her.

  I had never been so preoccupied during sex. My mind wasn’t in it, thinking about Emmy the entire time. I was tired of it. I wanted my life back without her in it.

  Georgia became clingy, demanding a second round and wanting to stay the night. I told her I didn’t do sleepovers so she left the apartment in a blind fit of rage, calling me every name under the sun. I didn’t care, longing for solitude.

  Without Ash or Alessandra here, I had too much time to think about all the things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

  Then I caved.

  Season one—episode one.

  I binge-watched the whole first season of Generation Next and finally saw the so-called ‘moment’ Wesley Rich fell in love with Emerson Chase. I hated watching him gain her love. I hated even more witnessing their first kiss and subtle walk to the bedroom. The way her smile changed after that—happy and content. I hated that he made her feel that way.

  I hated that he still controlled her.

  I hated everything about them.

  Yet the masochistic side of me continued watching until my eyes grew heavy and sleep was imminent. I started a bad habit and one that I didn’t know how to break.

  We ramped up training due to the big game this Saturday against Manchester. I was pumped and ready to go. They’d had a straight win—no losses this season—and I wanted to break their luck and show them we’re gonna take this game to the next level.

  Ash left training early to run some errands. I didn’t ask, annoyed that ‘errands’ would be more important than the fucking game. With Chris watching us on, I knew he would control his son—I didn’t have to be the responsible one today.

  Every limb, bone, part of my body—was in deep pain. I could barely walk to the elevator and pressing the button was a struggle itself. I don’t ever remember training so hard and mentally killing myself on the field. I was drenched in dirt and sweat; opting to shower at home peacefully rather than in the locker room with the boys.

  As I open the apartment door, I planned on taking a shower having only an hour to spare before heading back out to the studio to join a panel to discuss this week’s highlights.

  The smell of Alessandra’s strong coffee graces the apartment, along with a familiar laugh.

  “Look who’s here.” Ash is sitting on the coffee table—facing the sofa—and I don’t notice anyone until Emerson sits up and gazes at me.

  My chest hardens; muscles stiffening harder than I thought possible, shocked to see her sitting inside my apartment. The first thing I notice is that her hair has changed again: a silvery tone with light brown roots. She’s dressed in a pale pink knitted jumper with dark blue jeans and knee-high boots.

  Why did she have to look like that? Casually sexy. The worst type of sexy. The sexy that reminds you why you were drawn to her. Her smart mouth and alluring eyes that made you want to fall to your knees and worship her like no other man had.

  Fuck—grow some balls. You’re still angry at her.

  The back of her hair is a mess from lying down, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Hey.” She waves, watching me cautiously with her deep blue stare.

  I force a smile, scared to give any other reaction from my state of shock. Alessandra has joined us, handing Emerson a cup of coffee.

  “You’re here?”

  “She’s filming for the next three days,” Ash tells me animatedly. “We should go out to the pub or something.”

  “I’m on a tight schedule,” she announces, moving her eyes away from where I stand.

  “Then don’t let us stop you.”

  I carry my bag, walking straight past them. Inside my room, I throw my bag down, covering my eyes while leaning back on the door. She’s here. She’s real. She was no longer a figment of my imagination and no longer the person on my screen.

  Opening my eyes, I try to get the image of the way she stared at me, out of my head. Her blue eyes always did that to me, like putting me in some sort of trance that stopped me from thinking straight or with reason.

  Stripping down to nothing, I step inside my bathroom and take a long hot shower, relaxing my tense muscles. The only muscle I couldn’t relax was the one down below. Raging hard with no happy ending to cure the sadness it was currently facing.

  I could have rubbed one out, but chose not to—a way to avoid the torture of reliving our moment in the hotel. Something I had done on too many occasions that only made everything worse.

  I got dressed in my navy suit, white collared shirt, and matching navy tie. Splashing some aftershave on, I finish with placing my watch on then make my way to the living room to be greeted by only Ash.

  Fixing my cuffs, I pretend to be uninterested asking where she had gone.

  “I think back to her hotel.”

  “Where is she staying?”

  “Somewhere in London,” he responds without giving me much details.

  I hide my disappointment, wishing I hadn’t acted like a dick because I was pissed off that she was still with Wesley even though I had no reason to be since we both agreed to have fun without getting involved. Probably the most-stupidest idea I had ever had.

  “I’m meeting her tonight for drinks if you want to tag along.”

  “We have a game tomorrow,” I remind him.

  “Yeah, yeah I know. Just one drink. How often do I get to see my sister, huh?”

  I tell him to get changed, we had only ten minutes to spare before the car arrived. Surely, ten minutes later he emerges fully dressed and looking presentable.

  “It’s like you’re fucking Clark Kent,” I joke, always amazed at his ability to get ready with the smallest of time to spare.

