Mr. Sportsball

by K. P. Haigh

  He closes it again and grabs my hand, leading me toward the back of the museum. There's a flight of stairs I hadn't noticed before. Baron nods at the guy standing behind the counter serving beer and buckets of popcorn, but they don't say a word. He just takes me up to a second story.

  There are a dozen more machines up here, but the space is tighter. It feels like the end of a shrinking hallway, and even the ceilings feel lower. On a normal day with a bunch of strangers, it would feel claustrophobic, but tonight? Tonight, I would rather have Baron in a closet than a grand ballroom.

  And I have him. All to myself. There isn't another soul up here. It's just us.

  I try to take a second and appreciate all the classics sitting up here, but even if the dizzying amount of flashing colors packed into a relatively small space wasn't enough, I am standing next to something that is turned on. Way on.

  As soon as he climbs the last step, he wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my neck, and my muscles contract at his touch. I want him, but the wall at the far end is only a half wall. This is basically a second story balcony, so any noise we make is going to mingle with the pinball soundtrack and make its way through the whole building.

  Baron's hand skims down the outside of my leg, dancing over the fabric of my skirt, and when he finds the edge of it, he follows it in toward the line of my inner thigh, pulling the fabric up with it.

  "We can't…" My words come out as a moan. There are people downstairs, and any one of them could walk up those stairs any minute.

  "What if I told you I gave the bartender a twenty to 'rent' the top floor?"

  "Oh." My eyes are wide.

  "I don't know about you, but I'm a fan of Arabian Nights." His fingers graze the lace of my panties, and I can't figure out how he can focus on anything in this room while it's spinning in Technicolor motion.

  He lifts his hand, my skirt drops, and I'm stuck like a hung ball. I need him to slam the machine a few times to get it rolling again.

  "Come here. I want to watch you play again." He walks over to a table and stands to the side.

  I have no idea how I'm going focus long enough to play a game, but I'd play any game to get the feeling of Baron inside of me right now. I step up and press the button to start, and the machine rattles to life.

  "In an ancient land, a young princess was imprisoned by an evil genie," a deep voice bellows from the game. The ball loads with a flourish of the sitar, and I pull the lever back, releasing it and feeling the whole table vibrate with the shock of the mallet connecting with the metal ball.

  As I shift my fingers to the buttons on each side of the box, Baron steps up behind me and grabs my waist. I can feel the hard length of him against my low back, and I close my eyes for a second.

  When the ball disappears under the blue genie at the top of the table, a female voice begins to speak. "The tale of thieves. Spell sesame, and my ruby will be yours."

  A laugh tumbles out of me. This game is stunning, the lights and colors like walking through a market in the middle of a desert. The colors wrap around you like windblown silks. Standing here with Baron pushed up against me and need building between my legs, the woman saying to hit me once more is like my own voice found its way through the machine and decided to take control.

  I'll play this game. I'll play it all night long.

  The ball comes flying down the center of table, and I punch the flipper. It connects with the ball and sends it flying back up, hitting the S-E-S-A-M. One more letter, and it’s mine.

  Baron runs his hands from my waist, down my hips, to my thighs. He leans his chest against my back, pressing his lips to the side of my ear.

  "Open sesame, baby."

  I shift my legs wide, and he lifts my skirt and pulls my panties down. They're soaked already, and he hasn't even touched me. I hear the familiar sound of a zipper and the condom wrapper ripping open.

  He presses right against me, and I close my eyes just as I hear the ball hit the golden lamp, sending it spinning and releasing a whirl of melody.

  The ball comes tumbling back down, and I miss it. It runs straight down and hits the peg at the bottom of the machine, just as the princess's voice tells me to try again.

  I would give this game all my quarters to keep playing right now. Baron is pressing against me, and I can barely pull in a breath. I hear the sound of the ball reset, but all I can think about is how much I want him inside me right now. I need him and I don't care if everyone in this museum hears it.

