by Lane Hart
When we walk into the main residence hall, everyone is gathered in the lobby, lounging on one of the blue or brown university colored sofas or ottomans, shooting pool or playing air hockey. It’s a lot of huge men crammed into one room, but thankfully it’s a massive space with a big open ceiling showing the balconies on each of the three stories. Oh, and there’s only one woman in attendance, and everyone’s eyes are on her.
Roxanne and I check in at the registration desk to get our room assignments, keys and schedules for the next week, my duffle bag hanging over my shoulder as I maneuver around on the crutches. Based on the agenda, it looks like everyone’s been here waiting in the lobby for an hour to meet her before finally getting dismissed by Coach for the night. As soon as she’s finished registering, Coach Griffin greets Roxanne and leads her by the elbow to the center of the room. Roxanne seems to handle the attention well, not even a hint of red on her cheeks. But really, what does she have to hide? She’s gorgeous, even in a pair of jeans and plain blue tee.
“You’re all set, Mr. Hendricks. I just need to get your signed contract addendum,” the young guy manning the registration desk tells me. I reach into the pocket of my shorts and then realize all I have are my keys and phone. “Shit,” I mutter, remembering the form is in the jizz-stained shorts that I took off at home. “I left my copy back in Wilmington. You got another one?” I ask the kid.
He scratches his dark, floppy head of hair while looking through a file organizer in front of him and pulling out an empty blue folder. “I did have a few extras, but they’ve all been used.”
Son of a bitch. Luck is on my side.
“I’ll make a note to get one to you later this week,” he says, pencil poised over a sheet of paper.
“Kohen, good to see you made it here safely under Ms. Benson’s care,” Jon says when he appears next to me. “Ryan, now that everyone’s here, can you go grab my training bag from my truck?” Jon hands over his keys to the kid at the registration table before he has a chance to answer. Guess the young guy is an intern and does whatever grunt work is required.
“S-sure, Dr. Young,” the boy says, jumping to his feet and heading outside.
I feel like I’ve won the lottery, since he didn’t get a chance to write down my name and will probably be busy with other chores the rest of the night. Of course, I know it’s only a matter of time before management comes up with more copies and requires my John Hancock on it.
“Come on and have a seat,” Jon tells me, walking me over to one of the sofas where he runs off a rotund third string linebacker so I can sit. “I don’t want you on your feet more than a few hours a day. It’ll keep the swelling down.”
“Okay,” I agree, flopping back into the seat and tossing the duffle back to the floor beside my feet.
“Did you change your shorts?” Jon asks me with a raised eyebrow, eyeing the navy blue nylon.
“What? No,” I lie.
“I could’ve sworn you were wearing black ones earlier.”
“Some people think navy blue looks black,” I say, and then thankfully Coach begins talking to the group.
“Everyone meet Roxanne Benson, our team’s new placekicker,” he says with a grin as he gestures to Roxanne standing on his right. I frown since he said placekicker and not backup placekicker. “Make her feel welcome, introduce yourselves over the next few days. Tonight, you should all get to your rooms by ten and get a good night’s sleep. I want you refreshed and ready to bust your asses tomorrow morning on the field at nine sharp. If you’re late, well, believe me when I say that you do not want to be late. The media and fans will be here at sunrise waiting to watch you from the stands; and if you make them wait, you’ll regret it.”
A moment later the Ryan kid comes back in with Jon’s bag. Jon takes out a travel ice pack, then snaps it and shakes it. “This will do until you get to your room and we find some real ice,” he says, wrapping an ace bandage around the knee brace to hold the pack on the opening at the center. “Tomorrow I’ll come get you a little before nine once I get a therapy room set up somewhere on campus. I’ll find you a golf cart to ride around in too while you’re here. You may not be able to drive a car, but you can maneuver one of those, right?” he asks.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Good,” he says, taking out a bottle of pills. “Here are some pain relievers. Take one before bed and one as soon as you wake up tomorrow before we put your knee through the ringer.” He slips the bottle into my duffle.