  “It’s called a wife . . . and an ironing board.”

  “You’d be caught dead saying that in front of her,” I point out.

  “Probably. She likes to suck my dick so I could save myself that way.”

  We both laugh, closing the door behind us as make our way down to the hire car and towards the studios.

  The panel took four hours for a one-hour segment. I had done several of these and being in front of the camera was no biggie. On panels—like today—we engaged in a healthy debate over club corruptions and how it affected the players and coaches. The debate lasted for most of the segment, and by the time we finished, I needed that drink.

  The car service took us to the pub where Emmy and her crew were hanging out tonight. I dreaded seeing Wesley, knowing I had to restrain myself from punching him in t
he fucking face.

  Then there was that part of me that wanted to play dirty.

  A challenge—if you will—to make her squirm while under his watch.

  The pub is located in the West End—small, quaint, with the usual drunken crowd that would frequent these types of joints on a Friday night. When me and Ash had moved here a few years ago, we hit all the pubs each weekend until it no longer became fun and the women were all the same.

  Outside the pub, there’s a hoard of paparazzi standing by with cameras in hand. A few attempted to take photos through the glass, but appeared disappointed when they looked at their cameras.

  Two of them spotted us, asking for a picture and whether we were ready for the game tomorrow. Ash talked their ears off, and I just pulled him along desperate to get inside.

  Two bodyguards stood out front. Tall, built like fucking tanks that watched anyone who entered.

  “Oi.” The bearded one holds Ash back. “What business you want in there?”

  Ash bravely removes the man’s hands from his chest. “My fucking sister, Emerson.”

  He lets us go; his facial expression remaining impassive.

  They’re sitting on stools in the corner: four of them to be exact. I recognized Harley, Poppy, and Kelly from the show. Emerson is sitting with them and no Wesley attached to her hip—for once.

  Ash makes his way through the tight crowd, and I follow until we’re standing behind them. The first thing I notice is the grey turtleneck skin-tight dress she’s wearing that sits short and rides up as she crosses her legs. With the same knee-high boots she wore earlier, she’s looking extremely sexy with her hair messed to the side and giant silver hooped earrings to accessorize her plain-colored dress. She looks fucking amazing, and I quickly realize that the redhead with a pommy accent introduces herself and I’d been staring at Emerson all along.

  “Name’s Poppy.” She overly grins. “You must be Logan ’cause you surely don’t look like Em’s twin brother.”

  I smile confidently. “That’s this guy over here. I am definitely not her twin brother.”

  Ash takes over the introductions, throwing in some jokes and making everyone laugh because that’s what he always did. We ordered a pint and it wasn’t long before Wesley, Farrah Beaumont, and another guy turn up.

  As soon as Wesley sees me, his demeanor changes, barely saying hello and settling himself next to Emerson where he purposely places his arm around her as if he fucking owned her. I force myself not to stare; avoiding any eye contact with either of them or hell would break loose and my fists would be out and his blood would be all over the floor.

  “Big game tomorrow, boys?” Harley, one of her co-stars, mentions.

  “Sure is. Playing to get into the quarter finals.”

  “What do you do to prep for a big game?” the other girl, Kelly, asks.

  “We trained earlier today and should be in bed sleeping right now.”

  They all laugh, everyone but Emerson and Wesley.

  “Is it true that you can’t have sex before a game?” Farrah teases, rubbing her hand along my suit jacket and trying to entice me with her fake tits and equally fake pout.

  In the corner of my eye, Emmy has adopted a sullen look. Staring directly at the both of us, watching every move. If I didn’t know better, she looked jealous. Could it be? Emerson Chase jealous because another woman touched my fucking arm and asked me about my sex life?

  “Ask Ash,” I respond, smirking. “He’s the married one. I’m single so unless someone offers to jump in my bed tonight, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

  I continue to keep my gaze fixed on my glass that sits in front of me though desperate to see her reaction. Unlike her—falsely tied to Wesley for the purpose of the show—I was as single as you could get. I could fuck anyone I pleased and no one could say a goddamn thing.

  Wesley raises his glass to his lips, keeping his persistent stare fixed on mine.

  “Just make sure the woman you take isn’t spoken for,” he warns with menace. “Or man. Never actually seen you with a woman.”

  “Oh,” I mouth with confidence. “The best type of pussy is the one that belongs to someone else.”

  Ash rests his hand on my shoulder; his laughter barrelling through the conversation.

  “I don’t think it’s a big deal but Logan won’t. Any chances of losing and he’ll minimize that. He likes his testosterone wild and pumped.”

  Great. When did we switch to talking about my testosterone? Yeah, it was fucking pumped and desperate to ravage the girl sitting across me with the jealous stare.

  We’re interrupted by a group of girls that recognized all of us and screamed so loud demanding a picture. We all huddle together and pose for her selfie which encouraged other patrons to come forward and request the same photo. After what felt like forever, the bodyguard steps in and tells everyone to back off.