  "Show me what you want," he whispers.

  I run my teeth against my lips as I pull back the handle. "This is what I want."

  I release it, and the whole table vibrates underneath me as the music builds like wild horses running across the desert and Baron presses into me. The ball hits a bumper, and Baron pulls back and slams into me, sending shudders reverberating through my bones.

  "Are you ready to obey me?" It takes me a second to realize it's the game talking and not Baron. I hit the flippers and send the ball back up to the lamp. It hits its target, and Baron matches its shock. I have every incentive to keep this ball in play; I don't want him to stop.

  Every time the ball hits a post, Baron pulls back and hammers into me. It's an intoxicating game, watching the ball and wondering when it's going to hit its next target.

  It comes racing back down to the bottom, and I slam the buttons so hard, the whole machine vibrates. The ball drives up toward the blue genie lamp near the top of the game, disappearing underneath.

  Baron stops, and I let out a whimper. Please don't stop. God, ball, why did you have to disappear?

  It comes flying out, and Baron rewards me with a slow thrust, which hits all of my trigger points. This is the best fucking game of pinball I've ever played in my life. I never want it to stop.

  I hit the ball when it comes back down, and it goes flying all the way to the top and starts bouncing from one wall to the next between the genie and the lamp, like a magic trick that keeps on giving. Baron matches it hit for hit, and I can feel the pull of my release building with every single bouncing hit.

  Just as the ball is captured by the genie, I lose it, tumbling over the edge into a mindless oblivion. My muscles contract and release in tiny spasms as delight swirls through my body like a snake spiraling up out of a basket.

  "Turn around," Baron whispers again, just as my brain is starting to come back online.

  The genie still has a hold of the ball, and part of me is reluctant to let our high score go to waste, but I'm sure as hell not going to say no to more of this.

  I do as I'm told and turn around. Baron lifts me up onto the glass, pressing one hand against my stomach, leaning me back against the length of the machine. I wrap my legs around his waist as he enters me again.

  "Don't let go," he asks with a devilish glint in his eye.

  I hook my ankles and squeeze, and he grabs each side of the pinball machine. I reach down, pressing my hands on top of his. I know he can't see what's going on, but every time I feel him hit the buttons, he slams into me.

  I hear more balls rush into the playfield, every cling of metal ricocheting off metal sending us further along in this game.

  “Hurry!” the princess cries out.

  Baron keeps driving into me, but his hands stop working, and I can tell by the flutter of his eyelids, he's racing toward the jackpot. I slip my hands underneath his and keep pressing the bumper buttons, as if it was the sole force pulling Baron up the hill. I can feel him release inside of me, and I hear the last ball slide down the peg at the bottom of the lane, dropping down into the unknown abyss below the machine.

  He leans over on top of me, the weight of him heavy on my torso. I want to stay here forever, but my bare ass is hanging out on top of an arcade game in the middle of an open alcove of a museum.

  This isn't exactly a cuddle and chill sort of moment. I kiss Baron's shoulder and then start to press up onto my hands. He pops up off of me and adjusts himself back into his jeans.
/>   "I think I'll rent this place out next time, see if we can slam tilt any of these games."

  I look at him in mock horror. "And potentially damage some of the greatest pinball machines known to man?"

  "They would want me to. Even a pinball machine would sacrifice itself for that kind of action."

  I turn back around and pat the Arabian Nights machine lovingly. "Thanks for your service, Mr. Genie."

  My wish was certainly granted tonight.

  Baron wraps his arm around my shoulder. "Want to play some more downstairs?"

  "Dude, no pinball game is ever going to live up to that one. Let's quit while we're ahead."

  "It was a high score, all right," Baron says with a laugh.

  "Nerd."

  He shakes his head and points back at the board of the machine. Oh. Twenty million. Yeah, that's pretty damn good.

  Pretty damn fucking good.