“Thanks, Jon,” I say before he walks away.
Everyone else begins to disperse too, or more like flock to Roxanne, all the guys eager to talk to her.
“You finally made it,” Lathan says when he approaches and takes the now vacant seat on the sofa next to me. “Did you change your shorts?” he asks.
“What the fuck?” I mutter. “Who notices that sort of shit?”
“You did change. Why? Potty accident?” he asks with a smirk.
“No.”
“So?” he prompts, staring me down, waiting for an answer.
No excuses come to mind, as hard as I try to think of one.
“Don’t tell me that you and her…” Lathan draws his own fairly accurate conclusion.
“Can we talk about this later?” I ask him.
“You dirty dog,” he says with a grin and punch to my shoulder. “Should’ve known you would find a way around the no contact agreement.”
“Would you please shut your mouth?” I ask him.
“I want details –”
“No,” I cut him off. “So when’s Cameron and Nixon gonna get you and Quinton to pay up for your bet?” I ask to change the subject.
It works. Lathan groans and shoves his fingers through his blond locks. “In about half an hour,” he says with a grimace. “How bad do you think it will be?” he asks, his pleading silver eyes wanting me to sugarcoat it for him.
“Knowing those two, I would say pretty damn bad.”
“Fuck,” he grumbles. “This is all your fault. If you hadn’t gotten hit, then Quinton and I wouldn’t have been late.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault I got mowed down by Evel Knievel.”
“She doesn’t look evil,” Lathan replies, finding Roxanne in the crowd. Although, you can only see a tiny bit of her whitish-gold ponytail since there are so many men still surrounding her. “She looks more angelic than demonic.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I tell him, even though it’s a lie. Roxanne has been nothing but nice to me. But maybe that’s because her goal has already been accomplished. She took me, her competition, out.
“Looks like Dane is smitten,” Lathan points out. He’s right. Our team’s punter and my backup before Roxanne joined the team is staring her down, practically drooling.
“Who isn’t? She’s a maneater.”
“Ballbuster,” Lathan corrects.
“Huh?” I ask him in confusion.
“Her nickname from college is Roxanne ‘The Ballbuster’ Benson,” Lathan explains.
“How do you know that?”
“Google,” he answers with a shrug. Guess if I had read more words instead of ogling her pictures I would’ve seen that too.
Ballbuster.
That’s a pretty fucking accurate description.
I’m not sure what it is about the woman, but I can’t seem to get her off my mind, especially later that night when I head to the small, cramped dorm room I’m sharing with Lathan. Lying in bed, my knee’s stiff and so is my cock. And the strangest thing is, I’m not just thinking about what Roxanne looks like naked. I’m actually worried about her too.
Is Roxanne nervous about her first practice tomorrow? Will she be able to hack it in this man’s world where even the smallest kickers probably weigh thirty pounds more than her and have stronger legs?
That’s the sort of shit that keeps me up half the night.
I also can’t help but wonder if she’s in her tiny twin bed somewhere in this building thinking about me and the hot
as fuck kiss we shared.
Chapter Nine
Roxy
So sleeping in a dorm room without air conditioning sucks. If that had been the case at Rockford, I never would’ve made it through all four years. You would think a team that pays millions for players and billions for a stadium could provide us with the minimum comforts, but nope.
This morning I’m grumpy and tired from sleeping in a shitty twin bed, and today is only the first day of camp. It also doesn’t help that while I was tossing and turning, while not just alone in my room, but the entire third floor, I couldn’t stop thinking about Kohen. How incredible that kiss had been, or how much I still want him even though I know I shouldn’t.
“Okay, ladies, listen up,” Coach Griffin says to the fifty or so sweaty men spread out before us on the bleachers while I stand next to him. I long for air conditioning because the scorching Carolina sun already feels like it’s melting me into a puddle. The small relief is that we’re only required to wear shoulder pads and shorts, not the entire bulky getup for most of these camp practices. I doubt I’ll even need my helmet since this week is about conditioning. Besides, kickers rarely take hits.
