I wanted to believe her. I yearned to believe the impossible. But what could she do?
Unless she had a history of feeding zillions with a couple of guppies or turning bathtub water into a bottle of fancy champagne, she didn’t have a chance of fixing me.
In a daze, I let her drag me on.
As we got close, a muffled wail came through the door. Like someone had sat on a pin and cried out. The sound didn’t register on any meaningful level.
Megan shoved the door open and we dove inside like two soldiers trying to avoid enemy fire.
There were three stalls, with the door to the furthest one closed. Seeing them made my bladder pinch. Maybe absolute despair activated the pee response.
“I have to pee,” I said. “Give me a sec.”
I stumbled into the middle stall and bumped the door shut.
I didn’t have trouble wiggling out of the dress…
Because it was ruined!
A fresh stream of tears and bubbling grief overwhelmed me.
“Sister,” Megan said from outside the stall, “take care of business and then we’ll assess the damage. Don’t freak out on me.”
“Okay. Okay.”
I situated my dress and sat down. I sniffed back tears and tried to swallow the softball stuck in my throat.
Peeing when you’re so emotional is not easy.
I sat quietly a minute trying to calm down and finally my body relaxed enough to give my bladder relief.
The person in the stall next door grunted and shuffled around knocking into the metal partition.
“Sssshh,” a voice whispered.
I stood up and was about to twirl my dress around to verify the catastrophe when something tickled the edges of my brain.
I sniffed the air.
Robert’s cologne. The one I’d bought him for our one-year anniversary.
Metal creaked in the next stall.
“Shhhh!”
The voice sounded familiar.
What the hell was going on over there?
I looked under the stall and saw a pair of lilac Jessica Simpson pumps.
And also a pair of shiny black wingtips.
What?
What was…
My heart froze in my chest.
As if on autopilot, I climbed up on the toilet and looked over into the next stall.
And that’s when the worst moment of my life instantly turned into the worst moment of anyone’s life that I’d ever heard of, fictional or otherwise.
The phrase absolute fucking worst didn’t begin to cover it.
I found Taylor, my absent bridesmaid.
And I found my fiancé, Robert PieceofShit Graves.
The tectonic plates of my stable life quaked. A day that thirty seconds ago had only fallen from planned perfection to accidental catastrophe now plunged into a bottomless abyss.
It was like a colossally-sized drill had cored out my soul, and my dreams had been sucked down into the darkness.
Only it wasn’t a drill.
It was Robert’s dick.
Which wasn’t colossal.
Though a hair short of five inches, it was my one and only basis for comparison and felt sizable enough.
And it wasn’t a bottomless abyss.
It was my treacherous missing bridesmaid!
My ex-fiancé had her bent over holding the toilet. He clutched her hips so tightly his knuckles were white. They both looked up at me with distorted grimaces on their faces.
Robert’s perfectly side-parted black hair and tweezed eyebrows seemed ironic considering the total lack of care that had put him in this situation.
Taylor’s dress was crinkled up like aluminum foil around her waist. Robert had his black pants crumpled around his knees, his white shirt pulled up, and his black tie thrown over his shoulder.
Thank God, he was being so careful!
Only he wasn’t! He wasn’t even wearing a condom!
We never once didn’t use a condom! We were too smart to risk ruining our futures with an unplanned pregnancy.
We could’ve been there for half an hour. I couldn’t tell. But finally, someone spoke.
“What the fuck?”
It was me.
Which came as a huge surprise because I didn’t expect to ever speak again.
Taylor’s mouth moved.
“Alex, please. I—”
And she didn’t get further because I slapped down an outward-facing palm in her direction.
“Alexis,” Robert said.
He got a hand too.
I looked at the man I used to love.
“How fucking could you? What about our future together?”
I threw my hands up. “On this day of all days!”
Any day would’ve been the worst. But this day made it infinitely more terrible.
I chopped toward his cock. “You’re not even using a condom!”
I flung my hands around.
“In a bathroom, for Christ’s sake!”
A part of me felt guilty for saying that in a church bathroom. Not the part running the show right now though.
I stared laser beams into each of their eyes.
“You both disgust me!”
They didn’t move an inch. Hadn’t moved an inch the entire time. I gestured at their point of carnal connection.
“Robert, will you please pull your dick out of my ex-best friend so I can talk to you?”
He chewed his lower lip and twitched out a nod.
His hips shifted back and his glistening shaft slid out. The muscles in his legs quivered. His stomach sucked in making his ribs stick out.
He grunted.
Taylor’s body shuddered.
The head of his dick popped out and bounced up.
“Alex, please,” Robert said as he reached up to me.
“No!” I screamed.
I jerked back to avoid his poisonous touch and my foot slipped on the toilet lid. My pump dove straight down into urine water, hitting the bowl and tweaking my ankle painfully.
I lurched to the side and grabbed for anything that might keep me from getting a mouthful of tile floor.
My hand landed on the metal lever and flushed the toilet with a loud whoosh.