  Well, this is my kind of game. The guys are gone for the away game this week, so Georgie invited herself over. We're having a slumber party in his condo, since he actually owns a television—which is kind of required when you want to watch a football game.

  Well, want might be a bit of an overstatement, but I figure if I'm going to dip my toe in the water, it might as well be in my pajamas with a ton of carbs in front of me. Georgie is one hundred percent on board with the idea. We order a massive pizza, bread sticks, and a side of mac and cheese. Life is good.

  We sit and veg for a while as the teams are announced and the game kicks off. I try to pay attention, but even in the comfort of Baron's tricked-out bachelor pad with a world of carbs sitting in front of me, I can't focus for shit.

  Fortunately, that's what phones are made for. I tuck mine against the side of my leg, stealing glances at my current read on my Kindle app while Georgie yells at the screen.

  I get so wrapped up in a high-tension scene I don't notice when Georgie goes silent. When I look up at the television, I can see her staring at me out of the corner of my eye.

  "What you got over there?" she asks with one eyebrow raised.

  "Just a little supplemental reading."

  "Football is really not your thing, huh?"

  "Sports really aren't my thing. I didn't grow up with it—we didn't even have a TV—and the people who were into it at my high school…well, they were jerks. So, I just got turned off, and nothing ever changed that," I explain.

  I've never really tried to sit down and understand what's going on, but I've come to realize it doesn't matter if someone meticulously describes the rules and motivators behind the game. It's still like asking me to read Moby Dick page by tedious page. I can do it, but I'm not going to enjoy it—even if it does have the word dick in the title. Worst literary bait and switch ever. Football players may be absurdly attractive men in tight uniforms, but I'm not fooled for a second.

  Georgie assesses me, and I wonder if she's going to make me sit through a lecture on the ins and outs of the game. It wouldn't be the first time.

  She purses her lips. "You're not like any of the other girlfriends or wives."

  I can't tell if she means it as a compliment or an insult. Either way, it's the truth. I'm not. I don't follow the game. I'll support Baron, but I'm not going to become a serious Hawks fan overnight.

  "Eh," she finally says with a shrug. "I don't think Baron would have gotten along well with someone who was super into this whole thing." She fans her arms around in a big circle, like jazz hands. The inner football circle is kind of like a big Hollywood production—game days and banquets and articles and sponsorships. It's so much more dramatic than real life.

  I've never thought about why Baron would have been attracted to someone who didn't love the world he lives in. He's attracted to me, and I never really considered the root of it. "Why do you think that?" I ask.

  "Because he's a great player. He loves his team, but he's not someone who lives for the limelight. Hell, he's not even someone who lives for the game. Some of these guys, they have this hunger for it that never fades. It's like they need to suit up every week and get out on that field to prove who they are. Baron knows who he is, and he's going to be okay when he doesn't get to strap on that helmet every Sunday."

  "I guess you're right." He knows what he wants after this career ends, and that's what this is—a job that pays well and that he kicks ass at. He enjoys it. Hell, he loves football, but he doesn't define himself by it. It would be like me defining myself as only a photographer.

  I'm so much more than that. I'm a book nerd and a dog lover and a wanderer at heart. You can't strap me down with one description, even though we do that to our sports stars.

  "So, it makes sense," Georgie continues. "You're not going to drop him when he's done being a football player. What is it about football that you hate so much?"

  I flip through the reasons like I'm shuffling a deck of cards. There's a whole pile of reasons, but I keep coming back to the queen of hearts. "I feel like it brings out the worst in people, the competitive, catty side. It's like it's a beacon for the Rochelles of the world."

  "The Rochelles of the world don't actually play though."

  "Yeah, but we turn our players into gods, and they turn around and pick people like her to stand by their side. We all know who turns the heads of gods; women rule the world whether anyone acknowledges it or not."

  Georgie thinks for a second, and then tilts her head to the side. "But, Baron picked you."