I try to avoid eye contact with any individual player on the bleachers; and instead, I keep my eyes moving. Locking eyes with one of them is like waving a red flag in front of the bull. They’ll charge, and I’ll end up trying to run out of the practice field by throwing myself over the fence.
Jeez, calm down, Roxy. They’re not gonna attack you. Most of the guys I met last night seemed really nice. And I’m not so much worried about the physical abuse as I am the verbal. Has Kohen run his mouth about me to anyone? All it takes is telling one teammate, and they’ll all know. I swear football players are nothing but a bunch of gossiping hens. The thought makes me think of my best friend, Paxton, missing him. He was another reason I survived college relatively unscathed. As a wide receiver, he may not have been the biggest guy on the team, but he threw the best parties at his townhouse. Therefore, no one wanted to piss him off by causing problems for me and risk getting banned from the debauchery only he offered.
“Yesterday most of you got a chance to meet Roxanne. Now let me tell you a little bit about her career and why she deserves a spot on this team,” Coach goes on to say. “She’s proven herself all four years of college ball at Rockford. Ninety field goals with eighty-five percent accuracy; her longest kick made from the fifty-nine-yard line.” Coach pauses to let the impressed whistles die down. “Not to mention two hundred extra-point kicks with one-hundred percent accuracy. She’s earned this spot on your team, and you will treat her with dignity and respect, or you’ll find yourself on the other end of a sexual harassment lawsuit and out of a job. Got it?” he threatens. They all mumble words of agreement, and then Coach says, “All right, now get your pudgy asses to work. Some of you didn’t leave the sofa this off-season, did you?”
I’m standing there, waiting for my next instructions when a guy with a hot pink Mohawk walks up to me.
Son of a bitch.
“Quinton?” I ask and cover my mouth with my hand to hide my smile. Quinton Dunn, all six feet and six inches of him, is standing inches away from me in white shorts and white number eighteen jersey, sapphire eyes sparkling, a stunning smile on his perfect face despite the horrific hairstyle while he offers me his enormous mitt to shake. Yesterday his hair was jet black, and today it’s…pink. Very pink.
“We didn’t really get to officially meet yesterday with all the chaos. I’m one of the team captains and quarterback –”
“Quinton Dunn,” I finish for him while shaking his offered hand. “You didn’t have to introduce yourself. You’re the second best quarterback in the league.”
“Hey now, that was last season. We’ll see who’s first in a few weeks,” he replies, grinning even wider to show both rows of his white, perfect teeth.
“I’ve been a huge fan since your rookie year,” I tell him honestly. “It’s a shame you guys lost the Super Bowl year before last. Your throw was on the money, if only Jefferson had hung on to it.”
“Damn right,” he says with a nod, making his pink rooster hairstyle bob. “He was wide open, the ball smacked him in the chest, and the fucker still juggled it. Good riddance.”
“I heard he was just cut from the Sharks who didn’t want to renew his contract either.”
“Of course not. He’s got butter fingers.”
“Yeah, and with him gone, your tight end, Lathan Savage, has been killing it. Since he sometimes blocks, the D forgets all about him. I don’t know how, but that man catches everything you throw at him!” I say in awe, finding Lathan on the field. And, yep, he’s sporting the exact same pink Mohawk.
“Don’t let Lathan hear you say that; it’ll go to his head,” Quinton leans forward and whispers, making me laugh since that’s coming from what rumors say is the most arrogant man on the team. Not that he doesn’t live up to it, but still.
“So, um, speaking of heads…this the punishment for losing the bet?” I ask.
“Ugh,” he groans while patting his hair with his palm. “We have a bit of a gambling problem.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t put your locks up on the chopping block next time,” I suggest.
“Good advice.”
“So, about the whole thing with Kohen…” he starts, making every muscle in my body tense with anxiety. Goddamn it! Why did Kohen have to run his mouth about our romps to the team captain, of all people? “Don’t worry about that shit,” Quinton finishes. “The coaches said the video showed he was distracted and walked right in front of you. It was a horrible accident.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say on a sigh of relief when I realize he’s referring to me running over the kicker and not the groping. “How is Kohen doing this morning? I haven’t seen him since last night.” I can’t help but ask about him, which is so stupid I could facepalm myself.