  “I’m over this,” Wesley snaps, drinking his beer and checking his watch. “Let’s get out of here. I’m bored. Wanna hit up a club, babe?”

  Babe. I wonder what broken glass would feel like against his pretty-boy face?

  “I’m tired, and jetlagged. You go.”

  “I’m in,” Farrah pipes up. “C’mon Wes, let’s get out of here.”

  Wesley removes his arm from Emerson who appears annoyed and frustrated. It’s clear by her reaction that the thought of him clubbing with Farrah Beaumont is not something she agreed with and that reaction alone left me bitter. When he leaves, I’m quick to direct my passive aggression towards her.

  “How sad, your fiancé left you alone.”

  She smiles, but not a smile that is sweet and endearing.

  “Don’t you have some nurse to fuck?” she bites back with wild eyes.

  Bitch. Why the fuck would she be angry about that? I can’t understand women and the way they think. Their minds were like puzzles that were impossible to figure out.

  “Maybe. She was boring the first time so not sure why I’d go back for seconds.”

  She’s unable to look at me, shaking her head and staring at the table with her glass in front. Ash talks over us yet I don’t pay attention as I watch her type on her cell. Within seconds, my pocket vibrates.

  You’re a fucking asshole. Go ahead, fuck nurses and see if I care. I shouldn’t, right? Since I fuck my fiancé every night.

  I can’t even look at her. The heat is rising underneath my jacket as the anger and hurt consume me. Is she for fucking real?! I can’t even deal with what she’s admitting if it’s true. Again, what fucking moron comes up with the brilliant idea to sleep with other people?!

  You’re a fucking bitch. The nurse gave good head. I think I will go back for seconds.

  I watch her mouth open in shock. She’s distracted for a moment as a bartender serves her a wine which she proceeds to down in one go, demanding another almost immediately. He lingers to talk to her, flirting with his young smile. I quickly type away and hit send, catching her eye and she half looks down at the screen.

  Why don’t you go fuck the bartender too.

  “Bro, we need to head back. We seriously need rest,” Ash yells over the noise.

  As much as I wanted to stay and argue with Emerson, it was an hour drive home and close to nine. We always went to bed well before midnight for a training session that started at four am. If our A game isn’t on—we could potentially lose a very important game.

  “You gonna be okay Em?” Ash asks, throwing some bills on the table.

  She slides them back to him, ignoring me while slipping her cell into her purse.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. And take your money . . . let the producers pick up this tab. Or I can continue flirting with the bartender. Maybe even take him home.”

  What a fucking low blow.

  We both stand up when a man, short, maybe five-foot-six, blocks our way. He would have been easily in his late forties, balding and wearing a brown jacket with some weird logo on it.

  “Emerson
Chase,” he beams, but something is not right. His forehead is dripping in sweat and I don’t like the way he licked his lips when he called her name.

  She smiles politely, saying hello.

  “I love you. I mean, I honestly love you,” he pants.

  I look over at Ash, wondering if this guy was for real.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Again, her smile is fixed as she doesn’t indulge his behavior.

  “I have you on my wallpaper.” He extends his hand, the wallpaper on his phone an image of her in a bikini drenched in water. Then, he continues to flick through his photos and every single one was of her. What a fucking nutcase!

  “I’m in love with you. I’ve been waiting for so long. Will you come back to my apartment for dinner?” He steps forward, and without even thinking, I place my hand on his chest restraining him from going any farther.

  “I don’t think so. Leave her alone,” I grit.

  The man seems shocked that Emerson is not stopping me. Ash quickly interjects. “You need to go now. And I don’t want you near my sister ever again.”

  “But you don’t understand.” He laughs nervously, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “I’m in love with her. I’ve been following her since she landed. I even followed her to your apartment. We’re soulmates. We’re meant to be together.”

  Emerson begins to look panicked, distancing herself from where she stood. I grab her hand, pulling her towards me. My grip is tight, but I refuse to let her go and be with some maniac.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper into her ear. “You’re not staying here.”

  “But my friends?”

  “Let’s go Emmy, I ain’t leaving you here with this lunatic,” Ash yells at her, the same time the man tries to push past Ash with a sense of desperation. He tries to swing a punch, but Ash’s reflexes have always been on point, blocking him and pushing him to the ground.

  The bodyguards rush to where we stand, pinning him to the ground and yelling for backup. The paparazzi have caught wind of the situation, snapping heavily and disregarding the instructions from the pub owner to get the fuck out of the venue. Ash grabs her arm, forcing me to let go as we make our way out of the pub and onto the street. It’s no better outside, our sight blinded by the sea of flashes trying to catch every move. With a sense of urgency, we hop into the car instructing the driver to take off in full speed.