  "I don't know why."

  "Because he's one of the good ones. There are men like him and like Zane who play this game for the right reasons, because football is their family. It's the people who showed up on the sidelines when they were fifteen and dropping every other pass like it was a stick of butter just as much as it's the hordes of fans that scream their faces off every week. It's about the community, and they get that. They show up because they get that they're playing for their team and their city and their sport. It's bigger than them, so it's an honor to play, not a privilege. The men who see it as a privilege are the ones to watch out for, because they do pick the Rochelles, and they play for the glory of themselves. Sports aren't about a singular person. They're about all of us together."

  The idea hits me like a lamppost that came out of nowhere. It's always been there. I can't pretend it didn't exist just because I didn't see it. It was there before me, and it'll be there long after me.

  I've been throwing out reasons left and right about why I hate football, but it was never really about me. It doesn't matter if I like it or don't. There is a whole group of people that love it, and I don't have to understand it. I just have to understand that those are the people Baron plays for. He shows up because he's loyal. I hug my legs into my chest, trying to grasp the idea that maybe I've latched onto my hatred of the sport because of the wrong people.

  If I hate it for the wrong reasons, does that still make it true?

  I walk over to the kitchen the next morning, eager to use Baron's super fancy-schmancy coffee machine to brew me up something delicious. It's like Christmas morning every morning here. Should I try a latte today? Or maybe an iced macchiato. I don't even know if macchiati are iced, but I bet this machine does and will make it for me.

  I'm scrolling through my options when I hear Georgie. I can't tell if she just sneezed or gasped, but I can hear her mumbling to herself, phone in hand.

  Part of me wants to bounce on over and be nosy. The other part of me is not caffeinated enough for bouncing and wants to smack the other half for even thinking about.

  I let the second half win, and I start to brew an iced Americano.

  "Um, Monty, you should come see this." Georgie's tone is somber, and suddenly, I wonder if maybe the whole team lost their jobs. Can that happen? Could the owner lose all their money and ditch the team? And would I really be upset about that?

  I grab my coffee mug and saunter over in my fuzzy slippers. "What's up?"

  She just hands me her phone, and I see a familiar website logo spla
shed across the top, one of those stupid celebrity gossip sites that posts grainy photos of people going to the grocery store without a speck of makeup on, because obviously the world should be shaming people who decide not to spend an hour primping for errands. That's definitely what we should be focusing on.

  I want to find all those photographers and point them in the direction of things that actually matter.

  I scroll down, mostly skimming the article. It's some football player and a cheerleader. I don't get why I should care about this, but I scroll down to the end and see the full photo: it's our jersey colors. Oh, well that's why I should care.

  I see the player from the back, the cheerleader's arms wrapped around his neck while he leans down. Her lips are brushing his ear, and the way her eyes are closed, you know she's enjoying her current situation.

  I scroll down farther, and then I stop. I nearly drop the phone, as if I finally realized I'm holding a dead rat.

  That's Baron. The cheerleader has her arms wrapped around Baron. The next set of photos makes it look like he's wrapping his arms around her waist.

  I can't look. I quickly hand the phone back to Georgie, and I plop straight down on the floor, sloshing my coffee over the edges of the mug on my way down.

  I don't care that it's dripping down my legs and soaking into my slippers, and I really don't care that it's pooling on the wood floors of Baron's apartment.

  "Men are idiots," Georgie says as she props her chin on the side of the couch. She looks like a puppy, but I know she would turn into a vicious attack dog if anyone pulled this on her.

  I agree with her, but whether Baron is an idiot who is going to cheat on me or an idiot who will get himself into stupid but harmless situations because he's quicker to oblige than to push away, I don't know.

  I do know this could happen to anyone. Just go to a bar and chat with someone who isn't your significant other—someone will take a picture and tag it on Facebook. Boom. The Internet is an equal opportunity relationship destroyer.