“I think he started rehab with Jon this morning,” he answers.
“Good,” I tell him.
“If you need anything or have any problems with anyone, just let me know, okay?” Quinton offers, his blue eyes sincere.
“I appreciate that,” I tell him as we start to walk further onto the practice field.
“So,” Quinton says. “Let’s see what that leg of yours can do. Although, you might want to reconsider your attire for tomorrow,” he adds, eyeing my loose black pants.
“What? Why?” I ask.
“Because it’s gonna be almost a hundred degrees today. That’s why we all wear white jerseys and white shorts,” he explains.
“Right,” I say. “I’m just more comfortable in pants.” The truth is, I don’t want to draw more attention to myself or my feminine form. That’s why I always try to dress conservatively at practices.
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Quinton remarks before he jogs off.
Wow. If the rest of the team is half as nice as their quarterback, I won’t have anything to worry about here. Except for Kohen.
“Hi, Roxanne,” a tall, thick player with a shaved head wearing the number two jersey says when he jogs up to me. “I’m Dane. Dane Adams, the team’s punter.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering my hand, but he pulls me into a hug instead. Alrighty then. He doesn’t let go right away, but sniffs my hair so loudly I can hear it. At the same time, his hands are gripping my lower back, inches away from my ass. My what-the-hell alarms go off like crazy, but then just as quickly he lets me go and steps away smiling at me. So, maybe he’s just a hugger.
“Let’s warm up with a quick mile jog around campus and then stretch out before we set up some kicks,” he suggests, taking off toward the stadium exit while my feet remain firmly planted in place. “Come on,” he says, turning around to jog backward. “Coach Sigmon’s orders.” He nods to the tank of a man I met yesterday, huddled with some of the other coaches. Coach Sigmon looks up and waves me off toward Dane.
Exhaling a breath, I do as I’m
told and sprint over to the punter. Today’s my first day and I don’t want to look like a slacker, so I keep up the brisk pace that Dane sets as we make our way through the university buildings. There’s barely a soul in sight since it’s summer break. Once we get to the entrance sign, Dane turns around, and I’m relieved to be getting back to the rest of the team.
“Good job. Keep it up, rookie,” Dane says with a swat to my ass. I glance over, but he’s focused on the road in front of him again, feet pounding on the pavement. Maybe I imagined it, or maybe it was nothing more than how the guys slap each other’s asses as often as they high five. I guess I’m just not used to that same treatment. If one of my college teammates had tried that, I would’ve snapped their wrist; and then Paxton would’ve made them bleed. But Pax isn’t here; and if I want to stay on the team, I’ve got to be on my best behavior and learn to ignore the minor things. I have a feeling there will be more pressing concerns later on, so there’s no use in making waves until I absolutely have to.
Kohen
Hobbling on crutches sucks so bad especially when you have to wander around somewhere as big as a fucking gated football field where golf carts aren’t allowed. All morning I endured rehab with Jon that hurt like a bitch. Now I’ll have to risk heatstroke.
After I make it to the practice field, I sink down onto one of the benches to catch my breath. Sweat is streaming down like a river between my shoulder blades because it’s hot as Hades out here. But then, when I see her…I swear the temperature goes up at least ten more degrees.
The bottom of her white jersey, with a blue number three, is tucked up underneath the front of her shoulder pads, flashing her flat stomach. And unlike all the guys wearing white, knee length nylon shorts, hers are more like white…panties showcasing her long, beautiful, toned legs. Damn, she looks even taller with her legs on display. She’s at least six feet, give or take an inch since she’s standing shoulder to shoulder with Dane Adams, our team’s punter.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter aloud when I realize that she’s setting up for a field goal…from fifty-five yards out. Those legs of hers might be fine as fuck, but there’s no way they can launch a football through the uprights from that distance, especially kicking against the coastal winds.