I stood there in shock.
One foot in the toilet as urine swirled and realized the sound I was hearing wasn’t just the toilet.
It was the sound of my life getting flushed down the drain.
CHAPTER TWO
Leonardo
There was only one thing that came close to scoring a game-winning goal, and that was scoring a gorgeous broad. Plowing nine inches into a tight package (and for me, they were all tight) was my typical Saturday night. And Sunday night. And most weeknights too. I was blessed with a perfect body. One that was equally comfortable showing off on the soccer field as it was showing off in the bedroom.
To be honest, it would be a crime against humanity not to pass along these genes. Unfortunately, I’d never met a girl that deserved more than one night. Maybe I was cursed.
There were worse burdens to bear.
Rodrigo Romero, my buddy on the Spanish national soccer team, slapped my back.
“I’ve got a surprise waiting after the game.”
I couldn’t remember the last time one of his surprises had been the least bit surprising.
Rodrigo nodded toward the opposing goal.
“Take us home, Leo.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t have to. We both knew what was coming. What happened every time I was called upon to perform in the clinch.
Perfection.
That’s what I demanded of myself, and that’s what I delivered.
The thundering echo of the entire stadium on its feet buzzed faintly in the back of my mind. All 100,000 fans packed into the Camp Nou stadium were on their feet.
For me.
For the victory I would bring them.
I shifted from toe to toe feeling my cleats dig into the lush green turf. The air shimm
ered with twirling bits of colored confetti. I flexed my hamstrings, reveling in their tireless strength. At twenty-eight, my body had never been stronger. My mind never more focused.
We would win the coming World Cup.
We wouldn’t repeat the final’s loss to Germany four years ago.
More specifically, I wouldn’t allow us to repeat it.
And then I’d have my revenge on Bastian Kramer, the bastard who stole my winning goal and sent my knee into ten months of brutal physical therapy in the process.
That Kraut motherfucker was going to feel the sting of defeat this time around. He’d feel the suffocating wave of agony as his country fell to its knees in submission.
And this penalty kick was another brick in the road to that redemption.
The ball sat five yards ahead marked at the penalty spot. A further ten yards beyond it crouched the goalkeeper for the Irish national team. His stance was wide and low. He was doing his best to look ready.
He may as well have been lying on the grass taking a nap. His chances of stopping my shot were the same either way.
I glanced at the enormous scoreboard display and saw myself reflected there. I winked in the general direction of the camera and the crowd went bananas.
Tied at one to one with three seconds left in the game. An Irish defender had taken my legs out from under me just before I got off a shot at goal. A penalty kick was awarded, and I, of course, was chosen to deliver the deathblow.
It was a glorious moment, no doubt. One a lesser player would either muff or end up calling the pinnacle of his career.
Not me though. Knocking the Irish national team out of the qualifying round for the upcoming World Cup would be one among a multitude of brilliant achievements.
Most players in my position would try to figure out what the goalkeeper might do, which way he might jump, if he was good going low or high. Not me. It didn’t matter what the goalkeeper did. It only mattered what I did. I chose the outcome, even before the ball moved an inch.
Upper left corner from the outside of my right foot.
I thought, therefore I did.
The ball exploded off my foot and spun wide to the left, arcing through the air. Far too late to make a difference, the goalkeeper dove to his right. The ball whipped back right and dipped hard. It sliced in, perfectly slotted in the upper left corner. It ripped into the net and slapped to the ground, spinning in place.
The goalkeeper landed hard with nothing to show for his pointless effort. Still, him doing something other than standing frozen in place made it appear more competitive. Like there was a chance that he’d actually stop the ball.
That was important for his professional future.
He rolled to his stomach and tears leaked from his eyes before he covered his face in the grass. He just lost his nation’s spot in the World Cup.
I knew the feeling.
I didn’t revel in his pain, but someone had to lose.
The tens of thousands of Spanish fans erupted like a volcano inside the vast stadium. The earth trembled underfoot with their ecstasy and adulation.
In a ritual that had become almost routine, my teammates hoisted me up onto their shoulders and we galloped around the field waving at the sea of rabid fans.
“Over there, guys!” I shouted down to be heard over the deafening roar. I pointed over to a mass of kids occupying first row seats at ground level. That section was usually reserved for celebrities and other notable luminaries. Tonight, it was a bunch of kids going absolutely crazy.
“You got it,” Rodrigo shouted from under my right leg as we swung the team around.
We arrived and I jumped down with an easy grace.
Bones stood to the side of the children with his arms folded across his concave chest. A permanent frown creased his weathered lips.
“Lucky shot,” he said.
“You wish, old man,” I said. I slapped his shoulder, not too hard.
“In the old days,” he said, “they would’ve never called that pansy foul. In American football, players hug harder than that.”
I laughed. Nobody dished it out better than Bones.
“Are you kidding me? I almost lost a leg out there!”
The faintest smile crept into his face.
“You’d make a fair-to-middling NFL kicker,” he said.
“And your empty head would make a fair soccer ball,” I replied.
A boy next to him bounced up and down like his feet were springs. His brown hair flopped around wildly and the freckles that sprinkled his face bunched up.
Bones nodded and a tear gathered in the corner of his eyes. He wiped it away in a hurry.
“Thank you, Leo,” he said. “The kids haven’t talked about anything else for a week.”
He pointed at the brown-haired boy.
“Josh didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
Josh bounced uncontrollably screaming, “The Lion of Spain wins it!”
Bones sniffed and cleared out the frog growing in his throat.
“Don’t get soft on me, old man!” I slapped his shoulder. “I’m happy we finally made it happen.”
I turned to Josh, the boy I’d adopt in a nanosecond if the idiot courts in Barcelona would let me. Apparently, I was an unacceptable parental role model.
Yeah, probably.
But how many biological parents were standing right there beside me?
Besides, had any of those uptight authority assholes lived one minute in the shoes of someone like Josh?
No.
But I had.
The familiar burn in my belly started to boil so I pushed the thought away.
“Your plan worked, Sport!” I said to Josh. “Upper left corner was his weakness.”
The other kids from the Bright Hope children’s home stared at Josh in wonder.
“Spain owes you a debt,” I said to his beaming grin. “So, I’ll start with this as a down payment.”
I slid off my jersey and settled it over his lanky eight-year-old frame.
Rodrigo came up behind me with the game winning ball and a Sharpie.
Josh’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. I’d given him a number of match balls over the three years I’d known him, but this one was the most special by far.
I bit off the cap and wrote on the ball. I lined up the ball so it would hit right.
“Ready to practice a header?”
He nodded so hard it looked like his head would shake off.
I tossed the ball and he headed it right back.
“Nice one, Sport!” I said with a laugh.
I handed him the ball and he rolled it around looking for where I’d signed it. He found it and furrowed his brow.
It wasn’t my usual signature.
“It’s backwards,” he said.
He mouthed out the letters trying to solve the puzzle.
“Why does it say ‘BUTTHEAD’ backwards?”
He turned to the kid next to him and the whole section of kids busted out laughing. They pointed at his forehead.
Josh turned back and punched me in the chest. He rubbed at his forehead, but it wasn’t that easy to get Sharpie off.
“Got ya!” I said.
Josh lit up and laughed harder than the rest. The kid was amazing. Resilient and open to a world that hadn’t done him many favors.
I waved at the rest of my team all huddled around the raving kids.
“Let’s go guys! Shirts off!”
The whole team stripped down and tossed their jerseys into the mass of squealing kids.
Good.
They each deserved more happy memories than they’d been given so far.
Josh held the ball above his head and yelled. “The Lion of Spain wins again! The Lion of Spain wins again!”
I leaned over the railing and gave him a lion-sized hug. I let go and ruffled his hair.
“We’re going all the way this time!” I said. “I have to get back for interviews and all that. We still have plans for Monday after
noon?”
“You bet we do!” he shouted.
I nodded and turned to Bones.
“NFL kicker, huh?”
“Yeah, something worthwhile,” he said.
I held my hands in the air and looked around taking in the pandemonium of a hundred thousand people going apeshit.
“This is where I belong.”
Rodrigo tugged on my shorts.
“Let’s go, boss. Lots of TV people wanna talk your ear off.”
I made a show of grabbing at my ear and being shocked at finding it missing.
Josh giggled like crazy.
“See you, J,” I said.
Rodrigo pulled me toward the waiting throng of cameras and microphones. He whispered in my ear, “Let’s get this over with. That surprise I’ve got should be waiting below.”
I’d scored an unforgettable goal, one they’d show on montage reels for years to come.
And now I was ready to score another one of my favorite things.
* * *
Jennifer and Jennifer (they were all Jennifers) danced in front of me in the locker room, gyrating their hips around like their butts were on swivels. Red lace panties and matching bras left little to the imagination. Their flat bellies and huge tits defied the laws of nature, which was fine by me.
I didn’t do limitations.
“Let’s go, ladies,” I said. “Whoever dances the best is the winner.”
The winner, of course, being the girl that would end up with me for the night. To be honest, they were both going to get lucky, but a little healthy competition never hurt anything.
They darted dagger eyes at each other and redoubled their efforts at being the sexiest.
I had to give it to Rodrigo.
They were the hottest pair of fake blondes I’d seen in a week or two. Yeah, girls like them blurred in my memory into a faceless mass of conquests. But it never hurt to smudge in a couple more.
I sat on a wood bench with my legs spread out in front. Not a stitch of clothing covering my skin. My cock hung between my legs like the rope that it was.
But having a big dick wasn’t all physical. Part of it was mental too. And nobody and nothing had a cockier mind than mine.
Jennifers pulled their bras off. A quartet of plastic tits stared me in the face. They were going to earn a hot load before then sun came up.
Balls: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (A Cruz Boys Novel Book 1) Page 2
